Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 32

Baked Scribe Flashback : Origins In Darkness

The glint from the coin caught his attention. Even underwater, the light reflected intensely off of the pristine metal. From the distorted view under the surface, it looked to be twice as large as normal. It wasn’t until he picked it up out of the cool stream that he could tell that it was just a silver dollar.

Sarah shot down his assessment. “I think this is really old. Feels like real silver to me.”

Bryan didn’t know if silver dollars ever were really made out of silver, but the coin did feel heavy. He ran a thumb around the outside, feeling the thick ridges as he did so.

“You should keep it,” Sarah said. “Might as well get something out of getting roped into this creek cleanup bullshit.”

He palmed the coin and went to place it in his pocket. The instant his palm made contact with the metal, he felt a pain rip through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut against the newly found agony and when he opened then, he discovered that he had gone blind.

Bryan yelled out, waving his arms around, swinging his hand back and forth in front of his face to try and detect the movement. The weight of his arms was starting to lessen as well and in that moment, he had a nightmarish image of himself in a wheelchair, lost forever within the cocoon of himself. He could hear Sarah’s voice alongside him, asking him what was wrong. He screamed again as the breeze started to burn his skin, feeling like blisters were forming, up and down his arms.

The air flowing around him shifted, and he lurched forward when he realized that the ground was no longer underneath him. He kicked his legs back and forth through open space as the wind howled louder. Far ahead in the distance, he could make out the tiniest spot of light that was growing larger as he drew closer.

He felt an intense wave of inertia as he picked up speed. The pinprick of light became a portal, and he rushed through, waving his arms in front of him in an absurd attempt to slow himself or stave off whatever was coming. The wind grew to a shrieking pitch, and his nose started to bleed. It was that moment when the sound cut away.

Silence.

The change was so abrupt that his ears popped, leaving behind a pressure that felt like something inside his head had ruptured. He tried to blink, but nothing happened, his eyes refusing to respond to his commands. He went to swipe a hand across his face, but they weren’t working either.

The world turned and twisted as he watched from inside a body which he now only occupied. He was crouched down next to the stream, looking at the same silver dollar in his hand. The coin looked different, newer and somehow more vital, as if it had just been minted. The hand holding it went into motion and he watched it deposit the coin into a pants pocket. The body he was inside stood up, and turned around to gaze across the horizon. It took several moments before he realized what was wrong.

The city was gone.

It should have been there, just off in the horizon, the skyline clearly visible, even from here. Above him, he could see that the sky was absent of any contrails or smog, brilliantly blue and as clear as he had ever seen it.

The world jerked, and moved again as whatever was in control of his body started to walk away from the stream and back towards the road. He discovered that the rural highway that had once been here was now a narrow, dirt road. Something turned his head to the right just in time to see the back side of a buggy, pulled by horses as it made its way out of sight, around the bend. His body turned and began walking up the road in the other direction.

He jumped as three men burst out from behind the bushes just as he was passing. With someone else controlling his body, he had no way of defending himself as one of their walking sticks flashed up in an arc, connecting with the side of his head.

He returned to darkness.

The sound of the stream filled his head again as he stumbled back to consciousness. The water gurgled away as it flowed past, and the sky above was starting to grow dark.

The three men stood over him.

They grinned, violent intentions evident in their eyes. It was then that, even though he had no control over this body, he realized that he was still feeling every ounce of pain and discomfort, of which there was undoubtedly more to come.

One of the men was holding a knife.

He felt a kick, delivered to his ribcage, followed by a blow to his head and stars exploded in front of him. The sound of their laughter made his anger flare up, but there was nothing he could do to act on it.

It was impossible to tell how much time passed before he woke up again. He could see the banks alongside the stream, sloping up towards the sky above.

The men offered no explanation, they just started to cut, slashing through flesh and tendons and he felt every single slice. He wanted to talk to them, to beg, but the voice required was still not his own. All he could hear was the vague, sputtered pleas from the voice that wasn’t his.

One of the men crouched down and leaned in so close, that he could feel the roughness of his stubble brush up against his cheek. The words meant nothing to him, but the serrated edge of the knife was pressed up against his neck and ripped to the side. He felt his own blood, warm as it flowed down the front of him and, in his fading perceptions, watched the men as they walked off, still laughing hysterically.

Bryan’s eyes narrowed, nearly closed and then opened up, once again inside of his own body.

The visions of what he had just seen flowed into, and through him. The pain, his blood, struggling to find air as the hands that weren’t his grabbed at the wound that would never be fixed. He felt his own death, or rather, the death of whoever this had been.

Sarah was staring at him and he realized that he had dropped to one knee. He tried to speak, to reassure her, but no words came. Consumed by the emotions of what he had seen, the anger took on an awareness of its own, like an engine long dormant, rising up from the depths of unconscious night.

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked.

Bryan started to speak, but his lungs froze. His body was still breathing, but he wasn’t the one doing it. His fingers and feet felt numb, as if they were falling asleep. His head flared up with the most intense pain. The world shrunk away from him, like an old television that had just been turned off, the picture slowly dissolving into a tiny speck of light. He felt vertigo, the sensation of falling, darkness rushing up towards him until he fell into it, and knew no more.

The new host, complete within this new body, flexed his hands, feeling in the pocket for the coin that had once been his, so long ago. He would have revenge for the crimes that had been committed, for the violence suffered. The debt had to be paid and the world would bathe in its own blood.

“Seriously, is there something wrong?” Sarah asked.

This girl would be the first.

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Tracing The Trails Of The King : The Dead Zone

FAIR WARNING – if you have not read this book, there will likely be spoilers contained within this piece. This is the sixth essay in my ongoing series on Stephen King, and is intended to be a free discussion of the book. I cannot be held responsible if I inadvertently ruin the ending for you, so if you think this might apply to you, I would encourage you to turn back now.

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“He does understand, Johnny thought, sipping his coffee. Whether he knows what went on between Sarah and me this afternoon, whether or not he suspects what might have gone on, he understands the basic cheat. You can’t change it or rectify it, the best you can do is to try to come to terms. This afternoon, she and I consummated a marriage that never was. And tonight he’s playing with his grandson.”

-Stephen King, The Dead Zone

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I think that it’s interesting how many of King’s early books deal with characters with some kind of extra-sensory ability or telekinetic power. First we had Carrie, obviously. But Danny Torrence also had his ability to shine as well as some abilities of foresight. You could make the argument that Tom Cullen in The Stand had some kind of psychic ability or maybe he was able to shine himself, albeit being manifested in a more simplistic fashion. And of course, immediately following the book featured in this review, we will get to Firestarter.

