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The Condemned: The Broker
It wasn’t an ideal place to do business by any stretch. This Circle of Hell was filthy, a heap of scum, blood, and bodies crammed into an ugly parody of a city. Still, he often found that the most promising business partners were housed here. Promising, as well as interesting. The Broker’s well-polished shoes clacked against the ground, the blood and other unsavory substances not leaving a stain on them. He nonetheless hoped that none of the bodies he passed would decide to revive as he passed them. An unreasonable concern, he knew, but people didn’t appreciate just how hard it was to get fine clothing like this, let alone maintain it. He reached into a pocket of his jacket and removed a piece of paper with the name of his prospective contractor. On the paper were the neatly typed, bold words: “Case File no. 182,099,125: Jack Abernathy. Vices: Patricide (Victim: Earl Abernathy), Wartime Murder, Arson. Motive Not Provided. Approximate Souls Required for Redemption: [REDACTED].” He whistled. Interesting, indeed. He had enlisted the work of souls who had done far worse things, but he had read the paperwork on Earl beforehand. The fact that his son was in Hell along with him didn’t seem too fair. At least, he hoped Jack might think so. He found it easier to recruit souls who felt cheated, craving compensation for injustice, wanting to return to Earth for one reason or another. Folding the paper up and putting it in the same pocket, he continued to stroll down the road, his hands folded behind his back. Suddenly, one of the men who was lying on the ground grabbed at his pant leg and brandished a knife, though he barely had time to let out a triumphant “Hah!” before he was consumed by flame. He didn’t make a noise, being immolated too quickly to register the pain of being burned to death. Looking down at the greasy handprint on his trousers, the Broker groaned in disgust, then snapped his fingers. Just like that, the stain was gone, along with the vermin that had left it there. Giving a spiteful kick to the pile of ashes, he then continued walking.
Sunday School hadn’t been completely honest about Hell, likely on account of never paying a visit. There was fire, yes, but it didn’t look all that different from Earth. He had been told that due to his murder of his father, he would be sentenced to live in an “upper circle”. It was no picnic. Murder and brawls over petty things were common here, though the dead always returned after the fact. Still, apparently it was better than what his father was going through. His father was a son of a bitch, but murder was murder in the eyes of his judges, especially patricide. But at the very least, he knew his father was suffering worse.
Jack been on the side of a road, a bottle of alcohol in his hand and the dead man he had stabbed to be able to get it. All around, the sky was a blood-red, and the blood from the ceaseless brawling seemed to paint the ground to match. Instead of a sun, there was flame in the sky, disorganized, scarlet flame from which new souls fell in daily, if not hourly. As he drowned himself in cheap whiskey, Jack noticed other sinners like himself running like scared rats. The man looked over the burned, scrawny sinner, then shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Tsk-tsk-tsk. Now this simply won’t do,” he said in a sympathetic tone, as if looking at a starving dog. “Th’ fuck you want?” Jack slurred through his scraggly beard, trying to stand up, succeeding after three tries, and wobbling slightly even after he was up. Unfazed, the man replied, “Call me the Broker. I am here on the behalf of a certain individual who claims to see something special in you, Mr. Abernathy.” Growling at the use of his father’s surname, Jack drunkenly snarled, spit flying from his lips, “If you wanna call me anything, ya call me Jack, y’hear?!” “As you wish, Jack,” the man conceded, removing a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiping his face nonchalantly. “I’ll cut to the chase. I know that you have been sentenced here for cold-blooded but admittedly justifiable murder. Your father was quite distasteful, or so I’ve been told. However, my Client is inclined to offer you a ‘probation’ of sorts. Follow the directions given to you, and the Client is willing to allow your sentence to be nullified.” Hearing this caused Jack to sober up somewhat, and a thin smile appeared on the Broker’s face. “Hmm, I thought that would get your attention. As you can probably imagine, however, the Client will not be giving this for free. You must—”
“Everything valuable from your pockets, on the ground, now!” yelled some man who had apparently snuck up behind him and was aiming a pistol at the Broker’s head. “Do you mind, good sir?” he said in a mildly exasperated tone. “I am trying to have a conversation with a prospective—” “Prospective nothin’! There ain’t no one in this circle who dresses like that and ain’t wealthy! If ya know what’s good for ya, you’ll hand over ev’rything in yer pockets!” The Broker sighed, then held a finger up to Jack as if to tell him to wait. He then turned around to face his attacker. “Tha’s more like it,” the other man said, “Now jus—” “Please, be quiet,” the Broker interjected. Instantly, the man’s lips snapped shut. His face went from confusion to outright horror as he tried to pry his lips open with his fingers. “Now,” continued the Broker, “please lower that weapon.” His arm hung limp at his side, and he looked at it with wide eyes as the appendage moved on its own. The Broker stood there, facing the man placidly. “Point your gun at your temple, please,” the Broker said chillingly, his voice polite and dignified as ever, but with a hint of annoyance. To the shock and horror of both Jack and the man, the man’s arm moved naturally, and took aim at his head. “Now, pull the trigger, and do be kind enough as to not get blood on my suit, or my would-be business partner, please.” There was no hesitation, but there was fear in the man’s eyes. He pulled the trigger, and with a loud crack, the other side of his head erupted into a veritable geyser of blood, bone, and brain matter before he collapsed. Turning back around, he resumed speaking. “I’m sorry about that. Now, where were we?” “Y-you was saying somethin’ about the Client not giving this for free?” Jack said warily, both in shock at the death and at the Broker’s demeanor despite it. “Ah, of course.”
The Broker explained that Jack would not be allowed into Heaven at once. The Client would allow him to walk upon the earth and provide him with a series of targets consisting of exceptionally sinful men, and the occasional rogue demons. He would choose whom to kill among these individuals, and their souls would be delivered to the Client by the Broker. For every soul delivered, he would be closer to having his own soul cleansed of his wrongdoing. “Of course, the values of certain souls may, er, fluctuate. Sometimes the bounty given might be lesser or greater than when it was initially provided. I would suggest you mitigate this problem by going after targets with groups, gangs and the like. The souls of optional kills will provide a small bonus.” Jack listened; by now, his inebriation was completely gone. “In addition, I may grant you certain privileges to help with this. All you need to do is sign here.” He removed a piece of paper and a pen. “Before you do that, though, do read it carefully. The Client gets rather annoyed by accusations of being a cheat because business partners fail to read the fine print. Take your time; you may need it to think this over.” Jack read the paper several times. The contract said the same thing the Broker had told him, with the exception of stating that he would lack human needs like food, water, and sleep. The only other oddity was that the contract repeatedly referred to the signer as “the Condemned.” Besides that, he saw no double-meanings, no loopholes, no tricks. As much as he was suspicious of both the Broker and the Client, he thought back to Abigail.
He had loved her deeply when she was enslaved on the plantation. He had known how his Pa would feel if he found out. That was why he had released her in secret, or so he thought. That was why he had told her to go to the North, to wait for him there. That was why he had so foolishly sworn Bill to secrecy. And that was why he was so horrified when he saw his beloved Abigail on Bill’s horse, her beautiful face now purple, bloody, and swollen. It seemed like she was trying to say something through the hysterical cries of her mother begging Bill to punish her instead, before he put a bullet in the girl’s skull…
“Jack?” The Broker’s calm voice broke through his reverie. Not realizing tears had begun to fall down his cheeks, Jack wiped them away, then said to the Broker in a quiet but seething tone, “Just one thing. My older brother, Bill. Is he still alive?” “As it happens, yes,” the Broker replied. He had expected this question. “Should you take this offer, I may discuss some things with the Client, have him pull a few strings to keep him alive until you reach him.” Hearing this, a malicious smile began to creep over Jack’s face. His hand never worked so fast as he wrote his signature on the paper. “We have a bargain, then,” said the Broker. And just like that, the hellscape around him vanished, replaced by a desert. Looking around, he realized that as hot as it was, he felt almost nothing, despite the duster and gloves on his hands—
Wait.
He looked again at his clothes. The ragged shirt and filthy breeches were replaced by a long, red duster, black gloves, and a dark-brown hat. “What do you think?” the Broker’s voice asked from behind him, giving him a start. “Does the outfit suit you well enough?” “Can’t complain, but…” He noticed his voice was gravellier now. He tried clearing his throat, but it didn’t change. “Well, did you expect to not have your voice altered by the smoke of Hellfire?” the Broker asked sardonically. “Don’t worry, you can change your voice at will. That’s one of the benefits of the coat, you see. And remember how the contract said you would be free of mortal needs like pain and hunger? That’s the coat’s function. It’ll keep you walking, even if you take on an entire gang of trigger-happy bandits. There are other functions and abilities it provides, but I shall let you discover them on your own.” Then the Broker produced an ornate box from his saddlebag. He opened it to reveal two revolvers, one seemingly silver-plated with the design of a snarling wolf, the other made from an unnaturally dark metal, and possessing a design of a serpent. “These are your service weapons, so to speak. You may use other weapons at your leisure, but for your main targets, you will use these. The silver one, Fenrir, is to be used on mortals to condemn their souls to Hell. The black one, Nidhogg, shoots rounds containing Hellfire. This is to be used against demons alone unless authorized. I can’t stress that enough. You’ll find that holsters and ammunition have already been provided for you.” He gestured to Jack’s sides, where two holsters were indeed resting on his belt. Placing the pistols inside, the Broker then said, “And one last thing.” He whistled, and a gray horse suddenly trotted into view, nickering softly. “This is Smokey. He’s to be your guide to the souls. All you need to do is whisper the name of your contract in his ear, and he’ll know the way to them.” Smokey nudged Jack’s arm in an almost affectionate manner, and despite himself, Jack gave a small smile and patted the horse on the head. “Seems he’s taken a liking to you already,” the Broker remarked.
