Pebble in Space: Chapter 3

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The Daffodils by: William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

<*>

They say that no one can hear you scream in space, that the void is empty and that so cold that is freezes a person solid in seconds. The same could be said about a person’s mind.

I wanted to move. Wanted to roll onto my side and vomit out the pain and bitter bile of frustration. But I couldn’t move.

There was an itch in my nose that was driving me mad. Wheezing breath in and it tickled. Ragged, bubbly breath out and it consumed me with it’s mocking dance along my nasal passage.

I’d lift my arm up and vigorously rub my nose… if I could feel my hand.

I’d look for my hand if I could open my eyes, but alas, they were crusted shut.

All I could feel was the damned itch, it consumed me. Should I be grateful that the itch was all I felt? I remembered the beating, the worn boots slamming into my ribs, my face and my flailing arms. I remember the fists that felt like hammers. And the spittle that frothed like sea foam around the boy’s eager mouths. I was grateful that I had lost consciousness, but I feared that once the itch subsided, I’d feel the wash of knitting bones and healing bruises. I could feel them in the periphery of my mind. At least two broken ribs, a wrist, my abdomen was swollen and rigid, and my knee was hot. My face was a mess. My eyes swollen shut and crusted with blood and who knows what other kind of filth. At least three teeth were gone, or swallowed. But worst of all was the burning sensation between my legs.

BASTARDS!

I couldn’t even scream it out. It echoed in my head like the death cry of an animal in a black chasm on some desolate planet.

I cried, but the tears filled my eyelids and made the bruised tissue hurt. It was like a full bladder with no way to void it. I had to stop.

So it was the itch. An errand hair in my nose, crusted with blood and snot, looking like a dirty lollipop, that consumed my mind until whoever dragged me to where ever I was could come back and either help me or finish me off.

If I were to live, I’d heal. They had proven to me that I was a woman. I would then show them how true the old expression was. I’d show them how deep the well was. They would not be prepared for my revenge… my scorn.

 

 

Hell

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*image pulled from http://www.funnysigns.net/hell-freezes-over/

“What has the world come to?” I asked myself for at least the hundredth time as I trod East along the once busy interstate, constantly scanning the vibrantly hued horizon for threats.

“It all went down so fast,” I mumbled to the mangy dog of indistinguishable breed that padded along beside me. I had picked him up as I traveled through the harrowing streets of Lansing. It was there that I said I would try to avoid cities. People were just getting too unpredictable.

#

It had only been eighteen months since the world went to shit. It started with the escalation of tensions in the Middle-East. Israel decided that they had had enough of Palestine and used their “Star of David”. The world drew a collective gasp as two hundred and fifty thousand people died instantly in the first nuclear bomb used as a weapon in more than fifty years. The ‘survivors’ started dying shortly after.

I believed that humanity might have survived that terrible event. I thought that no-one would be stupid enough to run headlong down that path again. But I was wrong.

Now that the proverbial cat was out of the bag, and nuclear weapons were being used, the whole world started solving their disputes with a great finality. India was the first to embrace the concept that its quarrel could be solved with Pakistan, once and for all. Then the Chinese solved their Tibetan problems, the Russians their Georgian problems. Britain and France regained their animosity and both countries are now wastelands. The rest of Europe is slowly choking on radioactive fall-out. The African warlords started using low level “dirty bombs” to settle tribal feuds.

Remarkably the U.S. decided not to use any nuclear weapons. There were not any real threats to us from our neighbors, and the rest of the world was caught up in territorial disputes. There were a few jihadist that tried to extinguish the “infidels”, but the high level of security and diligence of Homeland Security proved to be effective. I wish that our country’s internal security would have been as effective.

America’s infrastructure fell apart as fuel and food became sparse. People had no income as the jobs went away. We didn’t know how to act once we were stuck in one place with limited food, supplies, and information. It was if a reset button had taken us back a hundred years.

I used to have a family. I used to be a Finance Supervisor in the Mid-West’s largest tribal casino. I used to have a life. But the fall-out and dust from all the bombs started a mini ice age. Fodder and daily materials began to disappear. People started acting “funny”. The local governments were ineffective at preventing looting and in-home violence was becoming rampant. Your neighbors no longer looked at you because they thought you were scoping them out.

#

I walked in a daze as I remembered how I lost my family. It happened on a Sunday; God’s day. I woke early in our home that had transformed from a modern house to a cozy abode. The power and gas had been cut off and we had resorted to candles and a makeshift stove for heat and light. I decided to make my wife breakfast in bed. Most of our food was gone, but we had a little coffee, rice and sugar. I remember how hollow the cabinets sounded as I tossed about their limited contents, wishing we had some  cinnamon when I felt a presence behind me. I barely had time to turn before I was knocked unconscious.

When I came to, groggy and dazed, I panicked and ran up the stairs. I had to see if my family was safe.

I had never lost anyone close to me. The only time I had ever seen a dead body was when a friend’s father had died – of natural causes. People used to say that violence on television and video games had desensitized America, but I was not prepared for what I saw.

My two year old daughter, who had snuck into our bed in the middle of the night, had been casually tossed against the wall. Her sweet face was oblivious to the odd angle of her twisted body. I let out a moan of the purest agony and fell to my knees. My light felt as if it had been extinguished. I could not think. I could not breath.

A sound, like the last bit of water circling a drain, caught my attention. I ran to the bed and found my wife clutching her throat. Fresh, hot blood seeped from her between her fingers as she desperately tried to move her head to see if her precious child was safe.

