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The big uh oh
It was a nice day in Washington DC for January, almost warm one might say. But inside Assistant Director Skinner’s office was as frigid as an ice age. He glared at the two agents sitting before him before tossing their report down onto his desk with clear distaste.
“Ive staked my career on the line, several times for you two, and this is exactly why I am hesitant to send you out in the field again.” He growled.
Mulder didn’t need to look at Scully to know her expression was shocked incredulity. Their last case involved a reptilian named Guy Man whose current whereabouts are unknown. In the course of the investigation a Cell Phone store, a transexual prostitute and a grimy hotel were suing the FBI for negligence and destruction of private property.
“If it were up to me I’d have both of you on desk duty, but something’s come up…”
Just then the door opened and a blonde secretary entered.
“Sir the special agents have arrived.”
“Send them in.” Skinner said dismissively.
“Whats going on?” Said Mulder.
Before AD Skinner could answer in strutted a tall man wearing aviator glasses.
“Yes what is going on? Indeed.”
Skinner regarded the newcomer with an odd expression, indiscernible behind his glasses.
“Burt Macklin, FBI. I bid you all Adieu.” He said with aplomb and promptly saluted AD Skinner before removing his sunglasses in a sudden swift motion.
“A… Adieu?” Scully asked, her eyebrows quirked showing obvious confusion.
“Indubiously my dear Scully, I’m here to add my expert skills to the investigation. Ergo… the man upstairs.”
“The cancer man?” Mulder asked.
“No, the former director of Parks and Recreation Pawnee Indiana, who is now… the president of the USA. Ron Swanson.”
Everyone in the room turned to see the portrait of the glaring baleful gaze of Ron Ulysses Swanson looking down upon them in furious judgement.
Mulder could hardly believe it and hesitated before saying.
“I thought you were a myth, like bigfoot…”
“Or the bonkable snowman? I’m real.” He looked down dramatically then gathered himself after a moment.
“I’ve been undercover for thirty years, even my own family doesn’t know who I am. Hot on the trail of Judy Hitler, that evil, beautiful, smart, thoughtful…villain. Careless whisper.” The last part he said quietly, almost to himself.
“What?” Scully asked.
“Nothing, it’s complicated.” Macklin said, his voice husky.
“Yes it’s true, he asked for all four of you personally.” Skinner stammered.
Mulder looked about the room for the fourth agent that would be joining them on their new case and before he could utter the question a flurry of movement got their collective attention.
“Aha!” Cackled a man disguised as a potted plant who seemed to peel away from the wall.
“I was wondering where you might be hiding, Michael Scarn.” Skinner Beamed.
“Michael Scarn?” Mulder asked breathlessly. “The.. Michael Scarn? The secret agent that singlehandedly saved the NFL, NBA, MLB and most recently the NHL all star games from certain calamity? That Michael Scarn?”
“Yes! It is I. You probably don’t recognize me because of the face paint… which is permanent marker and yep, these fronds are superglued to my scalp. Gonna be a while before I live this halloween costume down.”
“That’s your halloween costume? Duuude it’s like… wait, what month is it?!” Burt asked excitedly.
“January…We get it, Michael Scarn is an expert at disguise, and now that you’ve all met we should discuss the case at hand here.” Skinner said in matter of fact no nonsense tones.
He then showed the group a series of photos displaying various dead farm animals.
“What are we looking at Sir? Ritual mutilation of livestock? Possibly alien experimentation? Plague? Disease? End of the world?” Mulder inquired.
Scully examined the photos with widening horror and comprehension…
“Murder Mulder!” She gasped.
“Meat Murder Mulder.” Skinner added solemnly. “These animals were President Swanson’s private stock of grade triple A plus meat. Each animal raised for the exact purpose of being eaten by the Commander in chief himself. After saving the country from deficit and French people by utilizing pure capitalism and good old fashioned gumption these were given to him by the people of this fine country as a sign of… gratitude.” The last word caught in Skinner’s throat, showing a rare moment of emotion that few have ever seen or heard.
“Son of a bitch!” Burt grunted, donning his aviator glasses in fury.
“Nooo!” Scarn cried and wept a single manly tear out of his left eye.
“You have to go immediately to Santa Clarita, California and solve this case.”
“We won’t let you down sir. Or you… mr. president.” Fox Mulder said without a trace of his usual cynicism meeting the gaze of president Swanson for a moment then turned toward the exit. He stopped and said casually over a shoulder.