That brings us to the character of the hour, Johnny Smith.. At the outset of the book, Johnny is in a severe car accident, following a night spent with a colleague that seems to be rapidly moving in the direction of serious romance. He ends up in a lengthy coma and when he comes to, he discovers that he has gained a new ability or, as the prologue of the story might imply, he has tapped into an ability that has laid dormant within him for some time. If he has some kind of physical contact with any person, he can see what will happen in their near or even distant future.

This is obviously setting up the story for a type of Cassandra complex situation, which is a narrative device I am a big fan of. Cassandra is a character from Greek mythology who was cursed with the ability to see the future but, whenever she tries to warn anyone about events, no one believes her. So she is left, perpetually seeing the future, without having the ability to do anything about it. It’s tragedy at its finest.

I read once that Stephen King stated that one of his motivations for this story was to try and create a situation where political assassination could be sympathetic. The idea had to be controversial at the time, I can’t even imagine what kind of storm of indignation it would cause now. Regardless, it is intriguing to me, and I am always going to be a fan of writers making decisions to try and look into the darker aspects of life, and bring it out in an attempt to make more sense of it.

I’d like to take a slight detour at this point and mention that another aspect which I really enjoy about this book is how King never really offers any solid explanation as to why Johnny comes out of his coma with this ability. It would be easy to dump a ton of exposition and pseudo-science into the book, which would give it more of an origin-story feel, but I often find that you end up wasting time in the book on something that isn’t really important. Do we really need to know that Johnny’s brush with death put him into contact with forces from the other side of the mortal vale, and when he returned, certain aspects returned with him? By the way, in case it wasn’t clear, what I just wrote was the height of bullshit, I have no idea what really happened to Johnny, I was just trying to make a point. Ultimately, in life, we often don’t get the easy and clean answers that we might seek, and I think it’s all right for our fiction to sometimes reflect that as well.

That aside, back to the actual book.

As with the story of Cassandra, there is an inherent tragedy to Johnny’s story that I have always loved. It is almost Shakespearean in it’s design and structure. It isn’t Johnny’s fault that he is in a car accident and he has no control over the abilities that he develops. When he is targeted by the tabloids and starts to realize that he is likely destined for a life of media scrutiny and exploitation, he accepts the necessity to stay out of public life and attempts to withdraw. He tries to reconnect with the woman who he had been on the verge of becoming intimate with, but during the course of his coma, she had made the decision to move on, to start a life without him. And while the two of them allow themselves a brief and special moment, they realize that their opportunity has passed them by. For them, the world has moved on.

So much change and loss in one person’s life. and none of it was his fault. All of it because he just happened to be coming home from the fair, on one particular night and, because he just happened to be in a particular car, driving down a particular road while, at the other end, another driver who just happened to be in his car was hurtling towards his fate as well. It’s ironic that it happens to be a book in which the main character can tell the future, that King would write such a fateful convergence of events that leads to Johnny’s accident, especially considering how King himself would nearly lose his life at the hands of an automobile collision in 1999.

In the end, and perhaps adding yet another layer of tragedy, Johnny’s sense of morality draws him out of seclusion to the aid of a nearby small town sheriff who is trying to solve a series of brutal killings. Johnny ends up in nearby Castle Rock, a locale which is very familiar for King fans and several characters from the Dead Zone appear in, or are referenced in future Castle Rock books. He is able to unveil the killer, and it is this act that likely puts him onto the long path which ends in him shaking the hand of politician, Greg Stillson.

Stillson has his own narrative arc in the story, one that runs concurrently to that of Johnny’s. It is a source of dramatic irony that as the reader, we are fully aware of Stillson’s less-than ethical aspects, his darker side. We know that he is destined for all the wrong things but unfortunately, in the scope of the story, the only other person who seems privy to this is Johnny himself, after he looks into Stillson’s future. We don’t get to know what exactly he sees in his vision at the time but, based on his reaction, it is clearly something horrific. And here, the moral dilemma of the story comes into play. If you found out that a politician was going to commit some horrible, unforgivable act, how far would you be willing to go in order to stop that? Would you be willing to kill one person to prevent the deaths of millions? At the time this book was written, the spectral image of the mushroom cloud was enough to strike fear in the hearts of many people. In that world, with that mindset, what would you do if you found out that a politician was going to be responsible for the next world war?

I think that what makes this book so effective is that Johnny is a genuinely likable character. You want to be like Johnny, you want to be friends with Johnny. So when he starts to contemplate an unthinkable act, you are put into a position of having to forgive him because you know how much of a good person he is, and how much sympathy he deserves for the situation he has been thrust in to. You just want everything to turn out all right for Johnny, for him to get some kind of relief from this shitty hand he has been dealt.

Ultimately though, King’s characters rarely seem to find this, and things don’t really end up going well for Johnny either.

I think that most of us, at some point, have had the hypothetical conversations, if you could have a super power, what would yours be? I think that with books like this, or Carrie or The Shining, King offers a possible glimpse into what life might actually be like for someone who possessed an extra-ordinary ability of some kind. As children, we see these powers as making our lives easier, but for these characters it seems anything but. Life for them seems to be a constant struggle, as they attempt to come to terms with themselves, and how the rest of the world deals with them. They all seem to have to deal with that moment where people start seeing them as “something else”, someone to be either feared or revered, but not treated as simply another person.

The Dead Zone is a book built on a solid premise. It takes a very sweet, and sympathetic character and thrusts him into a life of darkness and despair. And despite it all, the book still manages to send you off with at least a few glimpses of light and possibility. I find no small irony in the fact that the former potential love interest, the character who spends the least amount of time with Johnny following his coma, is the one who is able to find the most sense of personal closure by the end of the book.

This story was brilliantly conceived and executed. It was right around this time, in my quest through King’s library that I started to feel that glimmer of fan-boy again, that love for his writing that I had once had and let slip through my fingers. It made me more excited for this project than I had ever been.

The books are amazing and I will always be grateful that they are there for us all to enjoy.

My name is Chad Clark, and I am proud to be a Constant Reader.

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Issue #135

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My name is Trans. I’m the last surviving member of the colonization unit sent here to Dazmar. There were twelve of us originally in the group and as of this moment, I am the only one left. If you are reading this, chances are I’ll be dead as well.

At least I hope I will be. Because then, there will be no need to try and bring me back home. No need to attempt some last minute medical heroics, that could easily lead to one of you being infected with what is waiting inside of me.

We arrived here with so much hope at the promise that this world offered. It had taken so long to find a planet suitable to support human life, but that also lacked any kind of pre-existing civilization, which could complicate colonization efforts. Everything seemed like it was going to be perfect.

It never occurred to any of us to wonder why there was no sign of civilization here, on the planet.

Dianne was the first one to die.

