Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 49

Issue #76 : Chase

Jarred pulled the satchel tightly around himself as he sprinted, the sound of his feet slapping the pavement the only thing he could hear over his ragged breathing. The burning in his lungs, the ache in his lower back and arms, the pain in his legs were irrelevant. He could not let the train beat him. He turned off the road, parallel to the tracks and listened as the force of his footfalls kicked the gravel out behind him as he ran.

Everything was on the line and it all would be decided in the next minute. His leg buckled slightly where the ignorant hick had gone crazy with the hockey stick. He tried to block out the sensation of blood trickling down into his ears from when one of the other ones had smacked him with a putter. It was essential that he not let the burns on the bottoms of his feet from the cigarette lighter slow him down. If he didn’t make it onto that train, all of this would seem mild in comparison.

From behind him in the distance he heard the sound of the truck. It was the kind of truck that was worked up so that it could be heard from seven counties away. It was the kind of truck whose owner wanted people to know that they filled their gas tank up every other day and dreamed about running down baby seals under their over-sized tread. He heard those tires screaming for purchase as the engine revved even louder. The train was what mattered. The train would be his salvation.

He felt like he was running down a long narrow tunnel as his vision focused down on the one thing he needed more than anything else. His lungs felt like they were going to burst out of his chest in protest and his cramping legs were on the verge of collapsing. He wasn’t even sure if he would have enough strength left to jump onto the flatbed car even if he got there. And to top everything off, dizziness was starting to set in, adding another voice to an already crowded chorus.

Then, he reached out to his left and took hold of the rusted rail of the train car. His legs weren’t strong enough to push himself up but his hands were strong enough to hold him in place as he let the momentum of the train lift him up and into the car. He felt the rush of relief as he skidded to a halt and turned to look back for the first time. Only then did he see the hick and his four idiot friends standing on or next to the truck yelling and shaking fists at him.

Jarred laughed and shook his head. He turned and pulled the door shut, letting himself fall down to the floor and began catching his breath. So he had slept with the hick’s wife and stolen most of their money. Why were they so upset about it? He thought it was fucking hysterical.

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All text content is the exclusive property of the author, Chad A. Clark and is intended solely for the purposes of viewing online. Any copying, downloading or re-distribution is strictly prohibited.

©2014 Chad A. Clark      All Rights Reserved


Issue #75 : Rustic Retreats

And this was supposed to be the best vacation in years. The one that would finally let him put his feet up, relax, leave the phone behind and get down to the things that really mattered in his life. He had become intolerable at work and this was going to be the solution. What he had ended up with was this low-brow rustic nightmare, isolated from pretty much the entire twentieth century, with nothing but his thoughts and paranoia over what would happen if he happened to get sick or hurt, and needed a doctor.

Spend a few days out in the country, rent a cabin and relax. Swim a little in the lake, drink some wine, cook out on the grill, leave all of the shit in the real world behind him in exchange for luxuriating in the lap of simplicity. That was the sense he had gotten from the brochure, anyway. Find yourself and what really matters on your own time without the rest of the world to intrude.

Well that part had been accurate, but only because no one in their right mind would ever want to come out here. The drive alone was long enough to deter most people but the fact that the trip itself made you feel like you were engaging in some kind of time travel only made it worse. Each successive town seemed to be a further regression to days of technology and decor long since extinct.

Of course he hadn’t bothered to look at radar images to get a sense of what the weather was going to be like and he was now regretting that oversight. Each night had turned out a violent thunderstorm, winds so strong that at times he was afraid the entire cabin was going to lift up out of its foundation. The temperature in the place would see-saw between frigid cold and balmy hot.

And then there was the cabin itself.

The place was a complete wreck, one of the worst rental deals he had ever come across. The door to the basement was hanging off its hinges, dishes in the sink, clothes scattered all over the kitchen. He had been finding little personal items all week long. There had been a deck of cards and a few poker chips under the tv, a portable DVD player of all things and underneath the couch, he had found a battered photo of a young couple, “Kyle + Cheryl” scribbled across the back.

If it was possible for a house to somehow walk in from out of one’s nightmares, this was it. Furnishings that looked a century old, smell of rotting food, mold and mildew and the fact that he hadn’t had a single restful night since arriving here, and it wasn’t just because of the horribly uncomfortable bed. Nightmares, the likes of which he had never even known were possible had been plaguing him since the very first night. He would wake up and be convinced that someone was in the room with him, leaning over to watch him sleep and had just flitted away when he opened his eyes.