“You guys coming?”
And so the group departed for the coastal town of Santa Clarita, only to discover that a very famous Sex Pistols cover band, the Smut Cannons was playing that week and all the hotels were booked solid.
Michael Scarn suggested that they simply live off the land during their stay but after some digging around they found themselves driving up a dusty road road to Schrute Artichoke farm, bed and breakfast. The place had one really good review on Airbnb, by someone by the name of Big Tuna.
“He highly recommends the taxidermy room and the candlelight weed pull, whatever that is…”
Mulder read from the app looking at the decrepit farm dubiously.
“Hello?!” Scully was pounding on the door.
“She loves artichokes.” Mulder said before catching a glimpse of a bearded face poking out behind a hay bale. Macklin saw him too.
“Stop in the name of the FBI!” Burt barreled towards the hay bale followed by Michael Scarn two pistols drawn.
The bearded man sprinted away and before long the three of them were out of sight.
“Think we should help?” Scully asked.
“Nah, they’ll get their man.”
“No, they’ll never catch Mose.” A voice mused not two feet away.
They turned to see a stern bespectacled man regarding them with an odd mixture of servility and imperiousness.
“I am Dwight Schrute of Schrute artichoke farm, bed and breakfast. You’re here about the rooms I presume.”
Mulder nodded then gestured toward the field where distant yells could be heard.
“Yes he will give them a merry chase then lead them right back here, as I planned from the start.” Schrute said with a knowing sneer.
He turned and gestured for the two agents to precede him. They did so but not without casting a glance back to the door, their long experience with creepy houses and their equally creepy owners had a lasting effect on them.
He ushered them into a room that looked like an office, two small beds side by side was the only indication that this was a room equipped for sleeping. A banner hung over a desk that read Dunder Mifflin paper company. Sitting at the desk behind a computer monitor was a mannequin dressed in a yellow, short sleeved shirt, next to that sat a stapler encased in lemon jello.
“I call this the glory days room.”
“Oh, it’s nice…” Scully said, bewildered.
“I used to sell paper.” Dwight intoned as he departed.
Mulder plopped down on one of the twin beds, his feet dangling off the edge.
“I was really hoping for the taxidermy room… oh well.”
“Mulder, are we really going to stay here? This place is weird!”
A distant shout from somewhere in the house replied.
“I heard that!”
Mulder gave Scully a look that said, “you got any better ideas?” Thinking of none, she too plopped down on her bed and stared at the ceiling.
A loud crash erupted from down the hall, many voices were yelling and it sounded like one was hooting. Mulder and Scully jumped up and rushed out to investigate.
In the kitchen they saw a half naked man straddling Dwight Schrute, Mose hopping about the kitchen hooting while Michael Scarn turreted back and forth constantly screaming freeze or I’ll shoot. Mose ducked behind the agents who both ducked impulsively as Michael Scarn was now aiming his two guns at them.
“Woah! What’s going on here!?” Mulder yelled, which seemed to snap Scarn from his battle haze.
“We were chasing that guy! You let him get away! I’m tired and hungry and… thirsty, so thirsty. I’ve been running with my guns out like this for like two hours.”
“It’s been twenty minutes since we’ve gotten here Scarn.” Scully said frowning. “And could you please holster your weapons?”
“Oh, they’re not real. Psyches out the bad guys you know?” But he put them away nonetheless.
“I am NOT a vampire!” Dwights yell muffled by the kitchen rug brought Mulder and Scully’s attentions back to the half naked man straddling the innkeeper, who turned out to be Macklin.
“Yes you are!”
“Not”
“Are”
“Not”
“Are!”
“NOT!”
“Prove you’re not then.”
“In the cupboard there’s a can of garlic flavored PAM, spray some on me and you’ll see!”
“Vampires hate garlic, that makes sense. Scarn! Get the PAM!”
“Aye aye matey!” Scarn affirmed and began to rummage through the pantry and pulled out a spray can and promptly sprayed Dwight in the face, who then howled with pain.
“Clean up on aisle five.” Scarn said in a gritty voice.
“He’s a vampire! Arrest him!” Macklin announced reaching for his handcuffs. “Aww crap my cuffs were in my pants.”
“Where are your pants?” Inquired Scully.
“I dunno, I was running after that bearded guy and got so hot and sweaty… just had to take my clothes off you know?”