He then clasped his hands together. “Now then, to business. As it happens, I already have a potential assignment for you, should you choose to accept. Mind you, he’s sort of a practice target, hence his low value.” A piece of paper appeared in the Broker’s hand, which he handed to Jack. It showed a picture of a sneering man with a thin mustache whose face likened to one of a weasel. The words above the picture read, “Micah Lemoyne. Soul Value: One-Half. Vices: Thirty Counts of Murder, Fratricide, Betrayal, Theft, Arson, Disturbance of Peace, Desertion of Comrades.” “Christ Almighty, this guy got any hobbies?” Jack exclaimed at the sight of his record. “With the exception of Fratricide, those are his hobbies,” the Broker said dryly. “Well, Jack, what do you say? I know that it may be a bit soon to ask you to—” “I’m ready,” Jack said without hesitation, taking the Broker by surprise. They usually needed time to readjust to life on Earth. “I’ll put this bastard in the ground now.” He then approached the steed before whispering his target’s name in his ear. Instantly, Smokey’s eyes glowed scarlet and he made an odd noise that sounded as if it were a mix between a whinny and a growl, to Jack’s surprise. The Broker snapped his fingers, prompting another horse to appear, this one a snowy white, which he quickly mounted. “Happy hunting then, Jack.” He tipped his hat to the Condemned, then rode off and vanished. With that, Jack did the same, then urged his horse on. He moved with a speed impossible for any normal horse, and he needed no build-up, going from stationary to lightning-fast in a heartbeat. As the Broker had said, it was clear that Smokey knew where he was going and needed no direction. Letting a small smirk play on his lips, he readied himself for the oncoming encounter with his first target.
Micah’s weasel face sneered hideously beneath his bandanna as he looked over the bodies of the man and the woman in the stagecoach. It had really been too easy, disguising himself as their driver, then killing their guard before turning his revolver on them. “Shoulda just handed over yer money,” he said rhetorically. “Wouldn’t’ve had this problem.” It was a lie, of course, and he knew it; he’d have shot those stuck-up rich folks one way or the other. Well, maybe not the woman. He could have held her for ransom, kept her in his hideout, treat her well, let her slowly fall in love with him… He pushed that from his mind. All the other women he’d held for ransom never fell for him, just as it had been before he turned to a life of crime. No matter how nice he acted to the girls when he was a schoolboy, none paid him any mind. No, he would have just killed her anyway. He opened up the back of the coach—spitting on the body of the coach guard—removing their luggage and searching through it, taking as much money as he could find. That was when he heard hooves approaching. Turning frantically, he saw a man on a grey horse, clad in a red duster and his face covered in old burns. And were the horse’s eyes red? He blinked and the red eyes were gone. Must have been a trick of the sunlight shining off the stranger’s coat.
“You get goin’ now!” he exclaimed, grabbing his gun and aiming at the stranger. “I ain’t sure where you came from, but this here’s my haul! You wanna go home to yer wife and kids safely, you’ll turn ‘round and head back the way ya came!” That was also a lie; he knew he couldn’t risk someone reporting a stolen stagecoach, even if his face was covered. Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “Sorry, Micah, but only one of us is leavin’ this place, and it ain’t gonna be you,” he said, surprised at his sudden change in attitude. He attributed it to the coat’s properties already having an effect on him. Taken aback that the stranger knew his name, Micah aimed the pistol at Jack. “Y-you get down off that horse, you’ll be pushin’ up daisies, you hear?!” Undeterred, Jack stepped down. No sooner had he touched the ground did the gun go off. He felt the impact of the bullet, felt it tear through his clothes, skin, tissue, and bone. He was instantly blown back. Micah approached the stranger and beginning to rifle through his coat. Surely someone with a coat as opulent as this would have something valuable. A flicker of motion caught his eye. Glancing up, he saw a sight that shocked him.
The stranger was grinning.
Not the content smile of a man who was looking for death, but the grin of a man who realized death no longer had any hold on him. As if that wasn’t enough, his chest began to shake from barely restrained laughter. Then without warning, the stranger’s hand shot upward, grabbing Micah by the throat. Jack stood up, lifting the bandit off the ground as he struggled feebly, his eyes filled with sheer, unbridled terror, and disbelief. The stranger bled, but even now he could see the blood returning to the wound it had leaked from, with the said wound beginning to close. He threw the bandit with ease, causing him to land on his back. As he recovered from the pain, he glanced up to see the man in red stalking closer to him, his grin vulpine and filled with malice as he felt his target’s sins flow into him, wrapped in a layer of cowardice. He couldn’t explain how or why, but the feelings of his evil deeds and the knowledge that they would be very quickly avenged filled him with an odd sense of euphoria. Micah began backing up quickly, panicked breaths escaping him. “Th-the money’s yours!” he yelled desperately, throwing several stacks of bills to the stranger. “T-take all of it! I ain’t gonna do nothing to stop ya! J-just please lemme go!” Jack stooped to pick up one of the stacks, and for just a moment, a relieved expression crossed Micah’s face. It melted away, however, when the money began burning in his gloved hand, the fire’s glow making his grinning, scarred face that much more blood-curdling. Micah whimpered, knowing his fate was sealed. “Wh-who in the hell are you?” he squeaked out. “Wh-what did I ever do to ya?” Laughing ghoulishly, Jack drew Fenrir from the holster. “Don’t matter who I am, but seein’ as you’ll be dead soon anyway, just call me Jack. And ya did nothin’ to me. This here ain’t no matter of revenge, grudges, nothin’ like that; it’s just business.” “Wh-what kinda business?” Micah asked timidly.
Jack raised Fenrir. “Call it ‘collection.’” he said in his guttural voice. At the same time that Micah did, he noticed the bandit glancing at his own revolver, which had flown from the holster after he had been thrown. Making a gesture towards the firearm, Jack’s grin widened. Go on, Micah, Jack’s eyes seemed to say. Take that gun. Fire it at the man who just stood up after taking a round to the chest. Fire at the man who just burned your money in his hand. Who knows? Maybe that first time was just a one-off. Maybe you’ll actually be able to kill me. Here, I’ll even aim away from you. Go ahead. Do it. DO IT. Micah took the dare, then grabbed the gun and aimed at Jack, pulling the trigger with a desperate cry. Click. The chamber was empty. He didn’t count the bullets after his robbery. Eyes widening, he let out a final shriek of horror and despair. Jack aimed, then he pulled the trigger.
Hell gladly welcomed Micah Lemoyne into its gates.
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Prompt
If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?
I’d probably sell books, and maybe have a small cafe as well.
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The Condemned
The dust crunched beneath Bill’s boots as he ran, heart pounding and sweat running down his face. The gunshots still rang behind him. His gang was dead, he knew it. They didn’t concern him, though. He could find more people to serve as his underlings. What concerned him was getting the hell away from that man. That weren’t no man, he thought frantically as he almost tripped on a loose rock. That there was th’ Devil. He knew that by all accounts his actions made him yellow, but living cowards were better than dead fools. If they was gonna try takin’ on the damn Devil, serve ‘em right, he reasoned. Making it to one of the unoccupied homes, Bill quickly entered, opened his pack, and began hastily shoveling as much food as he could fit. At least there were fewer mouths to feed now. Once he shoved enough into the saddlebags, he mounted his horse and began riding away. While he rode, he heard the deep cackle of the stranger behind him before he called out, “Run all ya like, Billy-boy, I’ll find you!” He only rode faster. Three days passed, and he kept riding. He didn’t stop, not for food, not for water, not for sleep. He cursed the distance of Angel’s Pit from civilization, ignoring the fact that he had chosen it as a hideout for that very reason. He didn’t think about that now, though; what was important was that he found somewhere to hide. He needed to get somewhere to lie low before the stranger’s grey horse appeared over the horizon.
Even before his gang had started shooting, he knew something was off. The stranger, face covered in burns, had come from nowhere, trotting into the abandoned town, Angel’s Pit, as if he owned the place. As the Oakley Gang, a group of fifteen bandits, aimed their guns at the man on the ashy-grey horse, he stepped down and held his hands up. “Now, now, gentlemen,” he said in a voice dry and hoarse as a life-long smoker, “I didn’t come here for no shootout.” Even as his hands were up, he smiled. “Who ‘n the hell are you? What’s yer business here?!” demanded Bill, seeming mildly perturbed by the grinning intruder. Chuckling, he replied, “Call me what you like. As for what my business is, hmm…” He paused, as if trying to find the right words. “Call it ‘collection.’” “Well, ya done picked the wrong place fer ‘collectin’, Mister,” Bill replied with only the swagger and confidence a bandit leader could. “I don’t rightly know what you was hopin’ to ‘collect’, but anything worth havin’ is—” The stranger interrupted, “Calm yourselves, now. I didn’t come here for no money, and I didn’t come here for no food either.”