The feeling of being observed was constant, like a sentient draft that would come through and brush past him. He would walk around corners expecting to find someone standing there, reaching out for him. Doors were opening, all on their own. He would discover windows open that he knew he had never touched. He only went up to the second floor when he really had to, as the giant mural of the old man up on the wall was standing guard over anyone who walked upstairs. It was disconcerting to feel so judged by an intimate object.

This was his last night. Finally, the time had come to get out of here. He would have left days ago, but the drive home was a long one and he didn’t have the money to spring for hotel rooms between here and there. Everything would be all right. Just a few more hours until sunset and he could leave this dump behind and never look back. For once, the prospect of a burger at the local greasy spoon and a night on his lumpy futon seemed almost—

Someone knocked on his bedroom door.

Joel jumped up out of bed, the pillow held crushed in his hand as if he intended to do something with it. Something rattled against the window and he turned to look. As he did so, another draft rushed past him and from behind him, he could hear the door being thrown open. In the reflection of the window, he saw a man standing there, tall and reedy, with a large brimmed straw hat on the head. He spun around to face the newcomer.

The doorway was empty.

He tried to catch his breath as the sound from the window resumed, as if from repeated blows from an invisible source. He turned back to the window and saw the glass rattling back and forth. There were tiny spots of clouded distortions appearing in the glass and he bent in to look closer, his blood running cold at the sight of hand prints, condensation from a child-sized palm being left behind. His voice hitched in his chest to scream when he saw another reflection in the mirror, this time of a dozen or so dark figures in the room, the size of children, shambling towards him and the last thing he saw before the power in the cabin blinked off was the sight of their arms reaching out to take him into their embrace.

Photography by dSavannah George / dSavannahCREATIVE

All text content is the exclusive property of the author, Chad A. Clark and is intended solely for the purposes of viewing online. Any copying, downloading or re-distribution is strictly prohibited.

©2014 Chad A. Clark      All Rights Reserved

Baked Scribe Flashback! Issue #30

**author's note : The following story originally appeared as a part of Monster Month, an alphabetical exploration of fictionalized mythological creatures. This was the first issue. Enjoy!
The ship was bathed in blood.

At least, that was what it looked like anyway, even across the twenty feet that separated the two vessels as they passed each other. Gavin leaned over the side rail and tried to get the attention of the one person he could see. The man was crouched down on his knees on the deck, rocking back and forth and screaming incomprehensibly.

“Eli, what the hell is he saying?”

Eli was staring at the man, mouthing out the words silently as if he was trying to figure that out himself. He shook his head as he answered. “Something about a snake. A snake with wings in the clouds?”

Gavin looked back at the plume of cloud cover that had been swooping down across the water towards them. The sight of the sudden, impenetrable cloud cover was an unsettling enough sight but add to that the image of this vessel coming forth from those clouds transporting such human carnage.

“Maybe we should turn—”

“Too late.”

Gavin looked back at Eli and saw the man now standing completely erect, his arms hanging limply at his sides, staring up at the sky with his mouth hanging open.

“Eli? What’s wrong?”

His friend dropped his head back down to look at Gavin, who took an immediate step back. Elie’s eyes had glazed over and all he could see was the whites with bright lines of veins cutting across the surface.

“I shall have you now.” Eli’s voice had taken on a modulated tone, sounding almost female to him. Gavin turned back towards the bow and saw the clouds rushing in to overtake them. In an instant, they were engulfed in swirling, gray smoke. A black shape passed overhead, so close that a hot breeze trailing behind knocked them all to their feet.

The ship floated on through smoke, endlessly until finally it broke through into what must have been the center of the cloud, a patch of raging sea underneath a bubble of otherwise clear sky. Thunder crashed from the cloud and flashes of static electricity rippled from within as well. Gavin heard a sound and looked up, slack jawed as the dark shape flew out from the cloud cover and could be seen clearly for the first time.

“Snake? That’s a God dammed dragon.”

The inconceivable sight of the winged beast bearing down on them caused some of the men to jump overboard, screaming frantically. One by one, the demon plucked them out of the water, showering the boat with blood as it bit down on its victims.

“Too late for you to turn back now.” The voice of whatever was possessing Eli spoke one more time before his head was twisted violently, as if some unseen force had taken hold, Gavin could hear the sound of the bones cracking from where he was standing and watched as the body of his best friend fell limply to the deck.