“No.” Both Mulder and Scully said.
“Let me see that can.” Demanded Mulder.
The can clearly said PAM but it was handwritten over masking tape. Mulder sniffed the nozzle.
“Its mace, you maced him.”
Dwight groaned again.
“I thought I PAM’d him.”
“So he’s not a vampire then? Damn, I was so sure of it.” Macklin got up, letting the red faced Mr. Schrute breathe normally again.
“What made you think he was a vampire Macklin?” Asked Scully.
“Oh because of the jars of blood in the fridge.”
“What were you doing in my fridge!?” Yelled Dwight.
She opened the fridge and gasped. “Oh my god, Mulder?”
There was indeed several jars of thick red liquid lining the top shelf of the fridge, Mulder grabbed one and brought it over to the Innkeeper.
“Is this blood Mr. Schrute?”
“No that is beet juice, I keep my blood jars elsewhere.”
After apologizing profusely to Dwight and his brother the team assembled and conducted a thorough search for Burt Macklins clothes.
Once that was settled it was time to get on with the investigation.
They found themselves at the presidential meat sanctuary a half an hour later. A few squad cars and a forensics team were onsite.
The barn was where most of the activity was happening and as they approached they were halted by a severe woman.
“Stop right there! This place is off limits.” She commanded.
She was joined by a portly man armed with a tiny magnifying glass.
“Detective Snakehole, do I really have to search all the hay with this?”
“Shut up officer Gargnitch! Get back to it, I want that needle!”
“Okay…” Officer Gargnitch hung his head and ambled off to resume his search.
Mulder withdrew his badge and introduced himself and his team. Detective Snakehole was not impressed.
“Think you can just steamroll my investigation do you? Barging in here like a goon squad with your big muscles and awesome ninja skills?” She was regarding Burt Macklin.
“Yeah I do.” Mulder replied.
“Fine then, I didn’t want to investigate this stupid case anyway!” Snakehole simpered and stormed off.
“Wait a second…” Burt Macklin removed his glasses in deep consternation. “I know that butt anywhere! Macklin, you son of a bitch! That’s not a cop it’s Judy Hitler!”
At the mention of her real name she whirled smiling wryly.
“You’ll never stop me Macklin!” And she dashed off cackling.
Macklin cursed as he took off after her.
“It seems we’re a man down.” Scully said.
“Two now, here read this.”
He handed her a piece of paper which read: Had to go, former President Jackson called to tell me the PGA all star golfing with the stars tournament is being held hostage by Goldenface. So I hitched a ride with a cool dude in a van named Oz and sent this via messenger pigeon.
P.S. I think your killer is Toby, he probably raped the animals first, might want to check.
P.P.S Does Agent Scully like me? Check box yes or no.
Scully scoffed, but blushed a little.
“Under that permanent marker he was kind of cute. And how did he have time to do all that? We’ve been here ten minutes!”
“Thats super secret agent Michael Scarn for you I guess.”
Together they entered the barn to survey the scene of the crime.
The animals were all in their pens still, covered in white sheets. Upon close inspection it was determined that all of them had their blood drained. Mulder decided to head into town while Scully stayed behind to conduct the autopsies and the sexual assault exam as Michael Scarn advised.
His only lead so far was from a comic book and magic shop owner Rupert Giles, upon entering he noticed several people gathered near the register discussing something in hushed tones.
Mulder pretended to peruse the latest comic book arrivals as he eavesdropped.
“Any word from Buffy?” A mousy redhead asked meekly.
“No it seems we are on our own here I’m afraid.” Said the man behind the counter in a cultured british accent. Mulder pegged him as Giles, the proprietor of the shop.
“What should we do? We can’t just sit idly by… uh, idling.” Said a dark haired guy wearing a bright orange shirt and a green sweater vest.
“That’s exactly what we should do, without the slayer we’re outmatched.” Giles said with a touch of despair in his voice.
“But but, what about all those cute farm animals… whats next? Another hellmouth opening up right here in Santa Clarita?”
“Yes thats what Im afraid of Willow.”
“We have to stop it.” The sweater vest guy slammed his fist on the counter.
“Now now Xander, I’ve called the FBI, they should be here any minute now.”
“Been here a few minutes actually.” Mulder felt it was time to break cover.
The group all looked alert as the man in the long trench coat approached them.
“Agent Fox Mulder, FBI, you were discussing the events that recently transpired up at the presidential meat sanctuary?”