Puzzled, Bill approached the stranger, his revolver still aimed at him. “Why, then? Who sent ya? You a lawman? Bounty hunter?” Tapping his chin, the stranger hummed thoughtfully. “You could say the latter, but you still wouldn’t be quite on the mark there, William Abernathy.”
Everyone noticed when their leader froze. His voice now came out in a slow stutter, “H-how in the hell do you know that name?” Not even his gang knew his true family name, instead addressing him as “Red” Bill Oakley.
“I know plenty of things about you, Billy-boy,” the stranger said, his grin widening, looking more grotesque with his burns. “I know that you was one o’ them ‘slave catchers’ back when that shit was still legal. Brought a bunch o’ escaped folks back from the North, put ‘em back to work on your Pa’s plantation. Some o’ them were, conveniently enough…” His grin lowered into a hateful sneer, and his voice became a disdainful hiss. “’…damaged upon arrival’. Beaten, bones broken, missin’ limbs. Wouldn’t stop badmouthin’ you and your pa. Couldn’t even be sold off. Couldn’t put the irons on ‘em, so ya had to put lead in ‘em, yeah? Even Abigail. Especially Abigail. All ‘cause your dear little brother, Jack, loved her.”
The rage with which he spoke her name caused Bill’s face to drain of all his bravado. He gazed at the stranger with the terror of a man facing the gallows as the memories of Abigail flooded back. The pleas of her mother to kill her instead…the callous slap he gave the woman…the shot…the wails that only a grieving mother could make… the horrified, betrayed screams of Jack…
Tears fell from his eyes, but not because he felt remorse for the life he had lived. It was the fact that this stranger knew everything about it. That ghastly smile split the stranger’s face again at Bill’s fear. “I hit the nail on the head, didn’t I, Billy-boy?” The revolver shook in Bill’s hand, lowering slowly, and his gang looked upon him with a mix of shock, disgust, and terror at the stranger.
As if he could sense their shock, he turned his head towards one of the bandits, a red-headed man. “Oh, don’t act like you’re so innocent over there, Johnny,” he chided condescendingly. “Remember how you stole Daddy’s gun when you were fifteen, shot your little brother for stealin’ sweets from ya?” He turned his head to another man in the group, a twenty-four-year-old man with a full beard. “Or you, Burt, when you left your pa to die in a fire you started over an inheritance you spent on drinkin’ and whorin’, then joinin’ these pricks when it ran dry? Same goes for all o’ ya. Birds of a feather and all that. I could go on, but I didn’t come here for judgin’. That’s someone else’s business. As I said, I came here for collectin’.”
Bill felt the cold, dead eyes before he saw them. Mistaking the stranger’s intentions, he said, “Y-ya can have Benny over there. Never really liked him.” He gestured at one of the younger bandits, who looked at his once-trusted leader with shock and betrayal on his face. However, the stranger’s teeth just glinted in the moonlight as his grin widened further. He threw his head back and laughed much too hard for anyone under these circumstances, so much so that Bill winced in surprise. “Ain’t very bright, are ya, Billy-boy? This here ain’t a matter of sacrifice. I said, I came here to collect.” He emphasized the last word looking directly at Bill, then at the rest of the gang. The leader caught on, as did the others. “Any volunteers?” The stranger asked half-rhetorically.
Bang!
A rifle shot caused Bill to jump as one of the other bandits, Cole, fired upon the stranger, the round hitting him square in the chest. Blood began to spread under the surface of the duster. Then to the horror of the entire gang, he looked up and grinned at Cole like a fox cornering a hen. “We have a winner.” Without hesitation, his hand shot like a rattlesnake for his holster, then drew his revolver. In the moonlight, the engraving on the weapon shone, revealing itself to be a snarling wolf. He fired, leaving a vermillion smear on the rocks behind him. The rest of the Oakley Gang ran for cover, then began firing at the stranger. All they did, however, was create new targets. When five more of the gang lay dead on the desert ground, the remainders continued firing wildly, letting their desperation and fear snuff out their better judgment. Casually, even as round after round hit him, the stranger opened the cylinder for his gun, then dropped a bullet in each chamber before turning to the rest of them. After reloading, he began firing at each man who fired first. None noticed that their leader, Bill, had escaped into the night. They kept shooting, but he didn’t flinch no matter how many bullets entered his body. Soon, he finished his bloody work. Once that had been done, he had crossed out the names on the piece of paper given to him by the Broker. All that was left was William Abernathy. His ears picked up the faint sound of hooves fleeing the hideout, and he smiled. So the vermin wanted a chase, did he? Fine by him, these others had served as little more than entertainment, appetizers in a sense. “Run all ya like, Billy-boy, I’ll find you!” he yelled into the desert. He mounted his horse, then began a patient trot after his prey.
Bill kept urging his horse, but the beast’s steps were slowing down, and its breathing was labored. The escape had exhausted the poor horse, who stumbled and toppled to the ground. In a mix of frustration and hysteria, he leapt from the saddle, then shot the animal between the eyes. Grabbing whatever supplies he could from the saddlebags, he began looking around wildly for somewhere, anywhere to hide. His legs propelled by otherworldly terror, he ran ahead, then was overcome with joy and relief. A cave. Unable to believe his luck, he quickly got inside. He began rummaging through the saddlebags.
A horrified gasp escaped his lips as he realized his error. There was food, but the bags contained no water, and there was very little money that he could use when he got to the next town, and only a few boxes of ammunition, not that the last part mattered, as he had only brought the one revolver in his panic. He slumped against the wall of the cave. Bill knew he was done for. It didn’t matter if the stranger found him or not; he was dead anyway. As if on cue, he heard the hooves.
Suddenly, inexplicably, his fear was overwhelmed by rage. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. He was “Red” Bill Oakley, one of the greatest outlaws Texas had ever known. When they passed through towns, the bartenders in the saloons would offer them free drinks in exchange for sparing them. Townsfolk would throw money at his feet if he so much as looked at them. They would be given residence in any inn or house, free of charge, just for letting the occupants live. Sometimes they spared them, sometimes they shot or robbed the occupants anyway, even burned the residences to the ground just for fun. People respected them because they were afraid of him, afraid that their town might become the next Angel’s Pit. And in one night, this stranger had walked into the home he had rightfully stolen, killed his entire gang, and was now chasing him. For what? he seethed. Abigail woulda taken Jack with ‘er, the little harlot. Seeming to forget—or not care—that his gang’s bullets had done no harm to the stranger, he cocked back the hammer on his revolver, and as the hooves got closer. As soon as it was about to round the edge of the cave’s mouth, he ran out, aiming the gun and letting out a vicious shout, which died on his lips. The horse was there alright, but there was no rider.
As the bewildered Bill tried to make sense of all of this, he heard a short whistle behind him. Slowly, almost as if he were being controlled by some outside force, he turned. In the back of the cave was the stranger, grinning and shoulders shaking lightly from his chuckling, like a child who had been hiding and waiting to jump out and scare someone. Bill recoiled and screamed with enough terror to wake the dead, then hastily aimed his pistol and fired once, twice, three times. This was followed by two more before a hollow click signaled that the gun was empty. Bill whimpered as he remembered that he had used a round to kill his steed.
As the uninjured stranger exited the cave, Bill stumbled and fell, scooting back frantically. “P-please,” he stammered, rage forgotten and once again overwhelmed by terror. “Please, lemme go. I—” “We both know I can’t do that, Billy-boy,” the stranger said with a falsely sympathetic expression. Bill tried to scramble away but the stranger’s hand clasped around his throat and slammed him against a large rock. His strength was unnatural, especially for someone so thin. “You still haven’t recognized me, have you?” he asked, sounding almost disappointed as he began tying him up. “Should I?” Bill asked. Placing a hand over his heart, the stranger feigned offense. When he spoke next, his voice seemed to become less gravelly, sounding younger as well. “Well, I’m wounded! I thought for sure you would have recognized your own flesh and blood, Billy-boy!”
There was a moment of silence as he registered the voice. Now that he was speaking that way, though, there was no mistaking it. He had seen those burns when his father’s killer was hanged. “Jack?” The stranger’s face morphed into the same sneer he held when he mentioned Abigail. He kicked Bill in the ribs, driving the wind out of him. “Goddamn straight, you little shit,” he growled, his voice returning to the previous gravelly voice. Bill squirmed on the ground, groaning in pain and pulling at the bindings.
“Wh-why?” “’Wh-why?’” Jack repeated in a mocking falsetto, then cruelly kicked him again. “Y’know goddamn well why!” The memory of Abigail came to Bill’s memory. “Then that was why you burned Pa’s plantation when you got home from the war?” Bill asked, his tone accusatory despite his fear and pain. “Why you killed Pa?” “I killed Pa for everythin’ he did to those folks,” Jack spat. “He treated them like animals on the best of days, remember?” Bill shook his head, either in disbelief or in denial.
He then reached down and began rummaging through Bill’s pockets, seeming to be looking for something. Eventually, he found it: their mother’s engagement ring, which he had planned to give to Abigail before her death. For the first time, an expression besides cruel glee or anger crossed his face. His face fell, and Jack clutched the ring in his fist, as if it would somehow bring back the woman he was about to offer it to.