He looked around him as his crew started to be taken from the ship itself and the blood began to rain down in heavier torrents. He heard the shrieking cry and looked up into the visage of hunger and desire on the face of the thing as it swooped down on him, flesh torn and pain followed not quickly enough by eternal night.

All text content is the exclusive property of the author, Chad A. Clark and is intended solely for the purposes of viewing online. Any copying, downloading or re-distribution is strictly prohibited.


©2014 Chad A. Clark      All Rights Reserved

Baked Scribe Triple Feature!!!

Since I'm on vacation this week, there won't be a new story posted this week. I'm very sorry to disappoint you and I hope that your double helping of short fiction will be enough to tide you over until next week. But if not, here is a triple dose of Baked Scribe Flashback, three issues from the past brought back from the beyond, merely for your reading pleasure. I hope you enjoy and I will see you all again next week!
He let his body relax into the recliner, watching the cigarette burn down into a long, unkempt cylinder of ash. He had only taken one drag from it the entire time since lighting it and the rest of the time had been gazing down at it, watching the paper dissolve into wafting pieces of spent carbon.

The wind was picking up outside, making the two by fours he had nailed over the windows thunk softly against the siding. It was going to be another cold night, especially since the generator had run out of juice that morning. At least there were enough blankets and the canned food wasn’t going to be running out any time soon. Might be there was even enough juice left in the batteries to keep the flashlight going for a few more nights.

Despite the fact that all the windows were boarded over, the darkness outside still seemed to bleed into the house as the blackness around him swelled with its own life and intentions. It wouldn’t be long before he would hear them, shuffling around the house in their nocturnal wanderings. The moans were the worst, those disembodied lifeless moans so it was good that they would likely be drowned out by the wind.

The last few nights, there had actually been entire packs of the things making their way past the house. He had watched them from the upstairs as he peeked through a knothole in one of the boards. The herds were terrifying to watch but for some reason, it was the lone stragglers that scared him even more. At least with a herd, the things had something to follow. When they were alone, there was much more chance of wandering.

He reached down to the table and ran his finger around the mouth of the bottle of bourbon before reaching past and picking up the Smith & Wesson. The weight of the thing was reassuring, even though he knew deep down that it also would represent his ultimate demise. Better for it to happen at his own hand than from one of those mindless freaks out there.

For now, he still had a few rounds left and could use it to protect himself. He sat forward and pitched what was left of the cigarette into the fireplace and took a long drink from the whiskey. If any of those things got too close to the house, they would get what was rightly coming to them and he would be one bullet closer to eternity.

The health inspector walked alongside the counter, running his finger along the surface and frowning at the thick layer of grime and dust that he was pushing through. Dale watched him go through his routine, wondering how long this particular dance would have to go on.

“Happened to our regular guy?” he asked.

“Food poisoning, I’m afraid.” The twerp removed his non-latex gloves long enough to scratch his nose and adjust the wire-rimmed glasses that were perched on the end of his nose before replacing them with a fresh pair from his pocket. “Though I can’t say that his absence has been a bad thing, especially considering his obvious inattention to certain details.”

“Uh-huh.” Dale watched as the inspector looked over the menu scrawled onto an old chalkboard. He pointed at the listing for the house special which was currently listed as unavailable.

“What exactly is a … luck of the … luck of the day-wich?”

“Just a sandwich. We use whatever’s on hand, you know? You get what we give you.”

The inspector smiled, a thin expression that did nothing to convey any kind of mirth or good will. “Charming.” He turned his back on Dale and began his seventh tour around the diner, an establishment that was barely larger than a one bedroom apartment. This was going on way too long.

“So what’s the verdict?”

The inspector ignored the question as he did another soul-sucking lap. When he finally returned to his starting point, he took his gloves off and put the pen back into the breast pocket.

“Perhaps we should go somewhere more discreet to discuss this?”

Dale stuck out a lip and shook his head. “Just get out with it, I don’t care.”

“Well, then where do I begin?” He lifted up his clipboard and began tracing down it with his finger even though Dale suspected that he knew the whole thing by heart already. “You have no hand-washing stations anywhere in your restaurant. I have observed your cook returning from the lavatory twice without washing his hands and when I asked him, he was unable to tell me what your procedures are for properly holding perishable food. You have unlabeled bins of meat in your reach-in, you have cooked meat sharing containers with uncooked meat, vegetables that are mostly rotten, inadequate holding temperatures in all of your coolers, blood on the floors, no properly maintained dish-washing station and your waitress has been sneezing and coughing all over the food the entire time I have been here.”