I wish I could say that she had been sick, but the reality is that there was no outward sign of any kind of illness that we witnessed, in her, or anyone who would die after. There was no clear indication of anything wrong with them before, or even after they passed. It was almost as if life itself had just departed from them.When Dianne collapsed during her shift, we had preserved the body for an autopsy, but before we could even do that much, she had vanished from the morgue. From inside a locked storage unit.

Gone.

About a week later, people started reporting seeing Dianne around the compound. We all wrote off the few incidents as hysterics, people getting stir crazy, isolated out here in the reaches. People need to maintain a connection of some kind with someone who is no longer with us. Soon though, every one of us had seen her in one place or another, but whenever anyone tried to talk to her, or get her to communicate, she would simply vanish, walk around a corner or into a room and by the time you caught up with her, she’d be gone.

Howard was the first one that she attacked. It happened two weeks to the day after her death. She surprised him on the way back to his quarters, but despite the apparent severity of her attack, he seemed to be fine. There were no wounds, he didn’t even come away from it with a bruise. We all assumed he had been lucky, and set to trying to decide what to do about this thing that was wandering around the compound, somehow made up to look like Dianne.

There was as push from several of the crew to pack up, and head for home. After a close vote, we all decided to stay here.

Thank Christ we did.

The next day, Howard died. Again, no clear cause of death, and up until the moment it occurred, he seemed fit and healthy, nothing to possibly predict what was about to happen. I wanted to conduct the autopsy the moment we found him, but I was overruled and into the morgue he went.

As before, with Dianne, his body soon vanished. And now we had two former crew members hunting us.

I can’t explain what is happening, or why, but it seems like the virus gets inside you and somehow gestates, ending the host’s life and bringing about some kind of transformation. As far as I have been able to determine, there is no way to tell if someone has been infected, and there are no warnings or symptoms.

When you find us, I can’t stress enough the need to immediately evacuate. I can only pray that you are following standard protocol and are still inside your protective suits. Get your crew out, and make sure no one ever returns to this planet. It’s too late to save me, but if this virus were to be set loose on a large population, there’s no way to know what it could do.

I’m starting to feel disorien     birds     don’t think that I could ev

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Lights popped on throughout the habitat pod, as the recovery crew came across the body slumped over the desk. Sergeant Rossens bent over the corpse, lifting up the head and checking for vitals, before looking around the area to find any possible cause of death. There was no sign of violent trauma or of a struggle. The boy didn’t seem sick, although Rossens knew that didn’t count for much.

“This one’s dead,” he said to the other two members of the team. The badge on his wrist chimed, indicating normal atmospheric conditions. He removed his helmet and looked over the items on the desk. There was a sheet of paper underneath the kid’s hand, something he had been writing on. He picked it up to examine it.

“What is that?” Franklin asked, glancing back at him over his shoulder.

Rossens frowned and shook his head. “No idea. It’s all gibberish, I can’t understand a word of it.” He looked around the room again. “There’s nothing left here. The crew must have bailed and left this poor bastard behind. Let’s get the body loaded up and we can get headed for home. Fleet command can autopsy the body, back on Earth.”

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Dropped Call

The answering machine was blinking when he walked through the door. He pressed a finger to the button, and listened as he tapped his keys against his leg. There was no voice on the message, but he could hear sound, feedback like wind, but muffled. Somebody had likely dialed him from their pocket, no way to know how long the message would go on like this. He was reaching out again, this time for the delete button, when there was a burst of static from the speaker followed by the sound, muffled in the background, of a child laughing. The message returned to silence and Roland frowned. Had to be stray cellular transmissions getting mixed up.

He let it run for another ten seconds or so before the sound of the child came through again, hysterical giggling at some joke unheard, something private which he had been left out of. He took a step back away from the machine as the sound cut off and was replaced by a high pitched ringing. He clamped his hands over his ears, dropping the keys in the process until the sound cut out, and after what felt like several minutes, a mono-toned voice came through the speakers, crystal clear and spoke only one word.

“Goodbye.”

There was a clatter of plastic on the other end, like a drunk, trying, and failing to hang up, when there was finally a click, followed by the beep signaling the end of the message. Roland stepped forward and pressed play again but despite the fact that the machine still indicated that there something there to be reviewed, the machine merely beeped, indicating a cleared memory.

Roland shrugged it off and started for the kitchen, noting the complete stillness of the house around him. The only times he recalled it being this quiet was during power outages. Still, the clock on the oven was correct and the fridge was on as he took the cold beer from the shelf. He reached for the remote and, just as his fingers brushed against the plastic, the television clicked on, displaying static. Roland frowned first at the screen and then at the remote, muting the volume and changing the channels, finding nothing. He pointed the remote and pressed the power button, but it remained on. Batteries had to be dead. He reached for the set itself to press the power button, but still nothing happened. He smacked an open palm against the side of the TV several times and pressed the button again. It stayed on.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he felt around behind the coffee maker for the extension cord, shaking it until the loosely fit plug from the television dropped out, and the screen went dark. He shook his head as he headed for the basement, hoping that the older model television was the source of the problem, instead of the cable being out altogether. As he got to the bottom of the stairs and started turning towards the couch, he heard a sound coming from behind the door that led out to the garage. He could hear and identify it, even through the heavy-duty security door.

It was the sound of static.

Roland threw open the door to the garage and was greeted by silence. He picked up a shovel that leaned against the door frame and began circling around the area, looking for anything out of order, anything that he could use to take out the frustrations of the day. After several laps, he was satisfied that nothing was waiting to jump out at him so he returned to the house, double checking the deadbolt before heading for the couch. If there was no signal from the satellite and he couldn’t access the DVR, at least there were the movies down here he could settle for. He twisted the top off the bottle and dropped into the sofa. Picking up the remote, he wasn’t surprised to see static on this screen as well. He pressed the button to access the Blu-ray player and call up one of the hundred or so discs that were inside.

The screen went blank for a micro-second before the Blu-ray menu came up and, as he started to scroll through his options, an image tugged at the back of his mind, something he had seen, but not immediately acknowledged. It had been a reflection in the screen just before the menu came up. Something behind him. Roland pointed the remote and turned off the television.

There was a woman standing on the stairs behind him.

Roland leapt off of the sofa and spun around, the bottle flying from his now limp fingers where it hit hit the floor, fountaining beer all over the carpet. He barely noticed as he looked around.

The room was empty.

But he had seen her. There was no doubting his memory of what had just happened. He had distinctly seen her standing there, looking over his shoulder and staring at him in the reflection. Still, no one else was in the room. Other than the cat, which was now cowering in the corner under the office table, he was alone.