His memories were interrupted by Bill, and he was almost glad for it. He was never able to deal with grief well; anger was much easier to express. Especially so because Bill, the man he once called his brother, was laughing bitterly. “Th-that’s all you wanted?” he cried out as he kept laughing, the sheer ludicrousness of the situation almost breaking his mind. “Ma’s ring? Ya killed my gang, ruined my reputation, chased me all the way out here in the desert for that ring?” “Oh, no, Bill,” Jack replied coldly, beginning to draw some strange symbols in the ground as the laughter continued. “I told you before, I was here to collect. Thing is, I’m here on someone else’s behalf.” Bill’s laughter gradually faded as he noticed the symbols making a circle around him. “J-Jack?” he asked uncertainly. “What are–” The symbols glowed scarlet, and suddenly, with a flash of red, they were joined by a third stranger. A tall, clean-shaven man without a bead of sweat on his skin despite the desert heat, the well-dressed stranger looked down from his place on a large, white horse. It was the Broker.
He examined Bill with an appraising look, as if he were a merchant determining the worth of a potentially valuable object. He turned to Jack and asked, “So, is this the soul, then?” “Don’t see anyone else ‘round, do ya?” Jack said sardonically. “Merely a formality,” replied the Broker coolly.
Bill looked back and forth from the man to Jack, then it all fell into place. “J-Jack, you can’t be—” “I am, Bill,” Jack replied venomously. “You sent me to Hell when you killed her; the gallows just finished the job. ‘Cept you won’t be getting the luxury that your friends and me did. We at least had a little moment of darkness and silence when we died, just before the fire came. But you? You ain’t getting off so easy. You’ll be goin’ to Hell alive first.”
Tears began to run down Bill’s cheeks. “No…Jack, please, I’m-I’m so sorry…” he blubbered pathetically. Ignoring his brother’s tears, crocodilian or not, Jack handed the list to the stranger, who then gave a brief whistle as if calling a dog. “C’mon, boys!” the Broker exclaimed. “Suppertime!” Without warning, the symbols glowed again, and the head of a snarling, black canine shot up from the ground where Bill was lying and sunk its teeth into his arm, accompanied by many more. He screamed and struggled and begged and cursed, but Jack just watched as Bill was dragged by the hounds. “So long, Billy-boy,” he said mockingly. “Don’t forget to say hi to Pa for me, y’hear?” The last sight Bill saw of the Earth was his own brother grinning as he entered the inferno.
When it was done, the Broker whistled, seemingly in amazement. “I’m beginning to understand what the Client sees in you, Jack,” he remarked. “You are a ruthless one, aren’t you?” “The bounty, please?” Jack said curtly. The Broker simply nodded and pulled out an envelope which he handed to Jack. He then he tipped his hat, then rode away, vanishing into thin air. Jack opened the envelope.
The paper inside showed the names of the bandits, along with numbers next to them, the worth of their souls due to their evil deeds. At the bottom it read: “Remaining Number Of Souls Required For Redemption: 72.” He sighed, then put away the paper. It wasn’t much, but it got him closer to his goal. He held the ring in his hand again. For the first time in years, he gave a small, genuine smile as tears welled up in his eyes. Drying them quickly, as if he was worried to be caught crying, he tucked the ring into his coat, then mounted his horse and rode off into the desert, to await his next contract. He didn’t think he trusted the Client all too well; only fools did. But all the same, if there was even a sliver of hope of seeing his beloved Abigail again, he would take it. Until then, he would paint the entire West red if need be. -
Project Morpheus
The rhythmic sound of Isaac Carter’s respirator was all he could hear when he stepped out of his ship’s airlock. His destination was in front of him: the grey space station known as “Morpheus IV”. At its end was a large cylindrical structure, which he had to guess was some kind of satellite camera. As the thrusters on his suit activated, he propelled forward. He made a signal towards the cockpit of the shuttle, which proceeded to leave. The pilot would be back in three hours, sooner if Isaac requested a quick extraction. As he drifted towards the airlock, he held his ID up to the scanner. Recognizing him as military personnel, it flashed green and the door opened. He floated into the decompression chamber as the large door closed behind him. The artificial gravity then engaged and his feet hit the floor.
A crackling noise came over the radio in his helmet. “Valkyrie 20 to LOKI 48, radio check. Do you copy? Over,” said his partner, Kelly Monroe. “LOKI 48, coming in clear, Valkyrie, over.” “You were briefed on your assignment, I presume? Over.” “Affirmative, Valkyrie. Investigate the cause behind radio silence from Morpheus IV Research Station. Head to comms tower and contact the TYR Marines. Secure any personnel and research, and neutralize possible threats, over.” He withdrew his assault rifle from his back, checking the ammunition as it folded out from its compact form. “Copy, LOKI 48. Sending map of the station now, over.” A loading bar appeared on his visor, which read “Data Received” when it had finished loading. Sure enough, an entire map of Morpheus IV uploaded to his suit’s onboard computer. “Copy, Valkyrie. Commencing operation now, going dark, over.” “Understood. Valkyrie out.” The communication shut off.
It always sounded weird when Isaac compared Kelly’s on-duty behavior to her off-duty behavior. She always sounded so cool-headed and professional when on-duty, but off-duty she was always chipper and upbeat. She always had been since they were kids. Hell, she was like the big sister he never had. As such, both of them had been happy when she had achieved her childhood dream of being a Valkyrie.
Isaac brushed those thoughts aside for now, opening the door in front of him. What greeted him was silence almost akin to the void outside. In front of him was a huge, half-darkened lobby with the “Gaia, Inc.” logo over the wall above the front desk. Said logo comprised of a half-formed Earth and the slogan, “Building Humanity’s Path Back Home since 2134.”
He’d heard about the loss of Earth. Nobody knew what had happened, what had caused Earth to become uninhabitable. All he knew was that the people working on the so-called “Project Morpheus” was to help repopulate Earth. Bang-up job they’re doing, he thought sardonically.
Something terrible had happened, something that would jeopardize the project, possibly galactic security; the New Terra Council never would have sent someone from the LOKI Unit if it was anything else.
As Isaac stepped through the lobby, his boots hardly making a noise, he did a double-take as he caught a glimpse of a nearby vent. Something was dripping from it. Taking a few steps closer, he scanned the strangely-colored substance. As expected, it was blood, but not human blood, not anymore. No matches came up for the origin, but this fluid seemed to “overwrite” the genetic code of whoever the blood belonged to. This wasn’t a mutation or anything accidental. No, whatever this was, it had assimilated the poor bastard’s very DNA.
That was when Isaac began to get afraid. He was already unnerved by the silence, but now? Now he knew that there was something on this station.
He then spied a small, blood-stained HoloScroll. Picking it up, he connected it to his suit to isolate the sound to the inside of his helmet, then played the latest recording. He almost jumped as he the sounds of bedlam greeted him. Screams, gunfire, and the sounds of distorted voices snarling and speaking bizarre words and phrases were what permeated the audio. Then a man’s voice began speaking rapidly, “This is Ryan Teague, Morpheus IV Security! If you’re listening to this, get the hell off this station while you can! If this is anyone in the military or from the Corporation, tell the higher-ups that the Project is a complete failure! Scuttle the station! I say again, scuttle Morpheus IV before these things can escape! They want to– OH SHIT, NO, NO–” The recording was cut off as it dissolved into a ghastly, two-tone screech followed by the sound of ripping flesh.
Now Isaac was on full alert. He switched the safety off on his assault rifle before carefully making his way through the lobby and into a short hallway which led into a small, unlit room with two more hallways on each side. Based on what the map said, his destination was down the left. Switching on the light attached to his rifle, he began to do a sweep of the room, then did another double-take.
Slowly, he refocused the light, only for it to illuminate a tall, grotesque being. Its general outline was humanoid, but its skin seemed to be made of a rippling silver liquid like mercury. Its face was almost human, but it possessed glowing, purple eyes and razor-sharp teeth that extended from its gums. It sood over the body of a man clad in blue security armor, his skin showing signs of desiccation and his face frozen in a look of abject terror. The creature’s fingers had transformed into odd tendrils that seemed to have drained him of his vital fluids. It then looked up at Isaac, who stood frozen for a different reason. The shock of what he was seeing rooted him to the spot. It wheezed and panted, then spoke in a two-tone voice similar to what he heard on the HoloScroll. The creature said, “Soldier.” Its voice not betraying any emotion, merely expressing an observation. It stood, taking in shallow breaths as it regarded him.
Then it screeched and charged at him without warning. Reacting in shock and fear, he let off eight rounds from his assault rifle, all of which hit the creature point-blank, but not before it had reached him and swiped across his chest. It didn’t pierce the armor, though, as it was on the ground before it could build the proper momentum. It shrieked and thrashed on the floor, before being silenced by Isaac removing his sidearm and firing at its form.
Taking some time to calm himself down, he repeated in his head, Four, inhale; four, exhale. Once he calmed down sufficiently, he scanned it, he noted that its blood consisted both of the poor human’s that was on the ground and of the strange purple fluid he found in the lobby. With some reluctance, he continued down the hallway.
It was clear that the possibility of survivors was moot. First and foremost the LOKI Unit’s specialty was black ops, and that was why he had his doubts about the assignment. They were never sent into an area in tactical gear that contained live civilians. So what was so important that they needed someone as cold and pragmatic as a LOKI? Why not send the TYR Marines outright?