“Yes thats right.” Giles said, adjusting his glasses.
“And you indicated that this may just be the start of something bigger?”
“Yes, well… all signs do seem to point that way. It’s just as before.”
“What, a Sex Pistols cover band comes to town and all hell breaks loose?”
“Yes well, some.. Something like that.” Giles stammered.
Mulder’s cell phone buzzed and he glanced up after seeing the caller and excused himself.
“Yeah Scully?”
“Mulder these animals died from total blood loss, and were not raped.”
“Oh that’s good to hear, this Toby guy sounded awful. Anything else?”
“Yes, the puncture wounds vanished as soon as the sun went down, what the hell is going on Mulder?”
“Burn the bodies Scully, or you might have some vampire farm animals on your hands soon.”
“What? Thats crazy!”
“For once will you just listen to what I say and do what I ask you no matter how stupid or crazy it seems. You’ve gotten into so much trouble for exactly this reason… please, just burn them, barbeque them or roast them up I don’t care.”
“Okay Mulder, just this once I will abandon reason and my usual tendency to doubt and second guess your instincts and supernatural bent on every little occurrence no matter how routine.”
“Thank you Scully, now I have to go to a concert.”
“What? Can I go?”
“You done with the autopsies?”
“Almost… but Mulder this isn’t going anywhere, I can say without a doubt that they’ve all had their blood drained.”
“I thought you were more thorough than that… hmm, okay just burn them up before you head out. It’s at the boardwalk. Be here at eight, that’s when the show starts.” He hung up and went back to the group waiting for him at the comic book register.
“That was my partner, she said the wounds on the animals disappeared as soon as it got dark.”
“Good heavens.” Giles said.
“Has to be vampires!” Xander exclaimed.
Willow looked worried and said in a small voice. “I just hope it wasn’t someone we know. Because that would be… bad.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot riding on this case and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.” Mulder said resolutely.
“There’s no sense in going alone Agent Mulder, we have uh, some experience dealing with this sort of thing.” Giles said firmly. The other two had the same resolute look on their faces and Mulder knew there was no convincing them otherwise.
“Okay, let’s go then.”
They all left the store and before Mulder could lead them to his rental car a trans am screeched to a halt in front of the shop.
“Get in! I will explain on the way!” Dwight Schrute yelled as he leaned over to push the passenger side door open.
A collective shrug went through the group and they all crammed into Dwight’s car, and as soon as the door clicked shut the tires were kicking up smoke and they were off to the Smut Cannon concert.
“Sorry this car usually seats only four comfortably, but it’s only down the street.”
“I suppose we could have walked.” Said Willow, crammed like a sardine in between Xander and Giles in the back seat.
“Whyd Mulder get the front seat.” Complained Xander.
“I called shotgun.” He said, as he cocked a round into the chamber of a shotgun.
“That was pretty badass if I must say so.” Dwight grinned and offered Mulder a high five who took no notice and so left the man hanging.
“Anybody ever tell you you’re a bit of a suck up Mr. Schrute?” Giles commented irritably.
“I’m the best! And were here… aim for the heart, those are crucifix wood pellets in the shells.”
“Thanks Dwight, sorry about the Macing earlier.”
“Not a problem, happens to the best of us. Now go get those vampires! Hiya!” Dwight sped off into the sunset, back to his artichoke farm.
Mulders phone rang again.
“Yeah Scully?”
“Mulder I’ve found some evidence you might find useful.”
“What’s that? You’ve found antiperspirant that smells unusual?” he could barely hear her over the din of the concert. She said something that sounded like “patting down air”, then he looked up at the stage.
“Platinum blonde hair…. Scully! I see him!”
And Mulder was running toward the stage.
The band, Smut Cannon, was conceived one night in a gloomy mausoleum as he was listening to his favorite band; the Sex Pistols. Spike never had much aspiration for fame and such, his former moniker William the bloody didn’t have the panache he so craved. Furthermore, he felt this would regain the affections of his beloved Drusilla, whom still was not returning his calls.
He had never worked so hard in his unlife, he even managed to employ the talents of Angel, who was actually a pretty good drummer, the bassist was the creepiest chap that wasn’t a demon or a vampire Spike had ever met so he was a bit of alright as far as he was concerned. Also the black cape was a nice accessory he thought.