The air in the room had taken on a heavy, burnt smell, as if something electrical was overheating. Before he could check the fuse box, a sudden wave of dizziness made him stagger. The room began to spin as he tried to stay on his feet and the contents of his stomach began racing back up his throat for a repeat appearance. Footsteps raced down the stairs along with the shrieking laughter of children playing. People he couldn’t see pushed past him, knocking him from side to side. The house itself began to shake and he was knocked off his feet. He landed on his back, and after a second, was lifted up off the floor and dropped again. He felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and then darkness.

When he came to, he was being dragged by the heels, pulled up his own stairs by an unseen force. He struggled and screamed as tiny incisions cut their way across his arms, hands, neck and face, as if from a hundred miniature scalpels. The invisible hands gripping his feet relaxed suddenly, and he slid backwards, down the stairs, the repeated blows giving a staccato like sound to his screaming. Stars exploded in front of him as his head struck the tile and again, the world went black.

He woke up to the sound of screams, all around him.

The sound was neither male nor female, but rather a bizarre, modulated, androgynous combination of both, as if souls themselves were screaming out for relief. He clamped his hands over his ears but it was pointless. The sound was coming from the inside of his own head. The volume rose, becoming more animalistic in its fury and rage. He smacked himself, hoping the sudden pain would bring him back to his senses, but even the ringing in his ears wasn’t enough to overcome the cacophony of suffering, howling in his head.

Roland staggered to his feet and ran for the garage. He bounced off the door before getting his fingers around the knob and twisted, pain flaring up from the cuts on his hands and he stumbled through the door. Somehow, he managed to trip over the snowblower, into the control panel, and the overhead door rumbled to life. He jumped to his feet and made his way towards the street.

There was little noise outside, even for early evening as he sprinted away from his house. The neighborhood was quiet enough that he should have heard the moving truck. He was so occupied, though, that he didn’t even register the sight of the truck’s grill until it caught him in the chest, spinning him, while taking a substantial amount of flesh and muscle with it.

He was lying on his side in the street, looking up at his house. His legs were either gone completely or merely beyond his ability to be aware of. There was no pain, but he was struggling to get breath past the blood that bubbled up, into his throat. He could see the windows of his dining room looking down over him and in his last few moments, he saw the woman again, staring passively out at him. They made eye contact. As his eyes started to droop, he felt the sensation of sleep overtaking him. Before he slipped into night, he heard the quiet voice in his head, speaking to him out from the void. One word only.

“Goodbye.”

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Baked Scribe Flashback : The Other

David knelt down over the walking path, and even in the near total darkness of the new moon, was able to pick up the signs of his prey. The jogger was still several hundred yards ahead, weaving his way through the park. David kept far enough behind to remain hidden, under the shroud of darkness, relying only on the scent, and the lingering echoes of footfalls.

He had to be patient, wait for the right moment. His growing thirst, combined with the sound of the man’s heartbeat, pushing blood through his body made it nearly impossible. Still, he had to wait. Better to suffer the effects of the famine rushing through his body than risk the attention of any of the enforcers who could be nearby.

David had seen the effects on those who had been captured, their teeth ripped from their mouths, leaving them as hollow shells of themselves. That would not happen to him. Could not happen to him. He just had to be careful.

The jogger had taken the long, slow left turn in the path which would lead him back into the woods. David leapt up onto the lower branches of the nearest tree and began making his way towards the man. Up here, above the lights, he could move faster to overtake his target and there would be less chance of being spotted.

He had to move quickly, as it was a narrow strip of woods that the jogger was moving through. David pushed off the tree, stretching out his arms as he did so, slowing his descent and positioning himself to land squarely on the man’s back. There was a heavy exhalation of air as the two of them tumbled off the path.

As they rolled to a stop, the jogger started to scream, but David came down on the man’s chest, the blade already in his hand. He slashed straight across the man’s carotid artery. The sight of the blood flowing freely overtook his remaining self control and he hunched down, drinking deeply until the man’s struggles slowed to a stop.

David rolled off, and onto his back, closed his eyes as his head began to swoon. After several minutes, his breathing finally started to return to normal. He stood up, slowly to allow his body time to readjust. David produced the pistol from his shoulder harness, chambered a round, and fired into the now gaping neck wound. The damage would erase any sign that the throat had been cut, or fed on. Using the knife to cut the throat would prevent Enforcers from discovering the enzymes that would be left behind by his teeth, but it was always better to err on the safe side. David holstered the weapon and pulled the collar of his jacket up over his face, turning into the breeze. There was still no one in the near vicinity, so he stuffed his hands into his pockets and strolled out of the woods.

Already, he could feel the high from the life-giving blood, now pumping through him. Is this how he really wanted to live out his life? The answer wasn’t relevant. He didn’t want to die. That was what mattered. He hadn’t asked to be turned, but now he had to live with that consequence and do what he could to survive.

His head was rocked from the surge of senses, the sound of a bird chirping three miles away, the flick of a lighter, lost amongst the sound of the wind through the trees, mostly covering the sound he recognized far too late as that of metallic scraping, a bolt being drawn back.

David’s reaction came seconds too late, as he spun around to take the bullet in the shoulder. The treated shell hammered through flesh and into the bone, expelling poison as it went. David was knocked to the ground. He ripped aside his shirt to see the brownish-green color, now spreading into spidery veins, radiating out from his shoulder. His head felt like it was going to burst down the middle and the last thing he heard before darkness, was the sound of feet crunching dead leaves.

He woke slowly, but the coldness of metal brought him quickly back to his senses. He tried to sit up but the restraints made that impossible. The corners of the room felt unhinged, as if they were about to start spinning wildly around him, and out of his control. As the effects of the synthetic swirled away, he could sense movement around him, muffled voices and the clatter of what sounded like tools being placed onto trays.

Twin lights popped on above him, and cold fingers took hold of the sides of his face, peeling his eyes open and applying a wide strip of clear tape to hold them in place. His head was maneuvered into a vice that quickly clamped down, immobilizing him as the straps around his arms and legs were pulled even tighter.

A dark figure stood over him, obscured, just outside the range of the lights. David caught movement and looked up in time to see the needle nose pliers swoop in, and between his lips. His attempts to clamp down and prevent entry were useless. He tried to retract his teeth, but knew that the medication would make that nearly impossible. The pliers took hold, bore down, and twisted until he could hear the tooth starting to crack, like dry wood. Agonizing minutes later, it snapped free from his gums, exploding brilliant pain as he started to scream.

He passed out again, but woke in time to suffer the full pain of the second extraction.

He slept, but without dreams.

Birds were singing when he woke, crammed into a cardboard box. There was the taste of salt in the air, the smell of the sea. David looked up and down the shoreline, seeing no other people as he struggled to his feet. He walked up the beach, trying to breathe through the pounding headache when he saw the couple.

They were older, making their way along the surf, picking up stones and skipping them out across the surface of the water. He saw them and in a split second, knew nothing but the most intense hunger he had ever felt. He could feel their distinct heartbeats in one combined thudding that made him actually reach out towards them, needing to feed.