Isaac brushed this thought aside and continued along the hallway indicated by his HUD’s map. He could feel eyes on him. He knew that what he had just encountered couldn’t have been the only of its kind, and for that reason he kept his rifle trained ahead. It took about a half-hour to slowly creep down the hallway. Had he needed to run, he could have cleared it in minutes, but stealth was a factor right now.
A skittering sound came from the nearby vent. He whipped his head in that direction, then heard it on the opposite wall. Keeping his eyes open, he watched for any sudden movements, anything to suggest an ambush. Despite his vigilance, he was still surprised by his follower revealing itself. Lunging out of the vent and landing on the floor in front of him was a smaller creature that seemed to combine aspects of a human and a spider. It had a mostly human face eight purple humanoid eyes and crawled on eight arachnid legs, each of which had a small humanoid hand at the end. Before he could react it was on him with a screech, latching onto his armor with impressive strength. Isaac could feel the claws of this monster’s “hands” as its face revealed a mouth that had human teeth and a spider’s fangs. Venom dripped from its mouth as it leaned forward.
In desperation, he ran at the sterile, white wall, slamming the creature into it with a sickening crunch. Letting out a brief squeal, it released him, falling on its back before he brought his boot down on it, again and again until little remained of it besides a flattened body and glowing, purple blood. Panting, he felt a slight sting in his side. From the looks of it, the creature had been able to leave a mark on him, but his suit didn’t detect any venom in the wound, the HUD only saying, “PUNCTURE DETECTED. ADMINISTER MEDICAL NANO-MACHINES IMMEDIATELY.”Removing a syringe from his tactical pouch, he injected the fluid near the wound, allowing the small robots to slowly close it. While they worked, he repaired the damage done to his suit using a gel containing similar machines.
When he was finished, he continued down the hall, eventually reaching a door with the words “Testing Center: Authorized Personnel Only” . He cautiously opened the door and was about to activate his light, but as it turned out he didn’t need to. The laboratory was a large room, not quite as expansive as the lobby, but with enough space to hold at least thirty researchers. A strange, purple light bathed the room in its unnatural glow, illuminating the horrors beneath it there were numerous creatures, some of which were like the first, others like the arachnid, but many more were odd, disgusting combinations of different animal parts. One had two heads, one of which was a large reptilian and the other a human. Others seemed to have animal heads where normally they would have been arms. There were more configurations, but with each new creature, Isaac felt like he would vomit.
As he looked up, though, he wished that the monsters had been the worst part. All over the walls and obscuring the ceiling was a strange material that reminded him of a spider’s web. Unlike a normal web, though, this one was glowing, pulsing with the same purple light filling the room. And tangled in the webs were people, probably most of the scientists working on the station. Flowing from their bodies was a strange purple energy. This energy was absorbed by small, round objects that reminded him of egg sacs. As if to confirm this, one burst open, revealing a small, humanoid creature similar to the first one he had killed. It saw him, then let out a shriek. All of its brethren snapped their glowing eyes at him, and proceeded to let out cries of aggression.
The situation escalated from there. Letting off more rounds into the monsters, he killed five, stomping on their heads for good measure. Another one of the spiders suddenly fell onto his back and clawed into him. Letting out a cry of pain, he took a similar strategy as with the first, ramming it against the wall. It took two more minutes of shooting, kicking, punching and stomping, as well as seeing to it that the sacs didn’t spawn any new beasts, but eventually, all of the creatures in the room lay dead in pools of purple blood. Taking time to heal himself, and patch up the suit, he was about to walk into the comms, which lay just across the room.
Then he heard a woman’s raspy voice from the wall. “Please…come here…” Scanning the source of the voice, he found her identification to come up as Dr. Rachel Bachman. In his briefing, Isaac had been told that she was the one in charge of the project. As such, she was a high-priority extraction target, or failing that, the research she had done. As he approached her, she extended an arm. In her shaking hand was a HoloScroll. “All the data you need is on there, but play the last recording and follow the instructions quickly. Go into the comms room, then when you finish, get off the station quickly. Please, undo what…undo…” Isaac had just enough time to grab the HoloScroll as her arm went limp. To say he was confused was an understatement. Nonetheless, he plugged his suit’s HUD into the device, anticipating more sounds of chaos. Instead, there was a video file of the same woman, with several other files labeled differently. He selected the video. Dr. Bachman was surrounded by her colleagues, who were all running about, checking various devices and equipment, some even apprehensively grasping firearms. She looked tired, her hair messy and her eyes red, though whether from insomnia or from tears, he wasn’t sure.
“Hello,” she greeted the viewer, her voice melancholy. “My name is Dr. Rachel Bachman. I’m the head of Project Morpheus. We were sent here ostensibly to observe the Earth, and to see if it could be repopulated. Our true reasons were to study these.” A hologram of one of the creatures appeared beside her. “We have come to know these creatures as ‘Draugr.’ They are the creations of something much greater, something strong enough to cause the event we have since called ‘Ragnarok.’” A still image of the infamous pit which had supposedly resulted in Earth’s population dying out flashed next to her. This version was different, however. Tendrils of familiar purple light shimmered from it, seeming to reach for the station and separating into numerous vein-like offshoots.
“In that pit lives the Jormungandr. This is the closest image I can show, but I will tell you what you need to know about it to the best of my ability. It possesses vast telepathic abilities, which are shown by the purple energy. You can’t see it with the naked eye unless viewed through our equipment or exposed to the creature. It made the ‘Draugr.’ Well, perhaps ‘made’ is the wrong word. During Ragnarok, it took any creature living on or in the Earth, including humans. Some were alive, some were dead. Either way, it assimilated them into itself. After that, it began ‘combining’ them. We don’t know why, but our studies have suggested that it isn’t content to merely tear apart and reconstruct organisms; it wants to create life of its own. To that end, the Jormungandr began assimilating the genetic code of the aforementioned creatures, hoping to gain a better understanding of how to create something. Its grasp of scientific knowledge was rudimentary at best before we came here. Because of us, it’s becoming more knowledgeable, learning how to combine more efficiently, and producing organisms that live longer. It wants to re-create us in its image. After that, we have reason to assume that it will hunt down the colonies of humans, then assimilate them as well, or perhaps just annihilate them. We still aren’t certain.”
A trickle of blood ran from her left nostril, then she winced and clutched her head. “I need to speak quicker. I’ve been able to block it out, but it’s becoming more persistent. The Draugr have broken containment on the station, and have begun taking the genetic material of the humans and other creatures onboard. The Jormungandr wants to spread its influence using them, using us. In the comms room, there is a console that will activate a secret component of the station, one we’ve been able to develop after studying the Jormungandr for long enough.” A diagram of the said console and the component appeared beside her. “We had it imported from a discontinued planet-mining station. It was discontinued because of its unfailing tendency to irreparably damage the planet it was fired upon. We call it ‘the Mjölnir.’ With the proper tests and modifications, we’ve been able to make it strong enough to…”
Here, tears began running from her eyes as she resumed talking. “It’s now strong enough to harm the Jormungandr. But that isn’t enough; life on Earth is still present. The two exist symbiotically. Simply put: you need to destroy life on Earth. I know that this seems mad to you, and it is. I hate this as much as you do, stranger, but whoever you are, this is the only way to ensure that the Jormungandr’s power is kept in check. There’s no guarantee of it dying, but the Draugr will die, and more importantly, we on the station will. The entire team is in agreement: we cannot be allowed off the station alive. But we can’t activate it. The Jormungandr won’t let us. You aren’t its thrall. You haven’t been exposed to it long enough. I’m sorry to force this on you. More than that, though, I’m sorry I ever began this project. If you happen to see my family, tell them…” Here, she stifled a sob, then continued in a broken voice, “Tell them the truth, and that I love them. Good luck.” Just before the recording ended, the door burst open and the sounds of the Draugr rang out, along with the sounds of gunshots.
Isaac stood for a moment, processing all of this information. He looked towards the open door heading for the comms room. Walking towards it, his rifle still aimed ahead, he tried to concentrate on the mission. Once he reached the room, however, he felt it, heard it. He felt thoughts that weren’t his own running though his brain as he found the console she had mentioned. Sure enough, he recognized it as a mining cannon interface. They had been developed for the layperson to operate, due to the interchangeable nature of mining jobs. He paused before he could activate it.
Was he really going to go through with this? He was trained in the ways of unconventional warfare. Guerilla tactics, infiltration of crime syndicates and terrorist cells, murder–the LOKI Unit specialized in all of these and more. But this was far out of his league. He was told to destroy Earth, the cradle of humankind. Then he remembered what he had been taught during his training. He was told that he would be called upon to do things that would make him sick, things that no decent human being could do with a clear conscience. He was taught that no matter what, he had to keep humanity in mind. Ragnarok had forced humans to rebuild civilization all over again on new planets, make first contact with intelligent alien life the hard way, and engage in three civil wars during the first thirty years. If it hadn’t been for Ragnarok, the LOKIs wouldn’t exist, nor would they be needed. And now he was discovering that Ragnarok had not been some natural disaster, that something living, something intelligent, had caused it, and it was planning to finish what it started…
Four, inhale; four, exhale.