“Oh Baby…” I said as I pushed aside the crumpled, tangled mass that had been the bed covers. My eyes widened in surprise when there was also blood flowing from the place only I had been in many years.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” was all I could say as my shaking hand soothed her sweaty hair.

The coppery smell of  blood saturated the room as the color drained from her face. She struggled to see behind me, trying to see her daughter. Her lips formed our child’s name and a terrible gurgle issued from her bluing lips.

“She’s fine,” I stated.

My world was ending.

“She’s still sleeping,” I soothed as tears fell from my reddened eyes. “She’ll be just fine, you kept her safe,” I lied.

But it worked and she stopped struggling and became more restive.

“I…I…I louph uge,” she managed as her eye lids became increasingly heavy.

“I love you too,” I managed to moan, before numbly adding, ”I get her, and we’ll take a nap together.”

I don’t know how many days I lay there. I remember being weak and dehydrated when I collected my camping gear. My hands felt like lead as I packed a down sleeping bag, portable stove, warm clothing, hunting knives, my Mossberg 500, ammo and my family’s picture. There was’t much food, but I gathered that as well.

#

I was numb to the core as I walked away from the conflagration that had been my home. I simply walked South, clutching the Zippo in a white knuckle grip as the ugly glare of orange tainted the pewter skies of predawn.

It took me all day to walk the ten miles to Ithaca. I had to tell my in-laws that I had failed to protect their daughter and grand-baby. I don’t have a clear recollection of how that went. There was a lot of crying, some foul language, and I left feeling worse that before.

I had no purpose anymore, I was living in Hell. And so it was Hell that I decided to go to: Hell, Michigan. Hell is a podunk little town just Northwest of Ann Arbor. It’s unofficial population is two hundred and twenty six and I figured it would be the perfect place for me to evolve into the demon that was possessing me.

I made my way South following U.S. 127, under wintry clouds. It took me almost a week of one foot in front of the other in an eerily gray and silent world, before I made the 30 mile journey to St. Johns. I decided to ‘pop’ over to my friend Anthony’s house for a visit. At least that was the story I had told myself. I really just needed a friendly face and familiar atmosphere to keep me from going mad.

“Tummy?” he asked, using the nickname he dubbed me in college, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just doing a little back-packing,” I replied jovially.

“Where’s June and Libby?” he asked haltingly as a growing look of concern spread across his kind face as he took in my ragged appearance.

“Home,” I flatly stated.

“Are they okay?”

“They are now.”

“What do you mean… now?”

“Do you have some water? I could really use some water,” I changed the subject.

“Yeah, come on in. But leave your shotgun in the laundry room, I don’t want to scare the wife and kids.”

I slowly walked to the laundry room to stow my gear, remembering how I had helped install the tile floors. I hoped I had made a wise decision in coming to see my old college buddy. People were getting weird…

I could hear Tony’s wife giving him the third degree as I took off my muddied boots, and I almost broke down as I waited for them to sort it out.

Tony walked up to me holding a bottle of Bud Light – a precious commodity, “You look like you need this more than water.”

He was right.

“Thanks… listen if this is not a good idea, I can take off,” I said as I nodded my head in Carla’s direction.

“Oh that’s nothing. She’s just concerned that’s all.”

“Concerned for me, or concerned that there’s not much to go around.”

He looked at me for several moments. He could tell that something had happened. I was no longer the slightly immature, always looking to cross the line kind of guy he had known. There was a hollowness to my countenance that concerned and alarmed him.

“Both!”

“Alright man, I don’t want to intrude. I’ll leave, just tell her I stopped by for a visit.”

“No! I don’t know what happened, but you are not leaving until you’ve at least eaten something. Your half the man you were.”

He was right. In college and beyond he had always known me at around three hundred pounds. In my current state I probably only weighed two hundred. Months of rationing supplies and a hell of a lot of walking had changed me.

I showered, ate with them, shared small talk and played with the boys under the watchful eyes of a scared and possessive mother. It was very hard not to cry as I played with their toddler.

As dusk settled upon the land, like the fabled Technicolor Cloak, Tony let Carla put the kids to bed and ushered me out the sliding glass door to the deck I had promised to help him refinish. He produced two fat cigars from his Carhart jacket and gave me a look that meant I had better fess up.

“I failed, Tony. I…”

“Are they dead?” he interrupted.

I couldn’t admit it, but the look on my face must have told the horrifying details. He looked as if he wanted to hug me, but instead produced a bottle of Glenlivet and silently poured two generous glasses that had appeared out of no-where. We sipped old Scotch and smoked pungent cigars in silence, marveling at the painted horizon. Our relationship had always thrived on minimal speech, as if we had always possessed an intuitive understanding of each other.

They were kind enough to let me stay the night on the sofa. And Tony was also kind enough to leave a box of 12-gauge slugs on the table for me as I quietly left at 4:30 in the morning. I left him a note saying, “I’ve always valued your friendship. Thank you.”

#

My visit was felicitous, mostly from the shower and from contact with other people. I progressed South toward Lansing, in slightly higher spirits. I figured it was on the way toward my goal, and that if there any form of Government left in the state, it would be there.