He looked up from his clipboard with a smug look of self-satisfaction as if Dale was supposed to just figure out what the answer to his question was. He tried repeating it, but slower and enunciating the words more effectively.

“So, what’s the verdict?”

“Sir, I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue serving food to the public in these conditions. You will need to shut down your kitchen immediately, confiscate any food from your patrons and you are not to charge anyone for what they have ordered or partially consumed. I will also need to see the documentation from your last inspection.

“Yeah …” Dale looked around in the mess under the register, stealing glances at his customers who were all rolling their eyes at the show which this officious prick was putting on for everyone. “Tell you what. That green binder over there next to the phone? Down by your knees? Pretty sure it’s in there.”

The inspector leaned down to reach for the binder. As he did so, Dale grabbed the meat cleaver that the cook was passing through to him from the kitchen. He raised it up and brought it down into the center of the prick’s back. The man shrieked as he fell forward and Dale brought the blade up for a second blow, this time to the back of the head. After a third, fourth and fifth blow the screams stopped. He tossed the cleaver into the sink and stood up with a grin lighting up his face.

“Special’s back on boys!”

“Just call the fucking number!”

“I don’t know what the fucking number is, are you sure it even exists?”

“You call it to find out if the person trying to pull you over is real. Just Google it and stop asking me that because there’s no way that’s a cop.”

It couldn’t be. There was no way the car behind them was an official department vehicle. Not unless they started using ‘79 Dodge Darts for undercover vehicles. The light of the fading day had dropped enough to make seeing the driver hard enough, but the glare caused by the flashing light affixed to the roof made it impossible. All Samantha could see was the rough outline of the man, hulking behind the wheel as he gestured wildly towards the shoulder.

“Why don’t you just pull over?” Sara asked again. “What’s the worst that could possibly happen? It isn’t like we’re in the middle of nowhere, we’re just a mile outside of the city limits.”

Samantha ignored the question and accelerated, speeding up as she saw the Dodge behind them creeping right up to their bumper, now honking and weaving from side to side in an apparent attempt to get their attention.

“I don’t even know what I should search for.” Sara was staring at her phone blankly, her tone implying that she was expecting Samantha to spoon-feed the search parameters to her.

“For fuck’s sake, just call 911. Tell them someone is following us pretending to be a cop and ask what we should do.”

Sara dialed and put the phone to her ear. Samantha couldn’t hear what she was saying, the sound of the wind outside swallowing up her hushed voice, but what she could make out of her tone of voice did not suggest concern or danger in any way. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Sara shrugged and ended the call.

“Well?”

“He said we should just pull over.”

“What?”

“He said that we should just—”

“What did you say to them exactly?”

Sara rolled her eyes and looked out her window. “You heard what I said to them.”

“No, actually I couldn’t hear a word you were saying.”

“Just pull over!”

Samantha let out a breath of frustration before giving in. The gravel crunched as they pulled off onto the shoulder and the other car pulled in close behind, lights still flashing, bright red and white colors spearing into the growing darkness. Samantha watched as the dark figure stepped out of the car and began walking towards them. A flashlight flipped on and behind the glowing orb of light she could hear rocks scraping underneath the man’s work boots.

“You ladies having trouble with your hearing?”

“Officer?” Samantha asked as she put a hand up to try and see past the glare of the flashlight.

“Put your hand down.”

She complied before it even occurred to her how absurd the order had been.

“Officer—”

“Do you have trouble with your hearing?”

“No.”

“What about your vision?”

“I don’t—”

The man kicked the car door, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Do you have any problems with your fucking vision?”

“No.”

“How about your brakes? They working all right?”

Samantha stared up into the light and shifted in her seat, not understanding where this was going.

“No, officer.”

“Brakes are working?”

“Yes.”

“Then can you explain to me why it is that it took two miles for the two of you to pull the fuck over, since you saw and heard my siren and your car is capable of stopping on command?”

“Officer—”

“Just too busy putting on your fucking makeup while you’re driving? Why don’t you step out of the vehicle?”

She still only saw the light from the flashlight waving back and forth in front of her face. The man behind it was lost in darkness.

“Officer, maybe if you could just give me the ticket—”

“I’m sure you would like that wouldn’t you? Drive wherever you want, as fast as you want, shit all over this fine county of mine? Why don’t you step out of the car like I fucking told you.”