His mind was made up. Humanity had endured its near-extinction, and he wouldn’t let that be in vain. He activated the console, and was met with the pit. Suddenly, millions of purple lights shone from it. No, he realized, horror forming a knot in his stomach. They’re eyes. As the eyes shone brightly back at their new voyeur, the light from them revealed the beast itself.
Jormungandr was the “World Serpent”, according to Norse mythology. This, however, bore no resemblance to a serpent. It didn’t resemble anything that Isaac had a frame of reference for. Natural laws didn’t seem to apply to it. It moved in ways that Isaac dared not try to make sense of, lest he drive himself mad. Then it spoke, and he recognized it as the voice of the intrusive thoughts he had felt and heard when he entered. Seeming to “grip” his mind, spoke of being older than the Earth, that the Earth had been built for it. It hadn’t been built as a home, though, but as a prison, a cage. Who had built the cage, the Jormungandr didn’t say, only referring to them as “They” in a hateful, venomous tone. It then began to coaxingly speak to Isaac. It told him that it hadn’t intended to begin Ragnarok, but that it was willing to make amends by allowing humankind to join it, to become one with it. No more would there be any conflict, any hate.
Isaac began to respond mentally, agreeing with it. Sounding pleased with this reply, it told him to contact the Marines, per his original instructions. It guided him to walk to the communication equipment, then it released his mind. The instant it did this, he connected to the console, sending an emergency code to his pilot. The voice returned, sounding puzzled, then horrified and angry as he ran back to the cannon console. Placing the targeting reticle over the mass of eyes, he hit the button on the screen that would fire it. Sure enough, a long energy beam shot out from the device he had mistaken for a camera.
Pain. Pain lanced through his head as he felt both the creature being impacted by the cannon and hearing its agonized shrieks. It was all he could do to gather himself up and begin to sprint back the way he had come, feeling the voice of the Jormungandr growing quieter and weaker. The station’s machinery began sparking and exploding, as the cannon had overloaded them. More Draugr, in a pained, desperate frenzy, tried to stop him, but he just gunned them down. It took much quicker to leave the station than it did to enter, due to his stealthy approach.
Eventually, he found himself back in the lobby, where he quickly opened the door just as more Draugr charged at him. He closed it once inside the decompression chamber, then opened the airlock door. Sure enough, the shuttle was there, waiting for him. He propelled himself towards the entrance to the vessel, then collapsed once inside. Breathing heavily, he slowly got up, sat in a chair, and gazed at the station. As the shuttle departed, he watched as it began to dissolve into a ball of metal and flames, then he looked past it. Slowly, the flame was spreading across the Earth from the pit, looking almost like some kind of flower opening. The irony didn’t escape him.
He leaned back, sighing heavily. Short as this op had been, this was hands-down the most stressful. He looked at the HoloScroll in his hand, then tucked it away in his tactical pouch. No doubt the New Terra Council would want to hear about this. He had just annihilated Earth, rendering it truly uninhabitable. He might be excommunicated from the LOKIs, possibly executed, for all he knew. He didn’t care. Even as he heard the withered, faint voice in his head, he knew he had made the best decision under the circumstances. The Jormungandr was still alive, but now it could never gain the power it had wanted. One problem remained, however. The Jormungandr had spoken of beings that had imprisoned it.
As he gazed out at the void of space, he wondered where those creatures were now.
-
The Mist of Carpenter’s Ridge
Narrated by Drew Blood on Chilling Tales For Dark Nights- https://youtu.be/8wvpFeB7sDk
It was an unspoken but well-known rule: never go into the fog. All the two-hundred men, women and children of Carpenter’s Ridge, Tennessee knew that to venture into it was a death sentence. At any time, like the Angel who descended upon Egypt, the mist could sweep down from the mountains. And without fail, this fog brought the Drifter.
On this particular day, little Billy Edwards was out in the lawn, playing as young boys do. Despite seemingly being a normal child, close inspection would reveal that his little eyes were bloodshot, and his skin a sickly pale, and for all of his youth, there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm or youthful mirth. His face instead betrayed anxiety and dread, eyes flicking back and forth. All of a sudden, he saw a sight that had become synonymous with the word “fear.” Thick, rolling clouds were flowing in from the mountains. Before he could say anything, his mother, Judy, had scooped him up into her arms and frantically brought him inside. His father, a tall, strapping man by the name of Thomas, was already setting up the defenses that the residents of Carpenter’s Ridge knew to install on their windows and doors.The owners of the hardware store miles out of town had always wondered why they ordered such heavy duty shutters and braces, and the local mountain men had made a killing off of the many bullets and dubiously-legal weapons that the bloodshot, pale-skinned, twitchy residents of Carpenter’s Ridge came to pick up. They never saw the fog or the Drifter, but they couldn’t care less; as long as they had a steady supply of moonshine ingredients, they could afford to hand over some of their own contraband.
For some reason, the Drifter seemed content to allow the residents to venture far enough to reach the hardware store and mountain men, but any who had the courage to go even an inch further were never heard from again. It was like some sick game, as though the Drifter was granting them enough time to prepare, like a child counting during Hide-and-Seek, and the costs of being “caught” or “cheating” were far more steep.
Just across the street from the Edwards family lived poor old Mrs. Hernandez. Of all the residents in the town, she alone had the greatest reason to be afraid of the fog and the being it heralded. She alone had seen what it could do, and she alone knew what it really looked like beyond a general outline. Why? Because she had witnessed her son, Ben, being dragged out in a moment of foolish defiance against the forces of darkness. He had intended to comfort her, to let her know that there was nothing out there, and in turn, prove that there never had been during his years growing up. What the Drifter did to her poor boy, she never said. Watching her worst childhood nightmare and her worst adult nightmare come true all at once had broken something in her. Now she just went about the same procedure as her neighbors. She always hesitated as she passed by the small window that Ben had thrown open just before his demise, wrinkled hands shaking and reddened eyes welling up with tears.
In his own house down the road lived Randy West, a local freelance journalist. Behind square-rimmed glasses, his reddened eyes displayed a morbid curiosity as well as dread gazed out the window. All over his house were newspaper clippings, alleged sightings of the town’s infamous specter, and written testimonies by eyewitnesses. Perhaps the correct term for the latter would have been “secondhand transcriptions of their crazed ramblings and screams.” Additionally, he kept a record of any patterns the creature seemed to go by, and who he took. No, he corrected himself with trepidation. The Drifter’s never “taken” anybody. He knew it as well as everyone in town: those who stepped outside were dead the millisecond their feet left the threshold. There was never a drop of blood, never a weapon, never any evidence that anyone or anything had been there. There were only the screams.
The homes in Carpenter’s Ridge were filled with the hushed sounds of bickering and panicked weeping. Any and all sound was snuffed out as quickly as a candle in a windstorm when the second of the three most abhorrent sounds known to the residents of Carpenter’s Ridge echoed through the dead streets, with the first being the screams. The whistle. Even the fussiest of babies in the town, even the most frantic of dogs, every living thing that made a noise was brought to an instinctual hush when that accursed tune was heard. The fog was merely a herald; what signaled that he was in Carpenter’s Ridge was the whistling. It was not of any known tune or song that could be placed, and no matter how people tried, none could replicate it. It mattered not. The worst nightmare of the townsfolk had come true yet again. The Drifter was here.
Peering through the window, Randy strained his eyes to see through the fog blanketing the town. Then, in the center, his eyes caught it. The mists parting like the Red Sea before him, but never staying off of him, the outline of the Drifter strode into the town square, his merry tune contrasting sharply with the terrified silence. He had the same appearance as always, or as much as people could see. He was at least nine feet tall, clad in what appeared to be a ragged old coat and hat. His form almost resembled a scarecrow, and his gait was seemingly unsteady, jerky, and yet somehow deliberate, like something that knew how humans were supposed to act and sought to make a deliberate mockery of it. And this too disturbed the residents of Carpenter’s Ridge: why did he bother playing these games if he wanted to kill them? Why did he only kill people that dared to venture out?
As the residents huddled inside their homes, the uncanny phantasm continued its long, jerky strides, that accursed whistle piercing the eardrums of the people like large, invisible needles. The Drifter then proceeded to engage in the same ritual that he always did during his visits: rather than attack, he instead began to run his fingers along the outside of each house. He did not scratch, though; he simply ran his fingers along the walls before casually moving to the next building. There was something else that the people of Carpenter’s Ridge had often considered; perhaps this creature, this foul, terrifying beast that had them terrified and shaking in their homes was blind. Had he been anything of the mortal plane, they should have felt sorry for him at the very least. However, over the years and with each new generation, each new visit, it occurred to them: he only killed when people stepped into the mist. Was it possible that this unnatural fog acted as his eyes? It never truly mattered. All they knew for sure was that so long as they stayed inside, they were safe. All but one man.