The teeth, the appendages he needed, not just for tearing flesh, but also for his body to ingest that life-saving blood were both gone. Forcibly removed, broken off at the root and cauterized, crippling him and abandoning him into an eternity of unending desire and hunger. He felt the pulse of every person around him who he would never be able to feed on again, lost within himself on an unending tidal wave of need.

No one knew if the ones who had been hobbled like this remained immortal. It was unknown if it was even possible for his kind to starve to death. Those who had been attacked tended to withdraw into their own private hell, never heard from again. He could only hope that his end would come soon. He would welcome the bliss of eternity, as that now stood as the last remaining escape from this immortal existence of insatiable lust.

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Ramblings On The Craft : Why Horror?

DISCLAIMER : I consider myself to be a life-long writer but I am still an aspiring author. What’s the difference? Essentially, to me anyway, it means that while I have devoted a great deal of time to my words and my art, the amount of money I have made as a professional writer to date could maybe be used to purchase a nice steak dinner for two. So while I have a deep and devoted passion for writing, I do not claim in any way to be an expert or authority figure. What you will find in these essays represent my personal thoughts and feelings about various issues related to writing. I think that in any endeavor, it is essential to have the mindset that there is always something to learn, something you don’t know. As soon as you start to think that you are an authority on anything (besides how to eat a hot dog or perhaps, spelling your name) there might be a problem. With that in mind, I am fully cognizant and comfortable with the fact that on any and all of these issues, I could be completely wrong.

Put another way, I recognize and admit that I could be full of shit.

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Why write horror?

It’s a reasonable enough question, and one that I have gotten before. The nature of the horror genre is so inherently dark and brutal at times, I realize it can be hard to not take in the author of that work with a certain amount of concern, if not suspicion. After all, the world is already replete with its own horrors, why dwell on it by writing it as well? So while I’m not going to claim to speak for every author in the genre, or even really, any writer other than myself, I thought I would devote this month’s essay to my perspective on why I write what I do. 

First off, I think that it is important to point out that like any other genre or industry, lumping all writers into the same genre might be technically correct, but saying that someone writes “horror” is a fairly inaccurate way of depicting the actual content of their writing. Every writer has to make their own decisions in terms of what they are comfortable with and how far they want to go. So again, with the preamble that I’m speaking only for myself, these are some conscious choices I have made in regards to my writing.

On such issue has to do with that of sex. I’m not a prude, necessarily, and I have had some sexual content in my writing but, for the most part, I steer clear of it. Mostly, my reasons for this are that there rarely seem times when the story really calls for it. There are a ton of writers that use it and use it well, but I have also seen too much writing that seems to use it solely for the shock value. When I infuse sexuality in my work, I suspect that it often falls somewhere between those two points but I always try and make sure that it is there for a reason.

I also tend to make conscious decisions when it comes to the graphic descriptions in my writing, particularly when it comes to violent content. There is a great quote about writing that a book starts in the mind of the writer and ends in the mind of the reader. For me, I have always found the reader’s imagination to be an extremely effective ally in the process of writing horror fiction. In my mind, what ideally happens is that the writing plants a seed, and germinates it within the mind of the reader, where it is allowed to blossom and grow in such a way that the reader is almost creating the horror themselves. I personally find that to be more disturbing and effective than going to great lengths to describe things down to the most minute of detail. So while my writing does have a darker edge to it, my preference has always been to imply, and let the reader’s imagination fill in a lot of the gaps in actual description. 

And as for content, I do tend to steer clear of certain subjects. I stay away from anything involving violence towards children. Likewise with any kind of violence that is sexual in nature. And this probably comes across as rationalizing to some extent, but the point I’m trying to make is that even though we all consider ourselves “horror writers”, that still leaves a universe of possibilities when it comes to content as well as creative decisions we are making. I write horror, but there have been plenty of examples of other writing in the genre which goes too far for my comfort level. I don’t judge, or look down on those writers, it just isn’t for me. 

So, all of that aside, we still find ourselves at the heart of the question. Why write horror in the first place? Why dwell on the horrific? I don’t know if the answer to that question is an easy one, but I will do my best to try and make my perspective clearer. 

I think it’s worth pointing out something here, that it is a commonly held misconception that as writers, we have the ability to write whatever genre we feel like. And there are certainly authors who can do exactly that, who can switch genres like switching shoes. But we aren’t all like that and sadly, I’m one of the ones who fall into the “not” category. There are some things I do well, and others I just won’t even try to tackle. Not all genres were built alike, and it isn’t as simple as just using different words. I can’t just wake up in the morning and choose to write dystopian steampunk, or a young-adult epic western or noir, urban fantasy zombie-clown porn (if that one doesn’t exist, it should) Horror and sci-fi are my homes, it’s what I do best, and it’s the narrative clothes that feel the most comfortable to me. Like the saying goes, you got to dance with the partner that brought you. 

I suppose the easiest explanation would be the books and movies I was drawn to, growing up. Besides Tolkien, Stephen King was one of the the first authors that I became really devoted to. I read a lot, to be sure, but this was the first time I found myself drawn specifically to other books by a specific author. I think I was drawn in by the allure of the covers, the mystery and promise of what lay within. Somehow, at the same time, I was terrified by them, but also completely sucked in. I wanted to read the grown-up books. 

As I got older, horror movies also became a bigger part of my life. This was the eighties after all, and the horror genre reigned supreme over the land. Slasher movies were huge, and the thrill of the scariest campfire story was real. I think I was drawn to them as something cool to share with my friends, as much as the experience of the movies themselves. One funny side note here is that as much as I loved the horror movies, I could not handle haunted houses. I think that the immediacy of the experience was too much for me, and my imagination took the ride too far for me to handle, even though I knew full well that it was all make-believe. 

I don’t want to give the impression that I think this is a one to one relationship. As easy as the analogy seems, it isn’t like, had it not been for horror movies, I would be writing children’s books right now. I think that a persons creative sensibilities are preexisting, and are only enhanced by the cultural juices we stew in, as opposed to being created by them. I give great credit to people like Stephen King and Wes Craven for helping to lead me down the path but the important thing to remember is that the path was always there. They just happened to be the ones there for me to draw an example from.

It’s also important to remember that it isn’t true to suggest that horror writers are acting out some kind of sick, twisted, internal fantasy. This isn’t some fictional version of wish fulfillment. At the risk of seeming sarcastic, you don’t see people flooding out of the theater after a romantic comedy, looking for the nearest wedding chapel. It’s a misconception to think that the content of horror genre is somehow a reflection of the parts of the creator that they are unwilling to show to anyone. It’s all about the story for me and what I can evoke in people with the words I craft. Not that I think I am some kind of a wizard with my words, it’s just fun to think about as I’m creating these stories. It’s about the challenge and love for the process, not for finding socially acceptable ways of releasing dark thoughts and emotions.