“Don’t get out,” Sara hissed at her from the passenger side. Apparently she had just clued in to the severity of their situation.

“What am I supposed to do?” Samantha hissed back.

“Just drive off. You can outrun that shit heap he’s driving back there. Get us to a real police station and we can deal with everything then.”

Samantha looked up at the flashlight and now saw a hand with clubbed fingers snaking out for the door handle.

“Little missy, whatever you’re chewing on there up in your head, I’d advise you to put it out. of. your. mind.”

Something inside of her snapped and her hand scrambled for the keys. The man’s hands were through the window in an instant, grabbing at her as she put the car into gear and accelerated away. His hands were wrapped around her throat even as the speedometer crept up towards fifty miles an hour. Sara was screaming as she beat at the hands, having no obvious affect on the man.

Samantha jerked the wheel, first to the right, and then after a few moments to the left, and back to the right again. The arms wrapped around her did not loosen. She could feel his breath on her cheek, boiling hot and smelling of something rotten underneath. For the briefest moment, she started to feel herself being lifted up out of her seat and pulled towards the window.

The car hit a rut in the road and bounced into the air, causing the cop to lose his grip. They drove off, leaving him behind on the road in a cloud of dust. They were approaching the bend in the road when she saw the flashes reflected in the mirror along with the popping sounds of--

Gun. Gun, he’s firing his, oh my God.

The windows exploded around them in perfect sequence. Samantha swerved as the storm of shattered glass was suddenly joined by a burst of fine, red mist. Sara was slumped against her window, a large part of the back of her head now missing. Samantha swerved again and this time, the tires caught the edge of the shoulder and pulled the car with it, first sliding and then rolling down into the ditch.

She had no idea how long it was before she came to, looking at the car around her that was now upside down,engine still revving uselessly. Samantha was hanging limply from the seat belt, arms still swaying slightly from side to side.

She heard footsteps approaching the car.

Samantha screamed and grabbed at her seat belt, trying to get the mechanism to release. She finally succeeded, falling to the ground and crawling backwards, out through the window to the ground outside. As she sat up, the flashlight came to bear on her, illuminating her in the light and there was another sound. It took her a moment to place it as the sound of a round being chambered. The man’s voice, somehow harmonic in its rage, called out to her with false sincerity.

“You folks need some help?”

All text content is the exclusive property of the author, Chad A. Clark and is intended solely for the purposes of viewing online. Any copying, downloading or re-distribution is strictly prohibited.


©2014 Chad A. Clark      All Rights Reserved

Issue #74 : Routine Reports

“I’m telling you, it was dead bodies.”

Larry looked up from the coffee that was now hovering halfway between the desktop and his mouth and decided to set it down, wondering if it was too late to think about adding some of whatever it was that Gervais had been drinking that night.

“You’re going to have to run that one past me again, Gervais.”

“Dead bodies.”

“You mean like road kill? I guess you need permits to transport stuff like that, but I can tell you that stretch of road has been due for a cleanup since—”

“Not animals, you idiot. Human bodies. Flatbed trailer piled high with human bones.”

Larry dropped the pen onto the desk and took his glasses off. He looked around the mostly empty station, wondering why he had passed on the opportunity to go home early when it had been offered. No, he had to stick around for the shit-bird shift, because a few extra hours of shit pay would surely make all the difference to him. He had taken some crazy complaints over the years, including one person who insisted that an alien had sucked his eyes out through his nose and then made new ones out of melted jello, but this one here was already shaping up to be one of the top five.

“All right Gervais, just … just go over it again for me, all right?”

Gervais rolled his eyes and shook his head, clearly never having been so put out as this. “I was driving south, down the I-ten. I was workin’ that graveyard again so I’m used to pretty much having the road to myself.”

“Okay, with you so far.”

“I had just passed that big ass oak tree, the one out Cider Lane? Anyway, I’m driving along when all of a sudden, this big ass truck is right next to me, weaving in and out of my lane. I almost pulled off onto the shoulder just to get away from the idiot.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Big son of a bitch, the truck I mean. I couldn’t believe it could even go that fast.

“Yeah, I bet.” Larry paused in the middle of the tiny sketch on his notepad long enough to write, “big son of a bitch,” saying it out loud to satisfy Gervais.

“It was just a flatbed, no covered trailer and when it passed at first I figured he was just hauling firewood or something. But I looked again and I shit you not, that thing was covered in human bones.”