The town crackpot, an old Vietnam veteran known by the ironic name of Charlie, had always been the one to blow his money away on the heaviest ordnance that the bootleggers peddled. He was the only one among the people of Carpenter’s Ridge who ever spoke about the Drifter aloud. Nobody paid him any mind, possibly a hold-over from his treatment when he came home, or so he thought. He had seen what the Drifter did when it got ahold of some hapless person. There had been Jacob Bennet in 1979, an outsider who had disobeyed the unspoken rule of not leaving the home in the fog. Charlie had heard the screams, and just like that, he would be brought back to the humid jungles, would smell that unmistakable watching as his friends and enemies alike were devoured by the messy teeth of machine gun fire. Nothing, not even the wraith, could ever mimic those sounds, but it was enough to remind him. And God was his witness, he was tired. Tired of that whistle. Tired of the collective cowardice of the townsfolk. Tired of returning to the jungles. This time, he would finish this beast, or it would kill Charlie. Either way, the screaming could finally end for him. And so, he waited beside his door, a loaded shotgun clenched in his hands, bloodshot eyes blazing with rage rather than saturated with fear. At long last, the accursed Drifter’s whistle came back around to him. Just as it rounded the corner, Charlie burst out of his door, then fired off two shells into the shape in the mist.
What happened next was something that was a horror for the ages for the people of Carpenter’s Ridge. The figure, after Charlie had shot it, staggered. The veteran stood, rage replaced by bewilderment as his enemy put a hand to his chest and pulled it away. A dark, tar-like substance began to run from the creature’s fingertips as he gazed at his hand, apparently just as shocked as Charlie was. Then as he was about to reload, the figure produced what was known ever afterwards as the third of Carpenter’s Ridge’s most abhorrent noises: he laughed.
It was not merely a sinister, derisive laugh; while he was clearly mocking the attempt at ending his reign of terror over the town, it was also the sort of laugh one makes when a practical joke is played at their own expense. The wraith’s raucous, ghoulish cackles echoed through the silent town, the reverberations causing the citizens to almost think there were at least fifty of him. He seemed to genuinely find the very concept of his own demise to be humorous. Then, as Charlie stood frozen with terror, the beast suddenly grabbed hold of him. The laughter accompanied the screams of the poor, crazy old man.
Something changed in the minds of the people of Carpenter’s Ridge. People had died by the Drifter’s hand before, but only those foolhardy enough to challenge his existence or to leave town. This, however, was the death of one who had believed, and who had retaliated against the whistling beast that tormented them. As near-suicidal and as reckless as his actions were, they all understood why he would want to do it. He had suffered long in a war he never asked to join, and had been subject to further torment back home, and on top of all of that, he had to endure an unknown presence cowing all of the people of Carpenter’s Ridge in their homes. Of all of them, he had been the bravest.
The Drifter was beginning to scoop up the body of the first man of this town to challenge him, the first time anyone had seen the after-effects of his acts. Suddenly, a shot rang out. The creature jolted, then whirled around in the direction of whoever dared to challenge him. Mrs. Hernandez, eyes brimming over but full of hate and rage towards this aberration, stood on her porch, a smoking rifle in her hands. Seeming to scoff now, the Drifter began to trek towards her. The report of another gun rang out, this time from Randy West, then another, and another. Each shot brought another spray of the ebony fluid from the beast’s form. Soon, the Drifter was surrounded no longer by frightened sheep; he was now surrounded by furious wolves.Wolves, he seemed to realize, that had seen him bleed.
Initially, he seemed to gain a glimmer of fear at his former prey fighting back. His shadowy face briefly showed signs of being that of wide, bloodshot eyes. For the first time, the residents could just barely make out his face. This illusion quickly melted away into a pair of glowing, scarlet lanterns where eyes would be. An enraged shriek emanated from him. Quicker than they could react, he began skittering towards them like an insect. He pounced upon the hapless Brandon Phillips, grabbing him and beginning to run back towards the mountains. He was stopped by Thomas, who had taken position between two houses and was wielding the shotgun of the old man. Leveling the weapon an inch from the creature’s face, he pulled the trigger, causing both barrels to leave an enormous hole in his head. He howled in pain, humiliation, anger, and undisguised fear as he released Brandon. The Drifter abandoned his quarry and began skittering away from the townsfolk, who continued firing, intent on driving him out. Before he reached the edge of the town, he looked back at all of them, his healing but loathsome face vowing a reckoning. As if to emphasize this vow, the fog began to change its shape. In the mist were the agonized, decayed visages of those who had been taken. Among them was the recently-added veteran. The message was clear. The people just glared back, as if to say that they would be ready. With that silent exchange, the Drifter skittered away from them, back to wherever he nested.
It was a bittersweet victory, if a victory at all. Another one of their own was now dead, and the Drifter had escaped justice. What’s more, he would be returning with a vengeance, possibly tomorrow, possibly a month, a year, maybe another ten years. Yet the residents feared not, even as they buried poor Charlie, for however fearful they may have been of the Drifter, now they knew that he was afraid of them as well. They knew that supernatural creature or not, he could bleed, and he could hurt. But most of all, they knew that it was no use trying to hide away from this monster; the only true solution was to face it head-on, and force it to feel terror for them. Maybe one day they could find a way to permanently end him, but until then, they would not hide from the Drifter. This they swore as the fog began to burn away, a clear, beaming sun in its place. -
Goodbye My Sweetheart, Hello Vietnam
The shot in his left leg didn’t prevent Jackson from running through the trees, despite the wound causing pain to shoot up the appendage. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the enemy giving chase, laughing and jeering in both Vietnamese and broken English. He heard shots ring out, damn near felt bullets zip by him. If he didn’t find a place to lay low and patch up his leg, he was certain that these lunatics would consider shooting him to be a mercy.
It had all gone wrong. He and two of his friends had been asked to go on a scouting assignment, just to make sure none of the VC were camped out here. They were, but they had been spotted too late. They shot George first, and then Billy just told him to run before he was gunned down as well. And so Jackson had done just that, the panic of the botched mission outweighing the agony of his wound. Before taking the bullet, though, he had shot three of the guerrillas in a fit of rage and grief. It was this that caused him to stand still, even for a moment, and that moment was all it took for the bullet to make its mark.
Jackson collapsed, adrenaline releasing its hold on him and his pain. He clutched at the leg in abject pain only to realize something. The wound was dry. Looking at his hand, he saw no blood on the wrinkled skin. Wait. No, the wound…There wasn’t a wound at all. His knee just ached terribly, as did other bones, now that he noticed it. Confusion and bewilderment overwhelmed him, blinding him to the enemies approaching. Once he had turned to gaze his foes in the eyes, he was instead met by men clad in blue uniforms, holding handguns and flashlights. Upon further inspection, he saw that his surroundings didn’t match that of the Vietnamese jungle at all. It was a forest.
As he gaped at the men in surprise, one of them said, “Jackson Clarke, you’re under arrest for the murders of three officers of the law and the attempted murder of Travis Clarke. Lay down your weapon.” There seemed to be a degree of pity in the man’s voice. At the mention of his boy’s name, the old man understood. The weapon he had been grasping as if his life depended on it slipped from his aching, wrinkled fingers. His memories slowly began to piece themselves back together. He slumped down. He lowered his head in contrition as bitter, quiet sobs began to escape him, even as he felt the cold metal clamp around his wrists.
-
FENRIR
The city lights above flashed like a neon supernova as he ran down the rain-slicked alley, silver blood running down his arm. It was a good thing he, like the others, had their natural pain receptors dulled, if not shut down entirely. Without warning, two armored figures disengaged their cloaking devices and withdrew their handguns. They opened fire, prompting him to take cover behind a large dumpster. Many of the bullets ricocheted, but he quickly noticed several holes beginning to appear in the metal at his side before the gunfire immediately stopped, prompting them to eject the spent clips. Deciding not to give them time to reload, he withdrew a cylindrical object and threw it in their direction. They barely had time to react before the electricity shot out and struck them like a multitude of blue-white serpents.
He immediately took advantage of the disruption grenade, pulling his pistol and aiming at the neck of one, pulling the trigger and sending a spray of silver blood over the surface of the wall, followed immediately by the next. A choking sound was heard from their helmets, followed by two piercing flatlines.
The Aberrant stood for a moment, looking down at his former brothers-in-arms with regret. He gave his whispered apologies and began walking, keeping to the shadows and watching for any blurriness in the air to indicate someone with a cloaking device on. Satisfied, he pulled out one of the syringes he had taken from the base, then injected himself. Luckily the wound was superficial. The liquid in the syringe was composed of nano-machines, which acted as a repairing agent for damaged troops in the Tactical Unit. When the nano-machines had finished their gradual repair of his wound, he took a moment to think, since the odds were he wouldn’t have the chance to think later.
26 years. He found it difficult to believe that it had been 26 years since he had been made a member of the FENRIR Tactical Unit, a group of artificial humans made by the private military company known as the FENRIR Corporation to act as the perfect soldiers. They were conditioned to feel no remorse and required no counseling for any abhorrent act that they were ordered to commit. Ostensibly, the reason for this was to provide better training for actual militaries and to carry out jobs for them, granting plausible deniability to whoever required their services, public officials for the most part. The truth? They helped sow the seeds of war by committing war crimes in politically unstable regions. They were, for lack of a better phrase, corporate terrorists.
What was he trying to prove here? He had no place outside of the unit. And it wasn’t as though he had any ability to bring down the company alone. They were a worldwide organization with no central office. What was the point of going Aberrant and running from them, killing those he had once considered his comrades? The point, he thought, is to show FENRIR that they have no right to kill you because you felt bad about a little girl.