I passed countless cars abandoned on the roadside as they ran out of fuel. There were remarkably few people traveling the highways. Perhaps it was because of the unnaturally cold weather, or the fact that people strayed away from a tall, manic looking man sporting an unruly beard and pump-action shotgun. The twenty five miles progressed quickly as I camped out under vivid stars by night, cooking what was left of small game – that was usually blown half apart by two ounces of heated lead – over an open flame. At times I was almost able to forget my recent past, lost in the tranquility of silence and solitude. But it always came crashing back to me, in my dreams. Dreams of crimson pools of blood and shadowy figures.

The funny thing about having a family is that you never think only of yourself. You always interject the family’s goals over your own. Everything from shopping to entertainment is determined by what is appropriate and affordable for a family. I believe that those first few weeks after that horrible day were the loneliest I’ve ever felt.

#

The capitol city of Lansing was a shadow of it’s former self. It was akin to a bad B-movie about post apocalyptic America, except there were no vampires or mutants; just loneliness, dramatic sunsets and human monsters. I have a theory about people, and it amazes me that human civilization has lasted as long as it has. People are not inherently good. Mankind is a feral beast by nature, and only maintains civility as long as there are goals and comforts available. If comfort is taken away, and hopelessness gains a foothold into the soul, then Darwin’s worst nightmare happens. People are funny creatures.

Lansing never was known as a ‘gang’ town. But just as most large cities in North America there is a gang presence, but Lansing never was out of control. However, given an opportunity to thrive, a monster will become stronger. Before the power was cut and television still worked, there had been reports of small bands of armed gangs that began taking over portions of the city. What had happened to the world just over a year ago was happening to cities across the country. Prejudices and territorial disputes engulfed the urban landscapes. In some cases entire cities would be razed and left in charred ruins because the inhabitants had reached a point of no return. Lansing wasn’t there yet, but it was close.

I saw my first corpse on the West-bound on-ramp to 496, his head was half blown off, he’d been looted and carrion eaters were feasting upon him. I didn’t bother to bury him because I figured he wouldn’t be the last body I’d see.

There were fires burning all over the city, casting a dirty glow and acerbic ambiance, as I approached. Random reports of gunfire and occasional wails could be heard from miles away.

I almost headed East then, and in some respects I wish I had. However, I had another social call to make. My friend Dustin and his family lived almost in the center of town. My curiosity for their safety overrode my sense of self preservation. Every step was cautious as I traveled into the powerless city.

Evening was engulfing the metropolis in inky darkness as I snuck up to the small cottage-style house. It relieved me to see that both of the familiar vehicles were gone. I told myself that they went to Portland to stay with Dustin’s mother or father. Whatever the case, they were not home and the door was still locked.

I proceeded to the rear of the house, my intent to make a stealthy entrance, stay the night and take my leave of the dying city as soon a possible. That was when a poodle sized canine with muddied, matted, blondish course hair nearly scared me out of my skin. The animal was in a terrible state. Thin, thirsty and just as scared as I was, he stood quivering by the large window of the addition making slight whimpering sounds.

“Hey there little buddy,” I said in as soothing a voice as I could, yet to me it sounded like the rattling of a tool box.

He cowered even more as I knelt down and my knees gave loud cracking noises.

“Sorry,” I apologized, “I’m getting older. How ’bout we go inside and try to get warm?”

I used one of my knives, a damascus bowie knife given to me as a high school graduation gift from a blade-smith friend, to cut the screen and pry open the sliding window. I had to grab the dog quickly before he could run away and tossed him in through the window, at which time he promptly scurried off terrified of me. I then hoisted by shrunken body through the window.

The interior of the home was as I remembered it, with the exception of refinished hardwood floors instead of worn carpet. Everything looked in order, which relieved me greatly. I felt pangs of regret knowing that it had been too long since I had seen my friend, who had graciously asked me to be his Best Man. I swayed in the shadows, momentarily consumed by grief, knowing I would never see him again.

I rummaged through the cupboards looking for food in the pale light offered by a gibbous moon. There wasn’t much, but I was able to collect a can of condensed milk, a can of corn, and some SPAM. I still had a package of ramen noodles in my pack. I cut off a generous portion of SPAM and laid it on a plate for the dog, assuming he would come out of hiding for food. I then bent to the task of preparing a stew with my ingredients.

The dog, which I had aptly named Mutt didn’t let me down and soon joined me in my feast. We familiarized ourselves and bonded shortly thereafter.

Dustin’s wife was an avid reader and had several bookcases full of volumes. They had been telling me for years that I should read C.S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower. Therefore, I stuffed the books in my backpack for entertainment purposes after having removed my array of soiled clothes.

There was enough water in a 5 gallon jug to fill the bathtub so I could wash myself, my clothes and finally the dog. I also raided Dustin’s dresser for any remaining shirts, sweaters, and small-clothes I could find. He was a smaller man than I, and his pants wouldn’t fit even in my slimmer state.

I slept fitfully in my friend’s bed next to a content dog, hoping that they wouldn’t mind. I had to assume they were alive and well, it kept me from having bad dreams.

In the morning as I prepared to leave, I checked, on a hunch, the top of the book case in the living room. I remembered that Dustin had told me he kept a loaded forty-five up there in the event of a break-in. The long shot paid off, and I now had another weapon at my disposal along with a half empty box of “wad-cutter” ammunition. Designed for home defense, they have a soft lead bullet designed to deliver a hard impact without bursting through walls and potentially injuring neighbors. Dustin was a considerate guy…

#

I killed my first man on the way out of Lansing. I tried to keep mostly to the shadows, away from people and hopefully away from harm. I had made it to M.L.K Drive; almost to the Deja Vu, which I hadn’t been to in years, when I was approached by a man. The stranger sauntered toward me confidently showing a broken smile and yellow teeth. He had stringy, greasy hair and smelled of acid.