Their lead guitarist however was some tosser he had turned in haste to round out the set. A detail he did not tell Angel, since he knew it would just knot his knickers.
So here they were about to assault the crowd with “God damn the Queen” when some cowboy with a shotgun jumped up on stage aiming it right at Spikes heart.
“Oi, what’re you on about?”
“You killed president Swanson’s animals, that would have died anyway, but that’s not the point. They weren’t yours!”
The crowd hearing all of this clearly over the PA system gasped, and jeered. Clearly angry about their beloved presidents misfortune.
“Wasn’t me, ask my manager.” Spike pointed backstage to a small indian guy with a headset and a very dope suit, who gave a look that said “Duh… my boy would never!”
Just then the fog machine kicked in full blast and flooded the stage with wispy tendrils of smoke, adding drama and mystery to the scene playing out before the enrapt crowd.
That was the queue for the intro, and the lead guitarist began to wail on his axe.
Angel dutifully joined in and hit the high hats, interspersed with a kick drum. The bassist just stared dully out at the crowd and mooed at them.
Mulder kept the gun aimed at Spike but faltered, sensing sincerity in his demeanor.
The momentary lapse of focus was all Spike needed. He kicked the shotgun out of Mulder’s hands and roughly shoved the FBI agent off the stage who was caught by upraised hands and crowd surfed all the way to the back of the gathering.
When Mulder regained his feet he locked eyes with the lead guitarist who’s wild black mascara’d eyes and receding ginger hairline all but admitted his wrongdoing. He even pointed a thumb at himself and mouthed “I did it, ha ha ha ha” just for added clarification.
“Who is that?” Scully asked from out of nowhere.
“Scully?” Mulder started, but all the same happy to see his partner.
“The lead guitarist did it!”
“Oh, but who is he?”
“I dunno, but he’s pretty good.”
They waited to make their next move, thwarted by the mass of people and overwhelmed by the great performance the Smut Cannons were doing they felt that they could wait until the song was over at least before resuming the confrontation.
As soon as the songs last notes faded away another sound could be heard, from the sky.
Someone was yelling something.
Everyone looked up to see Michael Scarn, parachuting down in a tuxedo.
“Toby! You evil rotten bastard!”
The guitarist slumped a little, but then seemed to snap, he lunged to the crowd and snatched a woman up and pulled her against him like a shield, backing toward the exit of the stage.
Michael Scarn landed on the stage, not even pausing to consider the ramifications of shooting a hostage. He drew his weapons.
“I thought those were fakes.” Scully said and winced as the reports of dozens of gunshots erupted from Michael Scarns real guns.
Toby just stared blankly as round after round hit him in the face and caveman like forehead.
Someone in the crowd yelled. “Pam get out of there!”
The hostage Pam dived away just as Toby the vampire’s head exploded from having been filled with bullets. His headless body turned to dust before hitting the stage and his guitar let out one last dissonant chord before he was utterly gone.
Scarn blew the smoke from his pistols and said… “Looks like we need a cleanup on aisle five.”
Nobody seemed to notice the drummer stand up and back away into the foggy backstage, a look of indiscernible melancholy haunting his features.
The crowd cheered….
“For justice and the heroic efforts of all involved with solving the case.” Concluded Mulder, reading from a lengthy report.
“Well done agents! But where did Macklin go?” AD Skinner inquired, his brow creased in worry over the lost agent.
“Nobody knows Sir. But we received this postcard from the Grand Canyon.” Scully slid the card across the desk.
It was a picture of Mt. Rushmore with a brief note on the back.
“Hitler strikes again, stole a national monument… BM on the case.”
“And Scarn?”
“He’s retired, said he’d like to live a modest life, selling paper in Ohio.” Mulder said.
“A hero’s reward indeed.”
“Before I forget, here’s a letter from the President.”
It simply read; Good job, thanks. Ron
Mulder looked up at the portrait of the man who wrote this letter and swore that behind that foreboding mustache was a smile of gratitude.
fin
-
These last days of ours
Roy wasn’t sleeping well. If and when he managed to drift off he was plunged into dreams so vivid and anxiety inducing that he’d wake in a jolt, covered in sweat.
He could not recall the details save for one, a looming ball of fire headed right for him.
These dreams left him feeling on edge and sapped of energy, as if some kind of strenuous activity were taking place in spite of his rest. Most of all they imbued him with a sense of urgency in response to a crisis that he was unclear about, he didn’t know why, just that he needed to hurry.