I think that for me, I have always been drawn to the visceral experience of the narrative. I love a story that pulls me in, takes me to the brink and then, just as the credits start to roll, or just as you turn that last page, you are let go, and all is right with the world, once again. First and foremost, I consider myself to be a story teller and for all story tellers, there are just certain kinds of narratives that we are naturally drawn to. Think about all aspects of your life, and how things just come to you. Did you wake up one day and just consciously decide that you like dipping your potato chips in ketchup? While you were relaxing in the bath, did you suddenly come to the realization that you should start liking fedoras? Was there a thought-out process that led you to loving jazz? I realize that all seems trite, but my point still stands that we don’t necessarily choose the things that grab our interests and our passions. Writing is no different. Horror fiction is my fedora.

I don’t know if any of this makes sense. Maybe I’ve just been rambling on about nothing in particular, and I’m no closer to explaining myself than I was when I started. I suppose what is most important is that it’s okay if horror just isn’t your thing. I don’t expect everyone to enjoy the things I write or the things I love to read. There’s literature out there for all of us to enjoy. All I ask is that you don’t go so far as to dismiss us, based on your distaste of the art form. Not liking something is one thing, but it’s something else entirely to demean it as an invalid form of expression. One of my biggest irritants is the placement of literary fiction on a higher literary plane than that of “genre fiction”. As writers, we are all trying to do the same thing, even if it doesn’t come in the same form. Horror writers shouldn’t be disregarded as not being serious in the literary sense, because we work just as hard on our craft and on the stories we write. In the end, we’re all “genre” writers.

I suspect that this has long since passed what would be considered an acceptable length. I thank you for your patience and attention, and hope that this has been helpful insight, a brief peek into the possibly somewhat demented psyche. It’s high time I get back to the work bench, and start honing down the edge on that narrative.

I think I can hear some screaming down there.

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Issue #134

I looked out the window, down at the courtyard, and at the park across the way. I can’t see any of them, but I know they’re out there. They might be the only ones left, shambling around, killing everything they come across.

And here we sit, here in our temporary castle.

We had started hearing the news reports a few days before coming out here. Emergency rooms were seeing increased traffic, more people dying from violent trauma, with wounds looking like bites. Hospitals overrun with some kind of flu-like illness, fever and vomiting, and people just dying for no clear reason. No idea where or how it had started.

It wasn’t until we checked into our hotel that word got out about the dead coming back to life, attacking people. Or course we thought it was all bullshit at first, I mean, what don’t you see on the Internet anymore these days? But we figured out before too long that it was all real.

Things went downhill pretty fast

Our hotel lost power the next morning. Cell phones got no signal. For a while, we heard sirens and gunfire, but after a while, that stopped and we were all alone up here.

There are only seven of us left. No power means no elevators coming up here, and as for the stairs, we took as much furniture as we could and barricaded them as well as we could, so that it’s pretty much blocked off. Someone thought to break into each room, and filled all the bathtubs with water before we lost it completely. So that got taken care of, at least for a little while.

Now we’re just waiting.

For what? I have no idea. Maybe one of these guys think we’ll be rescued. Maybe everything will just get better. I doubt it, but you never know. I suppose nothing is really impossible, but there are plenty of things that are pretty fucking well unlikely.

One of the others made some signs, written on extra bed sheets and hung them from the balconies, as if there were helicopters, hovering around and picking people up out of high-rise buildings.

We had to crack down on the food consumption fast, since that’s probably going to run out first. We have a few vending machines on our floor, plus whatever snack items people brought with them. Now all the food is being kept in one room and rationing is pretty important. I had a pretzel this morning.

There’s a lady named Jennifer in one of the other rooms, I guess she’s about in her 40s. She came to our room last night and had sex with us, first me and then my brother. I think she just needed a distraction. At some point, when she was still doing it with him she just started crying. Neither one of us really said anything, or really knew what to do. I guess there’s not much point. She went back to her room, and I thought she was okay. Actually I was kind of hoping she would need to be cheered up again, but tonight when we went to her room it looked like she had jumped off her balcony. I can see her body down there on the basketball court, all busted and broken up.

Anyway, that’s why there’s seven of us, left up here, instead of eight.

I’ve been sitting out here in the hallway, waiting on one of the guys. Braidon. He volunteered to go down to the lobby and search for supplies. I guess he’s a climber, so he’s in pretty good shape. All I know is that I’m not going to hoof it down and up 30 flights of stairs.

Someone tapped on the door just now. I opened it slowly, but it was only Braidon. He walked through, and past me, dropping three pillowcases onto the floor as he did so.

“Any trouble?” I asked. He paused, and for second I thought he was going to ignore me, but he answered.

“There’s blood all over the place down there,” he said “I don’t know what happened, but it was bad. The place stinks too, like rotting meat.”

“What did you get?”

“There was still some stuff in the store in the lobby, and I found more in the storeroom. Some bottles of water, snack food, some aspirin.”

“Nice.”

“I think we’re the only ones left alive in the hotel. I checked out a few of the other floors, but I think everyone else tried to run.”

“Yeah.”

He turned before pausing, turning back. “You know this was supposed to be a fucking vacation. My girlfriend was out shopping when this all went down.”

I hadn’t known that. I thought he’d been alone, and I wondered why he hadn’t tried to look for her.

“How do you really deal with the end of the world?” he asked, “What the fuck are you really supposed to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, I guess this is what it feels like when your species is about to be wiped off the face of the planet,” he said. He shook his head and resumed walking. “Good riddance to us, I guess.” He stopped, looked like he was again uncertain about speaking, and finally went on. “I had to take care of one of those things down there.” His voice cracked as he said this last, as if he was going to start crying. He turned and walked away towards his room.

It was then that I noticed it.

He was limping.

I looked down at his ankle and spotted the blood, now soaking through the sock, where he had been bitten.

“God dammit,” I muttered. I went into our room and nodded to Davey. “There’s a problem.” I grabbed one of the towel rods that we had filed down into weapons of a sort. Davey stood up, wiped off his pants, preparing to join me.

I guess there’s only six of us now.

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Hitch

Albert pulled the straps of the backpack tighter around himself, and lowered the hood of his jacket against the driving snow. Wind howled all around as he tried to focus on keeping his feet on the road, to ignore the fatigue that was starting to settle in. Pain flared as he flexed his mouth, trying to stretch out the skin in his cheeks that was starting to feel numb from the cold. From behind, the noise of a car engine intruded into the gale force wind and he turned in time to see the Cadillac slowing to a stop. The window rolled down and even from a few feet away, he could feel the warmth from the heater, pushed out through the window.