“Looking for any entertainment?” he asked. His voice reminded me of oil laden gravel pressed under car tires.

“No thanks,” I replied cautiously. He made the hairs on the back of my neck stand. I didn’t like the way he looked, or smelled.

“Looks to me like your pretty lonely,” he oozed. “I bet I have just the think you need.” He winked a jaundiced eye.

“No really, I’m fine.”

“Come on man,” he said. “I got it all. Young ladies, boys, mature, even got a cripple if that does it for you.”

“No,” I replied flatly. “I just want to be on my way.”

“Where you headed?” he asked, eying me suspiciously.

“Out of town, back out to the country,” I said as I started to walk away.

“Which direction?”

“North,” I lied. “Not that its any of your business.”

“Cold up North, sure you don’t want a little company first?” he persisted.

“No that that’s my FINAL answer,” I practically shouted.

“What’s the matter, don’t like people? Got it for your little dog there?” he spat.

“Go to Hell!” I returned. “I told you I’m not interested. Leave me alone!” I turned to walk away quaking in anger and frustration. Weeks of pent up emotions were suddenly boiling up with the force of a mega-culdera.

“Go to Hell? Screw you, you bastard. I’m just a business man, trying to make a living. What’s your problem? Don’t know how to do it? Got a little dick do ya, ‘fraid my toys will laugh at you, huh. They’ll do what ever I tell them too. They’d even screw their mothers if I told them to. What do you know, you limp dick. I gave you a chance to get your rocks off before I did you in, now I’m just gonna kill you fer fun,” he raved.

I turned back to him as I felt my shotgun being jerk off of my shoulder. In one fluid motion, I instinctively reached between my backpack and my lower back where I had secured Dustin’s pistol. He was leveling my own shotgun at me, screaming, “BASTARD!” when I shot him in the thigh.

The wad-cutter tore into his flesh, exiting out his groin in a horrific fist sized hole. He fell to the ground in agony screaming, “My dick, you blew off my dick.”

I was willing to walk away then, but he pressed me further by adding, “I’ll just have to take yours, since you don’t want to use it.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said evenly, even though my heart was in my throat and my hands were shaking violently. All I could think about was that this depraved soul was the one who had raped and murdered my wife. My vision turned red in a heartbeat as I unloaded seven more slugs into the bleeding ingrate.

I don’t know how long I stood there absently pulling the trigger of the emptied Ruger, but the sound of my growling dog shook me back to reality.

Several pre-teen boys and girls along with an old woman and a one legged man who hobbled on crutches were approaching with terrified looks on their faces.

“Daddy Pickels?” a chocolate face girl of around eleven cried. She was clearly not the dead man’s progeny.

“You killed him,” one of the boys said in a agitated, squeaky voice.

“Now what are we supposed to do?” asked another.

“Get ‘im,” raged the old woman.

The group descended on corpse with a rage only told in the Bible. This was a vengeance, only believable in myth and legend, being visited upon the holed body of a twisted individual. I swept up my shotgun and ran as fast and as far as my emaciated body would let me.

#

I moved quickly through Owosso and soon found myself in Perry within a few days. I was reluctant to go to my Grandparent’s house, but I was in a state of shock and in need of a good night of rest. The weather was continually getting colder and my supplies were running low again.

My Grandparents were not home, and I was worried. The tiny house had been ransacked and there was evidence of a struggle. Guiltily, I was just too tired to search for them. I figured they were long gone in the bramble of terrible events unfolding around me.

I huddled in the basement for three days. My grandfather kept a small bedroom full of yard-sale musical instruments, old clocks and cameras; decades worth of salvaged treasures of a kind old man. It was there among the treasures that I finally broke to the pressure that had been building inside. I cried almost constantly at all the world had lost, all that I had lost.

It was there that I found my peace with God. Among the old cassette tapes of hymns and stacks of Our Daily Bread. I read the Holy Bible for the first time and argued with a deity I had never embraced. I called him a son-of-a-bitch, it read “I forgive you”. I screamed, “I hate you!” It read, “I love you.” I rallied and raved and finally relented before telling him, “I chose to ignore you.” It read, “Ignore me if you want, but I’m still here.” I heard no voice, no music nor Herald only the emptiness of the human condition.

I emerged a changed man. I think that releasing the grief that I had been repressing allowed me to assume a new role. The role of a survivor. I was in control of my life because I was willing to accept what fate blew at me. I would adapt, change, anneal myself to reality. I would become the aggressor and not the victim. I had killed, I had somewhat enjoyed it because it was justice on some degree. I would be willing to do it again to preserve myself. I don’t have to like it, but I will do it.

Now as I approach my chosen destination, I reflect on the life that made me most happy. I will relive these memories of my former life, not because they haunt me, but because they strengthen me. They will keep me grounded to the person I was, while I develop the person I have to be. After all, people are funny. I will remember looking into the blue seas of love that were the eyes of my wife as I said “I do”. I will remember the first time I held my daughter and the tears that mingled with her first cries of life. I will remember the simple things, like eating dinner as a family or watching Dora the Explorer because it was all we could do to stop an angry toddler from crying. I will remember life, even though the path I follow may take me to death.