Work was a drudging slog of weariness, and as he clocked out for the fifth time this week an idea occurred to him, an idea that made him smile wide and lunatic.
His boss sat behind a dingy desk piled with various detritus and nearly inhaled the stub of a cigar as the door slammed open. Roy entered and unloaded his vitriol before saying in calm venomous tones that he quit. The boss, unable to employ his usual big dog approach simply nodded, most likely relieved that this now former employee wasn’t so disgruntled as to bring, say, a shotgun to end their arrangement. Feeling better than he had in years Roy sauntered out with his last paycheck and cashed it immediately. His next stop brought him to an electronics store that he walked by often, but never had any reason to enter. He was surprised to see his next door neighbor also perusing the isles of this place as he examined a soldering iron. They did not speak to each other or question each other’s motives for being there. It did not seem odd to him that they were buying similar items, copper wire, component boards, sulfuric acid, and various packages full of resistors, capacitors, transformers, and all manner of electronic guts. For all intents and purposes, it seemed totally natural.
The cashier was not accustomed to this sort of business. It was clear he wanted answers, and anytime he would ask casually or otherwise he was met with an odd smile that quite frankly, gave him the willies. To which the cashier muttered frequently to himself – these people are giving me the willies.
In fact these people all lived in Roys apartment building which to any observer resembled a large cake with one slice removed. Or a concrete pacman devouring its tenants as they filed in.
Roy had never experienced a sense of purpose, he sort of floated through life doing the bare minimum ever expected of him. He had almost been married once, but that was just after highschool. He had even thought of starting his own business, upon realizing the immense effort it would require he instead settled into his warehouse job, seamlessly blending into the background like wallpaper. Ambitions, hopes and dreams diminished as time wore on, mitigated by television shows, microwaved food, and liquor. Until this point Roy had never felt a shred of inspiration, until now Roy had never felt wonder. Until now, Roy had never felt important.
With every fiber of his being he knew that what he was doing was important.
For hours, days or even weeks he sat under a single lamp at a desk in a haze of solder smoke. Empty boxes and packaging littered the floor, whenever he felt done for the day he would stand back and admire this thing he was making. A part of him seemed to know what it was. But the Roy that had let himself be led through life by mediocrity had no clue to its purpose and could only admire its form. If he dreamt he could not recall, such was the extent of his exhaustion. The lack of alcohol and bad food also contributed to a sense of clarity he had not felt for a long time, but that was nothing compared to the luminescent mindset that took him over when he was working. His vision saw nothing but coils of copper, pathways of conductive material wormed across green panels connecting innumerable components combined to make a cage of sorts that looked as if it would fit on his head. Separate from the main device was a ring, composed of an iron core wrapped in copper interspersed with crystal capsules veined with tungsten filaments. He thought of the thing as a crown which made him, Roy, a king.
Every day he would find a box of rations outside his door, sometimes seeing his neighbors doing the same, just poking out of their units like hermit crabs emerging only for sustenance. None of this seemed strange, and Roy only wondered how his device compared to theirs as he chewed a bite of his nutrient bar.
Whatever these were, they eliminated any need to defecate, in fact the bathroom was the only room not littered with empty packaging from either electronic components or his oddly enriching meals. He thought he must smell awful as he had not bathed in weeks which didn’t particularly matter as all he could smell was the constant perfume of hot melted solder and copper shavings.
Nearing completion of the project did not imbue Roy with any comprehension, and upon seeing the finished device under the solitary lamp he merely stared with fascination. He had made something, something incredible, something fantastic. His eyes followed the lines and patterns of it to the back where a thick cable ending in a sturdy three pronged plug. This detail left him puzzled as he only saw such plugs on heavy machinery, which his apartment was not furnished with as far as he knew.
As he laid down to sleep his sense of accomplishment became dogged by doubts and his sense of inferiority that he had for years tried to drown in alcohol and mind numbing distractions returned.
What was he doing? What were all of them doing for that matter?
Was this just as meaningless and routine as the rest of it all, the constant churn of humanity always moving, never really going anywhere. He decided not, and trusted this thread that pulled at him, inexorably towards an undefined yet glorious destination. His last thought before falling away into dreams was that this must be how people feel when they find god.