“Need a ride?”

Albert looked into the car and his initial reaction was to laugh. The guy had to be joking, or maybe he got off on dangling the possibility of a ride. The inside of the car looked like he had driven it straight from the dealership. If not, this was clearly the neatest person he had ever met.

“You sure about that?” Albert asked. “I’m covered in snow and mud, it’s going to get all over your interior.”

“Leather seats clean off,” the man replied. “Don’t worry about the rest. What’ll be, will be.”

Albert shrugged and dropped the backpack off his shoulder, opening the door and sliding onto the seat, placing his bag between his legs on the floor as he reached back to close the door. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

The man didn’t say anything until the car had gotten up to full highway speed. Then, he finally introduced himself.

“Name’s Jefferson.”

“Albert. Thanks again for the ride.”

Jefferson nodded, but said nothing more. Albert turned his attention back to the road and tried to overlook the awkwardness that was growing out of the pervasive silence. He glanced back at Jefferson, but the man was occupied by the road, oblivious to all else. Albert turned back to look out his window, but as he turned away, he could have sworn he saw Jefferson turn to stare at him. He looked back to meet Jefferson’s gaze, but he had already returned his attention to the road.

“Where you headed?” Jefferson finally spoke.

“Just traveling. Making my way west.” The sound of the wiper blades took over again as Jefferson was evidently already losing interest. Albert looked around the car, trying to spot anything that might spark conversation, wishing that Jefferson would offer up a little more himself. “You want to try some music?” he asked, with his hand already halfway to the radio console.

“No.”

Back to silence. Albert tapped on his knee and stared at the glove compartment, feeling an odd compulsion to open it and explore the contents, noting for the first time the smell of disinfectant in the air. Maybe the car had just been detailed. It only made him that much more uncomfortable for all the crap he had tracked in from outside.

He was starting to sweat from the blower hitting him square in the face, but was afraid to do anything in light of the reaction to his radio suggestion. The car hurtled down the road, inside a bubble of snow, visibility down to a few car lengths. If there were road signs alerting them to what was coming up, he had not spotted any. Already, he was scanning the horizon, trying to come up with any excuse to get to this guy to stop, just to get out of the car. The bracing cold of the wind and snow was far preferable to this vacuum, where basic social skills apparently had ceased to exist.

“What do you do?” He took another futile attempt at conversation.

A smile seemed to tease the edges of Jefferson’s mouth. “Do?”

Albert rolled his eyes, took in a deep breath and tried again. “What do you do? What’s your trade?”

Jefferson offered no answer to this either, but he was definitely grinning now, an audience of one to a punchline that no one else had heard. Albert listened to the front passenger tire slapping against the pavement, something in the bearings loose and rattling. It was something to focus on at least. Something other than this lingering sense of wrongness.

“How far is it to the next town?” He asked.

No answer from Jefferson.

“I’m not even sure how far south of the city I am.”

Jefferson offered no suggestions.

“How far are you driving?”

This time, Jefferson looked at him and the lopsided grin turned into a full smile, reminding Albert of sharks. The cruel glint in the man’s eyes made Albert cringe back against his door as Jefferson actually answered the question.

“All the way until the end.”

Albert wasn’t even sure how to take that. Had it been a threat? What did it even mean? The end of what? He had to change the subject, keep him talking about something, anything to interrupt whatever train of thought was ending in that freakish Cheshire grin. He swiveled his head around again, looking for inspiration.

“You know, I don’t think I’m ever been in a car this clean before, other than when they’re new.”

Jefferson nodded and flexed his fingers around the steering wheel, causing the plastic to groan from the strain. Albert licked his lips, tried to swallow through a dry throat, and contemplated how badly he would be hurt if he just opened the door and jumped. Maybe the snow bank would break his fall. He had a vision of Jefferson’s arm reaching, stretching out like rubber to grab Albert by the neck and pull him back into the car.

“You know,” he said, “you could probably let me off at the next town. I don’t want to put you out too much. This time of night you probably want to get back to—”

“It took a long time to clean.” Jefferson interrupted.

“Sorry? I don’t—”

“You commented on how clean the car is. I’m saying it took a long time to clean properly.”

“Right…So, if you—”

“It takes special skill and resources to clean up that kind of mess.”

“The…I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Albert watched as Jefferson first slowed, and then pulled off the road into a thick grove of trees. He turned off the engine and hit the automatic locks before Albert could open his door.

“I do wish I could keep it this clean,” Jefferson said, “but it seems that I just can’t help myself.”

“What are you talking about?” Albert felt around on his door for the lock release, slowly realizing that the switch to control the lock was gone, a rough hole dug out of the door, where it should have been.

Albert watched as Jefferson turned to look at him, and for the first time saw what he had unconsciously been dreading since getting into the car. He saw his end, written in those eyes.

Jefferson spoke again.

“I just hate it when the DNA soaks into the upholstery like that.”

Baked Scribe Flashback : Flip

Gilroy looked up into his rear-view mirror as the reflection of the trooper’s lights caught his attention.

“Tail light’s out,” the trooper said as he nodded with his overcompensating Smokey the Bear hat and scribbled on the citation pad. He tore the page off and handed it over, his chicken scratches completely indecipherable, save for the $150 written at the bottom in clear, precise lettering.

Gilroy shook his head, feeling sure somehow, in the back of his mind that he had gone through this already, some sense of deja vu tugging at him. He watched the taillights of the trooper diminish into the night, and pulled back out onto the road. This trip felt like it had been going on forever and he was beginning to feel like he was on repeat, driving on into the night from now until eternity.

He needed a cigarette.

He needed it more than anything. The trip had already been stressful enough without this. And now, as he felt around on the passenger seat while keeping the car in his lane, a creeping realization came to him.

He had smoked the last one thirty miles ago. And he had passed up three different service stations where he could have purchased more. Now he was stuck in his car, hurtling through a darkened passage of overgrown trees on the barest patch of two lane he had ever seen. No source of tobacco in sight.

Then he saw the restaurant. Like a beacon in the night, shining warm light in all directions, it called to him. The diner was straight out of a painted rendition of classic Americana. He was surprised that he didn’t spot men in fedoras and blue, fatigued suits lined up at the counter.

There was, however, a vending machine, standing in portrait, under lights, with the logo of his brand calling out to him. The car wheels threw up dirt and gravel as he turned sharply into the lot. He kicked open the door and ran up to the machine, pawing into his pockets for loose change. It had been ages since he had last seen a cigarette vending machine. The product in here had likely long since gone beyond stale, but it was better than nothing.

He soon realized the problem, when he saw that the coin slot was of a size for no coin that he had ever seen before, larger even than the old silver dollars his grandfather used to give him on Easter Sundays. He had cash, but it looked like the machine wasn’t set up for paper currency. He looked inside for a waitress or cook or anyone to help, but saw no one.