I can see it now. A green sign, five foot long and covered with icicles in September. Hell has frozen over…

 

The Legend of Caleb Grey

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The sky was soft, with elegant sun rays piercing through the now parting clouds. A stark contrast with the earth below; it’s dry desert floor with little or no vegetation, horned lizards scampering across the dry hot plain in search of some place cool while the gleam of metal from a thousand pistols lay in the fine granules of sand.

Caleb Grey sat on the back of a painted pony, it’s ears flicking at the irritation of flies swarming and biting in droves. Among the thousand pistols lay a thousand men draped in black and haloed by charred sand turned to glass.

Caleb surveyed the surrounding desert with tired weathered eyes. No other threat was in sight…at least for the moment.

His horse, called nothing else but horse, chewed a spittle covered bit; thirst was evident in this animal and Caleb gave horse a thoughtful pat as if to say I know.

Blood stained on the left shoulder of a tattered blue shirt as it trickled down his arm underneath the light material, pooling in a partially closed hand only then to drip on the worn maple grip of a pistol. Today’s red met with previous year’s blood varnished into the handle, and it traced around a small plaque with four letters engraved into it: HELL.

Beneath the sweltering sun only moments ago, the clouds roiled overhead with the furious sounds of thunder and with it the crack of lightning. Men scattered as the lighting tore into their ranks, ripping flesh and bone asunder while the booming thunderclaps shook the earth, knocking man and horse off their feet.

Caleb could hear his father’s words “Boy, never raise Hell unless you’re willing to repent”. The final words of man who knew he would soon die.

Caleb was fourteen when his father gave him Hell. It was an unceremonious day as his father, Jacob, simply gave him the relic in which his father had passed down to him, and uttered those unforgettable words. It was as though they were engraved into Caleb’s mind as was HELL into the brass plaque mounted along the graceful curve of the pistols handle. No one really knows what happened to Jacob Gray the day he went up into the mountains…there was never a storm like that in all recorded history…except for today.

Pulling down the rim of his hat, Caleb nudged his spurs gently into the sides of horse urging him forward.

As the horse began its trot, all was silent except for the low moan of the wind as it picked up over the ocean of dunes. “Your hurt,” a voice let out. It was not the words of a man, nor was it uttered from any lips. It was a projection of thought only intelligible by the horse’s rider. Caleb ignored the animal for a moment.

“Am I to understand that we are still not as equals, as per your recent proclamation?” The animal’s words were laced with intolerance, and further agitated by the lack of response from its rider. “As you know, I am more than a mere animal…I am Legendary. Something you would know nothing about.”

Caleb kept his thousand yard stare pasted to the horizon. He was transfixed not on where he was going, but where he used to be. Lately, he found himself often trying to re-live the past in memory…a dangerous mistress to be had.

“Well, then…if that is the way of it…” Horse finalized.

“I was wrong.” Caleb finally replied. His voice singing like wind chimes in the fall; not so young and yet not so old, he was at the peak of manhood.

“I’m sorry…with all of these flies buzzing in my ears; I did not catch that…”

“I was wrong to treat you like an ordinary horse…” Surprised, yet taken aback, Horse was accustomed to the less than conversational rider he now bore, but he knew something was off…Caleb seemed to be at odds with himself—usually not prone to giving in to an argument.

“Ahem…well, yes. The matter is settled?” The horse tried to clarify. Caleb glanced down at the back of Horse’s head. “Yes…you’re even more than a wooden idol kept in my saddle bag.” The animal’s ears perked up by the friendly stroke to its mane from rider. Insistent on ferreting out what was troubling Caleb, Horse let out a whinny. “And are you going to indulge my curiosity as to what is troubling you, rider?”

Caleb took a long moment, then with a vexing sigh, he finally lamented. “I drew lighting…”

“Yes and quite a spectacular display.” Horse marveled. “It never ceases to amaze me the absolute finality brought forth by that pistol of yours…it was…poetic violence.” Horse whinnied with excitement, but his celebration was abruptly ended. Sensing his rider’s hesitation, and sensing the troubling feelings that passed through the bond, horse quickly tried to recover the matter at hand. “You had no choice, Caleb.”

“There is always a choice…”

“Rider, you have been given a gift…treat it not like the viper but as the means to slay the viper.”

“Men should not wield such power.” Caleb, looking paler than usual, gave a slight cough before wiping the sweat from his brow. “My father knew better.” Horse flicked its ears rather violently; a failing attempt to shoo the flies away, its vexation at not being able to understand Caleb’s dilemma becoming more apparent.  “And look what happened to him” he intoned.  “Your father felt the call of the mountain and left the only thing that guaranteed his coming back with a child of fourteen years.” Horse, compassionately, yet with absolute sternness, went on. “May I remind you, dear rider, if not for that pistol…those Black Coats would have you riddled with holes. That gun is not a curse, it’s a GIFT.”

“Yes…I suppose it is. But from who?”

 

Caleb’s posture began to slump in the saddle overtime as he and Horse made their way across the vast desert. Though managing to remove the lead slug, the wound in his shoulder began to fester…flies no longer troubled the horse so much as they were more and more drawn to the smell of blood and torn flesh.

Horse cocked its head slightly, a notable effort of concern for its rider. “Caleb, you are not looking so well…perhaps you should burn my idol.”

“No…” He coughed. “That would kill you.”

“I am a Legend, boy…you know very well I cannot die…but you certainly can and will.” The emotions passing through the bond of horse and rider were strong and could not be ignored. Horse had grown fond of its rider over the years, something that was out of the ordinary for its kind, and was reciprocated by Caleb. “Still…” he wheezed, “I would lose you.”