Yes. He remembered the kid. She was probably around ten or eleven. He remembered those eyes as she stood in front of her older brother, a young man around nineteen and a target for the unit due to testifying in court against the FENRIR Corporation. She was scared, angry, and tears were running from her bloodshot eyes. Her brother kept trying to get her out of the way, to accept what was coming to him, but she would not allow it. Her defiance alone didn’t give him pause, though. No, it was her question. It wasn’t anything eloquent, it was just a simple one-word inquiry in response to his order for her to stand aside. She gazed at him with those scared, angry eyes and whispered shakily, “Why?” At that point, he lowered his gun slightly, only for one of his brothers to close in on both and let off four shots, two for each.
He tried to block out the last part, God in Heaven, he tried. And now here he was, asking himself the same question as that child. He couldn’t determine what it was that she wanted an answer to, though he had some ideas. Why are you trying to kill my brother, why should I move out of the way, why are you doing any of this, why can’t you at least show your face, coward?
His internal conflict was interrupted by a bullet streaking past him, grazing his skin and opening a horizontal wound along his leg. Eight more had appeared, and the muzzles of their handguns were flickering like fireflies as the report sounded. Wasting no time, he began to ascend a nearby fire escape, hearing more bullets whiz by him. Something pierced his side, then at least a dozen more. He was made to be sturdy, but with enough concentrated firepower, they could gun him down easily.
He reached the rooftop, silver blood flowing down his body like mercury as the rain fell, and looked at the bullet count on his pistol. The number “008” flashed on the holo-screen. Eight rounds, eight enemies. He could hear the metallic sound of their boots as they followed him. He waited, hearing them get closer. Suddenly, one of them rushed into view only to be met with a gunshot and the liquid spraying out of the other side of his throat.
Eight.
Seeing their comrade fall, he heard the faint buzz of cloaks activating. Two more rushed up into his sights, followed by two more shots, though not before one of them had hit him in the arm.
Seven, six.
Two more bullets suddenly caused more silver to begin leaking from his body, and he turned around. The previous two were diversions, which was clear by the five blurry figures that had scaled the building. He quickly took cover behind a large AC unit. As they exited the cloaks, he rapidly leaned out and took four shots, each one landing their target, and each one costing him more hits to himself. The display in his eyes flashed: “WARNING: BIO-COMPONENT FLUID LEVELS CRITICAL.” The last shot had to count.
Time seemed to slow as they both aimed. It was then that, voice distorted by the mask, the enemy lowered his pistol slightly and asked him a simple question, but one that resonated through his mind.
“Why?”
The tone was one of anger, of grief, of betrayal. A look of shock spread over the Aberrant’s face. Lightning flashed. A shot rang out. The Aberrant stared as his enemy crumbled to the ground, having turned his weapon on himself. He numbly made his way down the fire escape, stumbling as he stepped over the bodies of his fallen foes. As if on autopilot, he leaned down to grab more ammunition from their bodies and injected himself with more of the nano-machines, allowing the tiny robots to go to work repairing him. As he was walking, the display in his eyes read, “BIO-COMPONENT FLUID LEVELS STABILIZING.” The flow of silver blood ceased as his wounds slowly closed. So he would live then. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that at first. He would continue to be hunted by his brothers, whom he now realized felt a genuine sense of betrayal from him. Was the programming really so faulty? Was there programming to begin with? He thought back to the first two he had encountered. In that moment, he became resolute in his decision, and in his fury. They were all Aberrants; they had just been forced to obey commands without question. Refusal or hesitation was met with an override that caused them to end themselves. Was that why one of his other comrades had shot the girl and her brother? To save him from the override?
His fists tightened and his jaw clenched. Holstering his pistol, he began to walk away into the city, a slowly-healing limp in his right leg. As he walked, he looked up at a holographic billboard screen, which displayed the FENRIR armored personnel and proclaimed them to be the future of the military and law enforcement. He glared at it. Now he knew he couldn’t let FENRIR keep his brothers in captivity like this. He didn’t know how he would be able to bring the company down yet. But as he looked up at the lights flashing in and around the city, he knew he would find a way. With that, he walked into the crowd of walking pedestrians, who had become so desensitized to violence in this city at this point that the gunshots likely had been ignored. Taking out the cloaking device he had taken from the last of his pursuers, he activated it, and with a faint electrical buzz, he vanished.
-
Passenger
Jonathan Parker was thirteen when he first dreamed of murder. This is not to say he fantasized about murdering people; he hated his dreams. Jonathan was not an “unusual” boy; to the contrary, he was about as “normal” as can be, until he turned thirteen.
In the first of many dreams, he was looking through the eyes of the murderer in question, thinking his thoughts, effectively being him. He felt the man’s obsession with his current target, a woman in her late twenties, with short blonde hair and green eyes. He could hear the internal dialogue that the man was having, being none the wiser about his unwilling voyeur. In unhinged, rapid-fire sentences, he felt the man’s rage (why does she have to avoid me I would have treated her much better than Tom does I’m always so nice to her), his malice towards her (so ungrateful didn’t know what she was missing too late now) and his feelings of entitlement to her affections (I deserved her more than Tom she should have left him she had her chance but it’s too late now). And he felt the excitement of the man as he crept up behind her and grabbed her by the throat, quietly snarling obscenities and slurs at her while she gazed at him in shock and terror, her mouth practically unhinging for a scream. All the while, the poor boy cried out for him to stop, to let her go, for him to wake up. Unfortunately for Jonathan, the dream didn’t end there, but suffice to say, by the time it did, the woman’s eyes became glazed over and her last croaking breath had escaped her. When he woke with a start, he screamed as loudly and with as much horror as the woman would have if she were able to breathe.
At first, he didn’t know what to tell his mother and father, but as he calmed down, he explained the situation as detailed as possible. As is often the case, they dismissed it as a very vivid nightmare, although even they would concede that this was uniquely disturbing. Jonathan had nightmares, though. He had never dreamt up anything like that. He had never understood feelings of entitlement towards people before then. He’d had crushes that were rebuffed, yes, but he had never thought about murdering someone because they rebuffed his affections. Still, he thought it was best to just follow his parent’s leads. He chalked it up as a nightmare and went back to sleep. It was better than thinking of any scary alternatives this late at night.
Somehow his dreams were much less invasive for the rest of the night. Two days later, though, he found something that deeply unsettled him. While he was eating breakfast, his father was reading the newspaper. On the front page was the woman he had witnessed being murdered. Her smiling face contrasted the grim headline: “Woman Of Twenty-Seven Found Dead In Apartment”. Jonathan couldn’t believe it. He went pale and his stomach dropped, his breath becoming heavy. In some tucked-away corner of his mind, he wondered if this was how that poor woman felt as she was dying. He asked him what was wrong, but poor Jonathan could only point a shaky finger at the picture and croak, “That’s her. I saw her.” He collapsed into sobs and murmured apologies and false confessions into his father’s arms, who wore a concerned expression on his face, not knowing what to do. What could he do? His son was claiming to have seen a woman who was murdered before the media or police said anything. Of course, the police were interested in Jonathan’s apparent foreknowledge of the victim, but he was immediately ruled out as a suspect, as he had never met the woman before and he was only thirteen, whereas her killer was most definitely an adult.
His parents sought out a psychiatrist, and to her credit, Dr. Thompson, a woman of forty-eight with a friendly disposition, tried her absolute best to help the boy. She allowed him to speak freely and plainly about what he was dreaming about.
This continued well into his teens, and made him rather reclusive. The dreams had persisted through that time. They didn’t come every night, though he almost wished they would; at least he would know when they were coming. He saw many more gruesome acts being performed upon innocent and less-than-innocent people alike. Some were messier than others, some were performed by extremely reluctant individuals who felt remorse after the fact, but they all had one thing that tied them together: he was always the first to know about them, always the one to hear the thoughts of a killer before they struck. From time to time, the same killer would host him as their “witness” multiple nights, though this was rare. Still, his “ability” caused him great mental and emotional distress. One particular dream involved the death of a childhood friend who had fallen in with the popular crowd and had begun bullying him. Jonathan had screamed, had pleaded with the balaclava-clad killer to spare the other boy, but as always, he was ignored. The only detail he noticed about the murderer as he passed by a mirror was that his right eye was green, the other brown, but he hardly cared at the time. When he woke up, he didn’t scream; he only curled up in the fetal position and cried.
By the time he went to college, he was withdrawn, paranoid, and a voluntary insomniac. He had seen things, felt things that nobody ever should, things that left him feeling as if he were the many murderers whose eyes he had seen through his teen years. One night, he saw yet another grisly scene: a man stabbing another man to death in his bathroom as the victim brushed his teeth. The blood decorated the floor in scarlet, a diagonal splatter across the mirror. Something new happened tonight, though. The killer, once he was finished, turned to look at the mirror. Jonathan thought nothing could disturb him more than what was already shown, but he was proven wrong that night by two things about the man. First, he recognized the balaclava over his face, along with the green right eye of his childhood friend’s murderer. Second, the killer seemed to smirk behind his mask, then made a simple gesture.
He gazed deep into the mirror and raised a finger to his lips, giving a low, “Shh.”
The Gray Walker Has Some Stories To Tell You…
(SHORT SCI-FI, HORROR, AND FANTASY STORIES)
The Gray Walker Stories 