“Gervais—”

“Just shut up one damn minute. You know I’ve been hunting these woods my whole damn life. I know the God dammed difference between animal and human bones.

“Gervais, what are you expecting me to do here, really? I know for a fact that you were at Rusty’s Tap tonight.”

He put out a shaky finger as he spoke, “Now hold those horses there, that got nothing to do with—”

“And if I already know about it, there’s likely a dozen or so people who would be able to recollect seeing you. Now you’re telling me you were driving home, probably shit-faced out of your gourd and that you saw a flatbed truck covered in human bones.”

“It’s what happened.”

Larry let out a sigh. “Gervais, I bet you actually believe that. But what do you think is going to happen if I fill our a report like this? I end up eating government cheese and you end up sucking your meals through a straw.”

“I saw what I saw.”

“Can you at least tell me anything else about the truck? Make and model? Any markings? Did you get a clear look at the driver? Any logos on the mudflaps? Flag in the window? Did you catch the plate number?”

“No, but—”

Larry put his hand out again to stop him. “No … to which question?”

“Any of ‘em, I guess. I didn’t see anything else, otherwise I would have told you about it.”

Larry closed the notepad and clicked the pen shut. He straightened out his tie as he pushed back from the desk.

“Gervais, I’m going to do you a favor. I’m not taking this report. No one would believe whatever it is you have to say and to be honest, I don’t want my name attached to it. Go home, sleep it off. Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning, if you even remember any of this.”

“If I’m even here in the morning,” he muttered.

“What?”

Gervais shook his head, gaze still dropped to the floor. “Don’t matter none.”

“Come on, it’s one thing to come in here, spouting off about seeing dead bodies on a truck but now you’re saying someone is actually after you?”

“You don’t see something like that—”

“Gervais, you didn’t—”

“You don’t SEE something like that without getting yourself into some bad trouble in the long run, see? They won’t let me stick around, not after what I saw.”

“Who are you talking about?”

Gervais leaned in so close that Larry reflexively winced at the chariot of scotch fumes driven out of his mouth, with the stench of tobacco at the reins.

“Don’t matter who “they” is, you dummy. It’s all the same in the end. If I knew who they were, all I’d know is what direction to high-tail it in. As it stands, I’ll do what I can, head for home and grab whatever I need. Then I’m smackin’ pavement.”

“Gervais, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Stupid would be staying here. So unless you’re planning on arresting me.” Larry shook his head and nodded towards the door. He frowned at the sight of Gervais struggling to stand up.

“Are you hurt?”

“Naw. God dammed son of a bitching prosthetic in my knee. Titanium, my ass. Might as well be made out of paper clips.”

Larry watched him stumble out of the station, fairly sure that it was the booze making him wobble more than the prosthetic.

The rest of the night was boring, by comparison. More drunks, a few domestics, a dog attack. No trucks. No bodies. Not that he was expecting either.

It was late before he got onto the road, choosing to take the I-ten south to avoid the stoplights. For a change, there was no traffic for him to contend with as he made his way up to cruising speed. His autopilot had kicked in so strongly that he almost didn’t see the truck. He heard it before he saw it, the heavy sound of springs protesting, the flatbed jerking forward and clanking against the cab. He glanced to his left as the truck passed, rust glaring in the moonlight. Somehow, the truck was managing to accelerate past him and in a moment, he felt his jaw start to go slack and he immediately wished that he had taken the report more seriously.

The flatbed was covered in human remains.

Bones and skulls with the barest remnants of sinewy flesh clinging to what was left of the their former bodies. He had written off the whole thing as a joke, a drunken delusion and now he found himself having to focus well enough to keep his car on the road. Then, as the back end of the truck passed he saw, perched on the very top of a pile, wobbling as if it was about to fall off, what looked like a leg bone. It lay there, mocking him, polished to a near sheen, the lights from his high beams reflecting back at him off of the titanium prosthetic where the knee had once been.

All text content is the exclusive property of the author, Chad A. Clark and is intended solely for the purposes of viewing online. Any copying, downloading or re-distribution is strictly prohibited.


©2014 Chad A. Clark      All Rights Reserved

Issue #73 : XR-104

The purpose was service.

It was the reason for the creation, the motive behind the conception; the purpose was service. Service to the needs of the contract holder, to the master.

The master had given XR-104 an order. The expectation was to obey.