“Yes, but your life is not worth that?”

“Damn it, Horse…how long have we ridden together?”

“Time means nothing to me, Caleb. However, I am very old, that I understand, and of all the riders I carried…you have treated me as more than just a relic.”

“Getting misty aren’t you?” Caleb snickered hoarsely. In response, Horse bucked a little. A kind of joke between ‘friends’, but quickly it regretted the action as Caleb groaned in pain from the sudden jolt of movement.

 

The sun was nearing to set behind the sloping dunes of sand; it’s low descent lent an ominous cast of pink, blue and yellow hues that washed together with the approach of nightfall. Caleb now lurched over the saddle, neck and neck with horse. His breathing was low and laboring…Horse new something must be done. In hopes of keeping Caleb’s mind working, Horse thought it best to keep him talking. “Did you notice something peculiar about the Black Coats?”

“N-no…” Caleb responded.

The Black Coat Regiment, as were the men left to rot in the desert some miles back, were said to be the vessels of demons sent from the bowels of Hell by the Devil himself. “They wore silver medallions…all of them.” Horse said.

“And…?” Caleb said.

“I find it curious…you have been shot before. Dozens of times…perhaps hundreds even.”

“What is your point, animal?”

“Tsk. Tsk. No need for rudeness, I am merely trying to help you, rider. Those medallions bore a runic marking: the Aegishjalmur, or the “Helm of Awe.” Caleb, eyes barely open, and face pale as the moonlit sky, let out a throaty groan. “Pagan…?”

“Ho. Ho. Rider is not the dumb beast I once took him for. You see, at first I saw no direct correlation. I presumed of course that they were relics of the same, but now it all makes sense.”

Irritated, Caleb managed to lift his head “What…are you going…on…about?” Horse was barely able to conceal his excitement at seeing his rider, if ever so slightly, coming out from the fever which had taken him. “Those pistols carried by the vessels of Hell…they are not unlike your own, only in the sense that they have power.”

“What sort of…power?” Caleb said, sounding more awakened. The horse’s ruse to provoke Caleb’s mind into abstract thinking was vitally important in curing him of his ailment. “Yes, good…” Horse said, and he sensed the puzzlement and wonder coming from Caleb through their shared bond. “The slug you pulled out…was their anything you remember about it…anything more unusual than the medallions?”

Caleb put his mind to work. It was difficult to remember; slow at first just like pushing a really heavy sled, and then it came to him. “There was a symbol…inscribed on the mushroomed head…like that of a moth. Or butterfly.” Caleb’s voice grew stronger with every word, he was beating the fever. He was overcoming the slugs curse. “Those pistols they carried…they fired some kind of magik round?”

“Indeed, rider. And you just beat that magik by uncovering its secret. The butterfly is the runic character for death.”

The Black Coats pistols were loaded with slugs inscribed with a death omen. In myth and lore, the prescriptions were so powerful that a person needed to wear a silver Algiz pendant around their necks; a Pagan symbol of protection. Even if the stories were true, that dark men who demonstrate proclivity for the occult, and devil worship were in fact the vessel of demons; their magik may still be overcome. More often than not, said magik was merely a parlor trick in which mostly the weak minded were susceptible.

Caleb was awestruck by the very notion that he was essentially duped into believing the bullet was killing him by means of infection.

“Okay, Horse…thanks.” Relief was expressed through the bond by both sides. Caleb was sitting tall again in the saddle; Horse was whinnying with excitement too as it cantered through the desert until Caleb eased on the reigns. “Slow down. There is no reason to get our necks broken…I just nearly died already. Perhaps we should stop and rest.”

“Rider, you forget, I am a legendary relic…”

“Yeah, yeah…and you require neither rest nor food…well, try riding for days in a saddle and tell me how your bottom approves. And speaking of food…I am hungry.”

 

Pebble in Space: Chapter 2

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“Sunshine, what are your plans for today?” my Aunt Rose asked, as she did everyday.

“Staying in the shadows and away from the Security Squads, like I do everyday, Aunt Rose,” I said as I finished collecting my gear – mostly empty nylon sacks and a canteen of recycled water. Not patronizing her in the least, I hugged her frail frame and kissed her forehead. “I’ll keep my eyes open for a special gift for Uncle Drew. He works so hard to get rations for us, I’d like to show our appreciation.”

“About that dear… um, your uncle and I have been discussing something. You aren’t going to like it, but we have to see to ourselves you understand,” the old woman wrung her hands and my stomach tightened.

“Oh… well if it is important, you can wait until Uncle Drew is home and we can discuss it together. I’d hate for him to miss such an important conversation,” I rushed. “We’ll chat when he and I return, m-kay.”

“But…” she tried to stop me from leaving, but I was already through the corroding door.

I didn’t want to hear what they were trying to say. I’d lost my parents during the recycler mishap of 3013, when a third of the crew starved to death conveniently freeing up space for the High Rankers to move out of their spacious but poisonous decks. That was also about the time First Lieutenant Clarkston weaseled his way through the ranks to claim second in command. My Mother’s brother and his wife took me in when their own child died. I’d lived with them for ten years, and now they want me to move on.

I can’t be bitter, I’m old enough to be looking for a mate. They just want to live their last years with each other, not warding a child not of their loins. I have other plans, however, and they don’t include attaching myself to some leering fool and popping out babies just to keep the population up on the ship to nowhere. I thought my plan was going to hurt them, but now I think it is they who will feel guilty in the end.