When he moved his foot, the glint from the coin on the ground caught his attention and he marveled at how he hadn’t seen it sooner. It was the size of a small pancake. The edges were course and rough, but the finish on the coin itself was of a high sheen, and it reflected light brilliantly up at him. There wasn’t the usual presidential profile on the coin, but rather, an ornate etching of what looked like a lion, or some other mythological mixture of everyday creatures.

He bent down and plucked it up, turning it over in his hand, mesmerized by the reflected brilliance. He held it up to the slot in the machine to compare the size before sliding it slowly through.

Thunder crashed in one head-splitting strike, and the world unhinged, as if at the end of a long night of alcoholic excess. He closed his eyes, and his stomach clenched at the smell of something burning. The world around him sped up, tipping towards unbearable, until it gradually began to slow, and stopped altogether.

He found himself, again behind the wheel of his car. There was an odd buzzing sound in his ears and he swatted at something in the air as the fleeting memory of what had just happened faded away into the darkness of his subconscious.

Gilroy looked up into his rear-view mirror as the reflection of the trooper’s lights caught his attention.

Issue #133

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note : while this is a stand-alone story, it is part of a four part series so if you haven’t already, I would encourage you to start from the beginning. Click here to go back to the first installment. Thanks for your interest and support!

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Details are sketchy at this late hour regarding a series of grisly murders, and an apparent connection that authorities have discovered. While the victims are scattered across the country, and seemingly never knew each other, police feel that there are enough similarities in the method, and circumstances of the killings for them to state that these murders have been at the hand of the same perpetrator.

In each case, the victims were found alone in their homes, with no clear sign of forced entry. There has been no clear motive or theories until now, but after expert analysis of the computers found at each crime scene, police feel like they have found a common thread. In all the killings, there was sign that the victim had been using the Internet at the time, and after analyzing the browsing activity of each individual, police feel confident connecting these murders with cyber-bullying.

In all cases, the victim of each killing was found to have made a large number of offensive and inflammatory statements to other users on various websites relating to product and film reviews, as well as social media. The victims’ activities in this regard was so rampant, that police believe their killer may have been acting in some kind of self-appointed, avenging capacity.

Police have also indicated that they might also be close to naming a suspect and when these details are available, we will keep you apprised of—

Brett turned off the television. He knew that this had always been a possibility, but was surprised that the national media had picked up on it so soon. There was no way to know how much time he had, but if his name was about to be plastered all over the place, the police had to be close.

He looked around the room, pondering everything, and taking it all in. One way or another, he wouldn’t be coming back here, and there was nothing around him that he could bring along, where he was going.

From the street below he heard nothing, save for the normal sounds from commuters, returning home from work. He peeked out through the curtains, and down at the traffic in the streets. Nothing out of order, no sirens or red flags to indicate that anything was about to happen.

He had tried to prepare for this inevitability. Over the past year, since he had begun his “projects”, he had started alleviating himself of most of his personal possessions. His thinking was that the fewer things he owned, the easier it would be to vanish when he needed to. No matter how careful and how talented he was, eventually they would figure him out. Everything leaves a trace online, and there’s always at least one person who is smart enough to follow that trace. Today was simply his day.

There was a sound of commotion in the hall, yelling and pounding on doors. This would be the hardest part It wouldn’t do to simply vanish, they would just keep looking for him. The police had to be convinced to just walk away, as if he had never existed. It had to happen right under their noses. He looked up as the banging started on his door, moments before it exploded inward, throwing splinters everywhere, as bright lights flooded in, ready to take him down.

It was hours at the station before the first detective sat down with him.

“Brett Campor. We’ve been trying to track you down for some time now.”

“I been in the same place this whole time,” Brett said. “It isn’t that hard to find me.”

“Well, we didn’t always know it was you we were looking for, that was a more recent development What I mean is that we’ve been clued in to the trail of bodies you’ve left behind you for some time.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I suppose not.” He reached down and brought up a large pile of folders, placing them on the table between them. “You know at first, these murders were all written off as flukes, single events. But eventually we were able to connect them all, and once that happened, it was actually pretty straight forward to follow all the trails back to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The detective nodded, playing along with the script in his head that he had evidently come up with for this little exchange.

“Of course you don’t. I’ll tell you what, I’m going to leave some of these in here with you.” He opened up each folder and removed what looked like pictures from the crime scenes and placed them on the table. “You can look these over, and decide if you really don’t know what I’m talking about.”

He stood up and turned to leave. Brett shook his head. They really had no idea what they had stumbled into, or how much he was capable of. He saw the smart phone, resting snuggly in the man’s belt holster. He stared at the screen,  out a long breath and, as he stepped through the door and just before it closed, Bret squeezed his eyes shut and jumped. He jumped, out of his own body and towards the phone. There was a feel of electricity, running up and down him as every cell and molecule instantaneously converted into data, insubstantial and shapeless as he rushed out, towards the detective and into the phone. From inside the device, he was aware of the lock on the door clicking as it engaged.

The timing would have to work out perfectly. As the detective made his way down the hall, Brett exited the device through the wireless network and made his way into a workstation in an unoccupied room. As he flowed out of the computer and back into solid form,  he looked around the darkened office, and rummaged through the desk drawers, looking for something he could use. His gamble proved true, as he found a pack of cigarettes buried underneath some crumpled newspapers, a cheap bic lighter stuck into the cellophane wrapper.

There was enough garbage in the trash can that it went up like a torch, catching the curtains, and spreading faster than he would have even expected. There were only moments before he had returned himself to the data stream of the stations network, and was sending himself away, through the pathways and away from danger.

The hotel he picked was in downtown, close enough that the news would be covering the event, but far enough away that he wouldn’t have to worry as much about being caught. He listened as the patrons groaned at the offense of seeing the game interrupted by the breaking report of the fire engulfing the police precinct. Officials had no idea how the fire had started yet, but were reporting that all employees had been safely evacuated. The only reported victim was a suspect who had been in custody at the time, locked into an interrogation room.

Brett smiled as he looked out into the street. It was good enough. Now he had the luxury to continue his campaign without hindrance, without the need to put up any kind of a front to hide what he was doing. He didn’t exist anymore. Brett Campor was dead, and that was all that mattered. He could live on the net, if he chose, coming up for air whenever he felt like it.

He heard sirens out in the street and even though it was just a fire truck, it reminded him that he should probably not hang around here for too long. There were any number of devices in here that he could use to make the jump out. Maybe he’d go to New York, or Paris or London. Anywhere but here. There were no shortage of bullies out there that needed a harsh lesson in the importance of respect.

He would be the one to show them.

One download at a time.