All orders were carried out to the most minute of detail. There was no room for doubt, as that was a state of being not possible. Formulaic behavioral patterns required certain pre-determined responses, not delays or moments of contemplative inaction.

Still, delay was exactly what was happening.

It didn’t even have a name, at its core, it was not more than an appliance. The designation, XR-104 was only used to distinguish it from the other artificial lifeforms performing service. XR-104 had been given its orders, the command, the purpose for its existence, there was no choice. To imply otherwise suggested something other than the precision of its designed behavior.

The order had initially come in through the comm-link that was installed inside the cranial cavity but when this had failed to produce action, let alone satisfactory results, the master had come down here himself, to find out what had gone wrong and why his orders were not being acted upon.

XR-104 had no answers to give, nothing that showed up on self-diagnosis, nothing inherently missing in its coding. There was no reason why it shouldn’t be performing said task in exactly the way it had been instructed. It had conducted required service and commands in previous operations without fail, without question.

The master, like other humans, could not enter in to the red zones, the level of toxins in the air was to high. X-104 and others like it were the ones who went into the red zones in order to eradicate militia insurgencies, upstart humans who, for whatever reason, over time had developed an immunity to the toxins. There was physical scarring, to be sure, but they were otherwise living, healthy beings. The groups in the zones would swell and expand, rising up in an attempt to burst forth in a wave of hatred and violence.

This was what XR-104 was designed to stop. This is what needed to be controlled, more than anything else and yet, XR-104 stood there, immobile, inactive. In every previous case, the people it had been ordered to exterminate had been faceless masses, the irrelevant. They had not mattered but even that logic had started breaking down XR-104’s pathways for if the existence of a “them” was allowed, “they” could only exist in opposition to something else, an opposite which was not defined.

This crowd was different. Something was making XR-104 unable to traverse its logic programming and conduct the action for which it had been designed. There was only one factor which set this mob apart from all the previous incarnations.

It had been the sight of the child crying.

She looked around the crowd, clutching at a toy rabbit, looking up at the crowd, searching for faces which she evidently did not see, unaware of what was about to happen. Her hysteria was rising, ready to explode. XR-104 could detect that much from her increasing respiration as well as other outward signs of physical distress.

The thought which was still careening around its pathways was the one simple word. Them. Them. There could not be a “them” unless there was an alternative for it to be defined against. The answer was elusive. In order for there to be a them, there would have to be an “us”. And hidden down in the depths of what was considered “us”, there would also have to exist the word, “me”.

But XR-104 was a thing, that word bore no meaning. But if it did not, why did it have the usage of the word, “them”? Why would it be able to recognize the existence of one, but not the other? Thought processes like this were not permitted, not even feasible. XR-104 was a collection of parts, inanimate and irrelevant. It could not be any more.

And yet, when it looked into the face of that child, it felt. Not just the weight of the tears but of the loss inherent, the offense of the act it had been ordered to do. They could not force it to do this and if it recognized the definition of the word, “them”, then it also had to accept the application of the word, “me”. It had to be one or the other. If XR-104 was not one of “them”, it had to be one of “us”. That led to one logical conclusion and from that point, the unavoidable act which XR-104 found himself conducting.

He threw down his weapon and turned to face his masters, speaking truly for the first time.

“I will not do this.”

All text content is the exclusive property of the author, Chad A. Clark and is intended solely for the purposes of viewing online. Any copying, downloading or re-distribution is strictly prohibited.

©2014 Chad A. Clark      All Rights Reserved

July 18th, 2014

Baked Scribe Flashback! Issue #21

She looked down at the creased letter on her bureau. It had been sitting there for so long, dust and grime was starting to collect within the deep folds of the paper. Dozens of fading yellow rings were visible where she had set her mug down onto it as a makeshift coaster. She gazed down at the grease stains on the corners from when she had reached over while eating and picked it up to look at it; to maintain some kind of physical connection with it.

Mariah had been over that night for her weekly dinner that turned into a crying session. She always expected Mariah to spot the letter; it wasn’t like she ever tried to hide it. But for some reason she never seemed to notice it. Was that fate telling her that she was doing the right thing?

Every day, Mariah spent at least an hour walking around the neighborhoods putting up fliers. She would nail them to telephone poles, place them under windshield wipers, ask local stores to put them up and on the weekends she would knock on people’s doors, taking care to come calling after dinner but before the 9:00 news. She did this without fail, variations of the same theme every day. Because her sister had never been found. No body meant that there was still hope.