I dart down the grimy passage that I know too well. A quick hop over the jumble of wiring that hasn’t been molested in years. Duck under the beam that settled – by three feet – and spin to avoid Old Mister Dashel as he whittles away his plastic bar. He has never said much, but I wave to him anyway. I feel free.

At the end of the corridor, of my old life, there is a hub-like intersection. I imagine that when the ship was launched, so many years ago, it was to be kept clean and not a place for loitering. Now, however, it is the spot where locals congregate to trade and gossip. The ship is large, but tight communities are important for morale and trade. Sadly, it is also a place for trouble. Even though the hub is easily three hundred square meters, it filled with unusable parts, half finished projects and various carts where vendors trade goods. The twenty meter ‘ceiling’ has settled and fallen close to five meters and over the centuries has been filled with a patch work of cables, scaffolding and believe it or not stalactites. The hanging ornaments are not large by any means, but it is a reminder that we are in a chunk of rock. The engineers were shocked when they began to form, as they are typically indicative of limestone caves. Limestone is soft, porous and notorious for cracking. Panic had set in until more tests revealed some veins of plagioclase in the hard mix of stone and iron within the meteor – which lead to several other questions that no one bothered to look into. The calcium in the plagiclase and excessive carbon dioxide and who know what else in the air and surrounding rock had formed the hanging spears. The sagging roof, pointed fang-like formations and minimal lighting can let the imagination run wild. To me it was almost as if the ship were slowly trying to eat us.

Traveling through the hub is my least favorite part of the day. Everyone sees you and where you go. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t ask questions and if you are not very careful, all of your information is spread through the deck. I have to be very careful if my plan is going to work. I change my pace from happy girl to sad girl and slump my shoulders in the universal language of “leave me the Hell alone”.

“Sunshine, is that you?” asked Mistress Gartner, the deck matron – or so she believes. “Aren’t we looking beautiful today!”

“Not really, Mistress. I haven’t bathed in a week and my hair smells like Juno’s feet,” I replied referring to her overweight son. It never ceased to surprise me at how someone can get fat – and I mean rolls of skin – fat, on limited rations. Of course, Juno is a member of the deck gang who bully those with meager constitutions and act as informers to the Security Squads.

I tried to walk past her without engaging in further conversation, but she thrust out her hand and grabbed my bony shoulder in a crushing grip and vented acrid breath into my ear, “You may fool some people around here, Lil Missy, but I know how old you are. Juno has always liked you. I don’t know why with your scrawny body, dark skin and stringy hair, but my Juno gets what he wants. I suggest you warm up to him for your benefit and that of your family.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, Mistress. Thank you for the advice, now take your grubby paws off of me and go service a SS to make yourself feel important,” I hissed while leveling my best glare at her.

Her stunned face brightened my spirits, and even though it wasn’t exactly part of my plan I would at least have some satisfaction to go with the inevitable pain. “Juno! Get over hear,” she called out in a tone that meant business.

From across the hub, a red-headed young man with a gravelly voice responded, “Yeah Mama, what is it?”

“Don’t you dare yeah Mama me, I said get over here!” she continued to scream, capturing every-one’s attention. At least I hoped so.

The mummer of the gathered people dimmed as the lumbering teen and his troop of cronies advanced through the crowd. He stood at least two meters and weighed at least one hundred kilos. His ruddy complexion was stained a rust color as he simmered at his Mother’s chastisement. The three other boys, whom I once played with as equals, sulked behind their leader like a rabid pack of animals I had once seen in a vid. This is going to work, I thought to myself, I just hope I survive it.

The boys pushed their way through the crowd, seeming to step out of their way to shoulder people, and advanced upon us like great shaggy beasts. Juno’s ears rang red with pent up aggression, “What do you want, Mother?”

She finally released my shoulder and pumped her thumb at me, “Sunshine here wanted to say hello to you.”

“Really?”

“No, you knit-wit. She didn’t, but she came up and insulted us for no reason. The little scrag said the most awful things about me… and you.”

He looked genuinely hurt for a moment, the gears of his brain slowly turning before his elevated testosterone and bravado took hold, “Waddya want me to do Mama?”

“Teach her a lesson, Son!” she hissed through gray teeth.

He looked like he wanted to pounce, but lacked the initiative. All four youths were bouncing on the balls of their feet in an excitable manner. The air grew thick with the smell of sweat and oil and anticipation. All that was needed was a primer, the first domino to fall before all the pieces cascaded into place. Now was the time, but I was terrified. Lancer’s words echoed through my mind and my body acted.

I took a step back and then launched forward, striking my flame haired adversary in the groin with all of the power I could muster. I had to incapacitate him and let the weaker boys do most of the damage.

Thud…

“Ooooh,” he cried and fell to his knees. The pack launched itself onto me in a flurry of fists and feet.

I quickly fell to the dirty floor and curled into a ball. As I was battered in all directions, I could see the deck Matron cackling with delight and a red haired, red faced giant standing up.

I saw, for a brief moment his worn boot before it struck me in the face. Then the gaping maw of the hub bit down on me and I was swiftly swallowed into it’s gullet.

Goat Rope

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“Marcus, can you hear me?” 

…

“Marcus…”

A faint, soft voice echoed in his mind, reverberating on the edge of his consciousness. Marcus could feel the voice more than he was hearing it. Slowly, his awareness crept into something resembling normality.

He opened his eyes and looked around and became aware that he was sitting in a padded chair in a sterile room. There was only one door to the white room and no windows. The chair was the only thing there. So, he rose from the chair and rolled his fingers looking at them and feeling them and studied the way they moved.

“Marcus” came the female voice into his mind again.

“Yes…” he spoke aloud.

“Good, you’re awake.”

He recognized the voice then. It was the female technician that he had met during the Uni-Net implant procedure. Things were coming back.

“You are probably a little disoriented right now, and that’s ok.” she said.

“Where am I, exactly.” he asked.

“Your body is here , back here at the compound but your mind is in the loading room. Think of it as the launch pad into the Uni-Net. “ she explained.

“Right.” Marcus said as he took a step away from the padded chair then, “What happens next?” he asked.

“When you walk through that door, you’ll find yourself at a hallway that will lead to what’s called the ‘Atrium’. From there, you should be able to find your way to the Nines.”

“Ok.” he said as he put his hand on the door knob.

“One more thing Marcus, before you walk out that door. Once you go through that door we won’t be able to communicate like this. Someone will have to go in and leave a message for you. And remember, time doesn’t exactly work the same way it does here.” she explained.

“I got it.” Marcus grumbled.

“You are a man of few words, aren’t you?” she asked with a bit of laughter in her voice.

“And you talk too much Emme.” he said as he opened the door.

* * *

The Atrium was busy with people by the thousands. It was an impossibly large structure that was supported by huge white pylon beams that crossed over one another at strange angles. The pylons held up what appeared to be a clear, thick fabric that offered a serene view of a cloudy blue sky, like a giant see through tent. The Atrium was the center point of three long, wide corridors, that led off into the distance. Perpendicular to those corridors were three long ramps that led to lower levels.

Everywhere Marcus looked there were people interacting with one another much like in real life. There were store fronts and businesses, markets and libraries, and everything in between. Tables and chairs filled with people were tucked into corners of pathways and patches of green trees, shrubs, and flowers that filled the air with an artificial smell. Marcus absorbed the scenery in an instant and continued along his way.

In a crowd, he stood out, mostly because of his stature. Here, he looked much like himself. He wore a subdued sage green jacket and black shirt, grey utility pants, and  black boots. There was no such thing as blending in here though. Diversity was abound; Loud colors, monochromatic attire, long robes, half naked women, half naked men, and those who’s skin was every color imaginable.

He made his way along the paths, weaving in and out of the people. He worked his way toward the center of the Atrium and pulled out a small piece of paper from his pocket and consulted the makeshift map he had made himself. He looked to his left, toward one of the lower ramps, and found the illuminated sign post he was looking for. Down he went to that lower level.

Much like the level above, this layer was populated with similar surroundings, but as he made his way through the maze the crowd thinned. He eventually came to the a dead end. There was a double door that looked old and unkept. Hand painted on the wall next to the door read:

“The Nines”

As he approached the door, he tucked the paper he was carrying back into his jacket breast pocket. His hand purposely glided against his jacket as he reached for the door handle and he was reassured by the hardness and shape of his weapon underneath the fabric.

His eyes adjusted instantly for the change in lighting, another odd side effect of the Uni-Net experience. Perception of the world around you was no longer limited by his biological functions. In this realm, he had no irises that needed time to dilate, only artificially stimulated sensory input fed directly into his mind.

The club looked and felt much like any other he had been in. There rows of booths along one wall, and several Tide game tables where men and women both exclaimed over their winnings and losses. Droning music went on from somewhere indistinguishable, to which Marcus noticed a group of people on the dance floor were enjoying, if you could call it that. Some were holding on to one another,  losing themselves in the music, their own carnal desires, and the obvious affects of some kind of intoxicant.

He moved through the dark room casually and sat himself upon an empty stool along the long curvy bar. He looked awkward, uncomfortable in his own massive frame, an act that often served him well. One of the bar maids approached him and asked if he’d like a drink. Her wild, blue and white hair rose up to defy gravity, waving slightly, as if she were suspended in water. Marcus continued with his act.

“I’ll just have a water please.” he said, taking some of the grit out of his voice.

“Sure thing sweetie.” she obliged.

When he received his glass, he held it with both hands and waited. It wasn’t long before someone else came up to him from behind the bar. He was a tall, skinny dark man. He had a crooked smile full of white teeth. His dark hair was braided into long strands that hung on his shoulders.

“You must be Wraith.” said the bartender using Marcus’s team name.

Marcus looked up at the man.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Well, you see, in here” the bartender said while pointing around, “no one orders water.”

Marcus smiled and downed the rest of his glass. He handed to the skinny man and said “Then let me get a glass of what a regular would have.”

“Will do, sir. The name’s Lancer, by the way.” he said as he handed another glass full of a sparkling blue substance.

“So, I’ve been told you have information for me.”

The black man behind the bar threw a cloth over his shoulder and wiped his hands together.

“Right to business! I like that Wraith, I do. Yes, yes I do have information.”

Marcus let the pause between them extend to an uncomfortable level.

“Well, let’s hear it.” he finally broke.

“Nothing is free my dear man.” Lancer said with a wink.

The muscles in Marcus’s jaw flexed as he worked his teeth back and forth, an involuntary gesture that often helped to control his anger. He was fighting against the realization that his dear uncle and commander had sent him in here knowing full well what was going to happen next.

“So, what do you want for this information?” Marcus asked.

Lancer’s lips split across his dark face to reveal those grinning teeth once more.

“I need you to do me a favor Wraith, a big favor.”