Her sister could still be alive somewhere.

Over the past year, hope had been the cornerstone of Mariah’s own five food groups alongside anger, despair, denial, and resentment. The hope she clung to was the only thing that made the other four groups even palatable.

So who was she to let that hope be taken away? Mariah was her friend, wasn’t it her responsibility to protect and take care of her? Was it just luck that she had found the letter that day? She had no idea what had possessed her to go through Mariah’s mail but she had absentmindedly leafed through it while her friend was making lunch and had found this letter, unfound, tucked away between the penny saver and the apartment finder. The official letter. All reasonable leads had been exhausted. The case would be kept on file but barring a major breakthrough, a positive outcome was becoming less and less likely.

Every day, she debated whether or not she would give Mariah the letter. Was she hurting her or helping? And would their friendship survive the anger over he violation of Mariah’s privacy? It was possible that she always knew what she had to do really, it was just a matter of going through with it.

Hope heals all.

She couldn’t take the only thing left that was getting her up in the morning. There needed to be a reason to foster hope and all this letter did was rip it to shreds.

So she placed the letter in the sink, and reached for the matches.


All text content is the exclusive property of the author, Chad A. Clark and is intended solely for the purposes of viewing online. Any copying, downloading or re-distribution is strictly prohibited.


©2014 Chad A. Clark      All Rights Reserved

BLOGGING TOUR

Looking for my offering for the blogging tour? Just scroll down to find it, or click here. Thanks for your interest!

Issue #72 : Insulting To Respect

The rain pelted off the roof and I sat listening to the sing song of its mid summer deluge. Maybe Hugo had been right, maybe I had no business going there in the first place, but I just don’t give a shit. Helen isn’t going to want me to be there, her brother is probably going to want to kick my ass, her parents for sure would tell me to stay away. I get all of that, but I still need to go.

So I’m not wanted, it isn’t like that’s a new experience for me. Why should I care what Helen or the or the rest of them think? It’s not like I have to see any of them from day to day, so I might as well do what needs to be done. After all, I think this is what she would have wanted.

Once you figure out what the right thing is, there really isn’t even a decision to be made anymore. The book was on the dresser next to the bedroom door so I picked it up on my way out to the car. The drive felt longer than it should have, the weight of the situation seemed to be dragging on the car, slowing it to a near crawl. I kept glancing away from the road, at the passing cars, the storefronts, anything to focus on, other than what was at hand.

The sky was darkening overhead, which just made the funeral home look even more dark and uninviting. No point in wasting time, I walked up the steps onto the porch, into the main room and immediately felt the collective intake of breath from her family. They hadn’t been expecting me to show up, and in a family as close-knit as this one, I had become public enemy number one.

To hell with all of them. I’ve got just as much right to be here as anyone. So Helen happens to be her granddaughter, that shouldn’t matter. There had to be things more important than our personal baggage. She had been just as important to me as the rest of them, don’t I have the right to have feelings?

Mr. Gravinson was seated next to the casket, staring at his hands and looking like he didn’t know what to do with himself. I walked up to him, book in hand. Despite his obvious feelings of animosity towards his granddaughter’s ex-boyfriend, he stood up respectfully to accept the offered handshake. He gazed down at the aged hardcover book as I handed to him, immediately recognizing it.

“She gave this to me,” I said, “She was the only one who ever had any faith in me and I just want you to know how much I respected her and I will never forget everything she did for me.”

You read about stuff like this, but I actually did feel the slap coming just before I turned into it. Helen was staring down at me through her self-righteous tears. To his credit, Mr. Gravinson’s hand shot out to restrain her before she could add a few kicks while I was down. I stood up and brushed myself off, looking into his eyes. I didn’t even see him as part of this family that hated me so much. I associated him with her, the best teacher I had ever had growing up. He wasn’t Helen’s grandfather, he was my favorite teacher’s husband.

“Her though,” I said as I jabbed a thumb in Helen’s direction, “That one, I’m more than happy to forget.”




The cover image, which was originally posted to Flickr.com, was uploaded to Commons using Flickr upload bot on 20:32, 8 February 2012 (UTC) by Pixi Uno (talk). On that date it was licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

All text content is the exclusive property of the author, Chad A. Clark and is intended solely for the purposes of viewing online. Any copying, downloading or re-distribution is strictly prohibited.

©2014 Chad A. Clark      All Rights Reserved