He awoke with a start, it was the fireball again and heat, and terrible pain. He went to his door and found not a box of rations, but a small black case. The same black case sat in front of every door that he could see. There was no obvious way to open the case as there were no latches or seams or any feature at all save for a small depression in its surface. He set this case near the device that sat complete and utterly baffling to him. Roy knew that whatever was happening would be happening soon as the lights in his unit began to dim and pulse softly. Above his work desk was a metal panel caked in several layers of paint, it opened with a little effort and there he saw the numerous little switches that directed electricity to the various outlets on the walls. He switched a few of them off and pried open a slot at the bottom. It was the exact shape of the plug on his device. He waited for a few moments before inserting it. The ring went on first, it hung like a bejeweled spike collar that was much too big for him. Next came the crown which felt heavy but perfectly fitted to him. Finally, the black box with slight depression on it, which he knew was meant for his thumb, as his thumb settled into the groove a razor thin light transected the box and it opened with a hiss. Nested in foam was a capsule which he removed and popped into his mouth and swallowed. The lights flickered in alternating patterns with increasing frequency until they seemed to resonate and once aligned the lights went green.
Roy reached out automatically to the circuit box and pulled the lever that would send power to the device he was wearing. He could feel the grip of it like a hand pulling at the threads of his entire nervous system, forcing him to stand rigid, shoulders back, hands at his sides, fingers extended pointing at the floor. The ring around his neck hovered at his jaw line and began to slowly spin. As the ring gained momentum a humming began deep in his skull, and more distantly, a second hum followed. The two sounds were gradually merging into one perfect note gaining volume in his head as the ring spun faster. Thoughts that were not his own flooded his mind, words like “synchronization” and “resonance” pelted his brain like the first raindrops of a coming storm. Then images of a world lit in red hues, desolate cityscapes, massive open graves filled with bodies and a sense of profound loss, desperation and something else… gratitude.
The ring was a blazing halo in front of his eyes as if the very materials had been converted to pure energy and then it was gone.
His body, released from the paralysis, slumped, and then Roy fell to his knees onto the carpet, disoriented and exhausted but aware of himself in what seemed like years.
The crown tumbled from his head into a brittle mass of shapes that crumbled when it hit the floor, and he noticed that the color of the carpet was unfamiliar.
In fact, everything was unfamiliar, the very air here was somehow different. He stumbled to a window and pulled the heavy curtains back to see with his own eyes the wasteland in his nightmares. At the horizon, a crimson sliver waxed into a full red face of lurid anger. Roy squinted his eyes as the dying star rose, immediately feeling its heat through the thick glass. Despite this discomfort he marveled at how the skeletal city in the distance danced in the heat distortion. From narrow vents in the concrete ceiling, cool air breezed out but there was a waning sickness to its sound, an intermittent lull as the systems motors struggled to keep turning.
Blast doors slid shut like vertical eyelids leaving his vision spotty in the now dim unit, the outside hellscape quite literally burned into his mind. When he could see again he noticed words stenciled in white on the inside of the blast doors.
“These last days of ours now belong to you.”
-
Rat Trap v2
The drive up to his mothers cottage could never be described as convenient. It was tucked away in the foothills up a long bumpy road that was perilous in the best of circumstances. Parts of this road were so narrow due to seasonal mudslides that in places only one vehicle could drive on it. Fortunately it was not a busy road, but a few times David had the displeasure of having to back up a quarter of a mile just to allow another car to pass as there was an unwritten rule that gave the right away to those heading down the hill.
When he received a panicked phone call from her, his immediate concern was that it was some kind of health issue. She was always mucking about in her garden and maybe she strained her back again. So, forty five minutes later he was bumbling up the root warped road nearing her cottage that looked like something out of a Thomas Kinkaide painting. The lavender was in full bloom, splashing the yard with explosions of purple dotted with fiery orange dahlias. Standing tall like sentries, were huge platter sized sunflowers and dense fragrant bushes of jasmine. While a pain in the butt to get here, it never failed to astound him how she managed to keep the place looking so well tended.
She emerged from her vegetable garden, the creak of the old wood gate squealed as she opened it and it closed shut with a dry clap behind her. She looked prepared to do battle with a vicious pile of leaves, as she brandished a metal rake like a halberd. She ambled over to her son and gave him a warm hug before assuming that appraising look mothers often do.
In this brief embrace he noted how almost brittle she felt in his arms, yet still powered by a fierce well of life, like a bird he thought.
“Another tattoo? David, I thought one was too many.”
“Glad you approve mom. Should see the one on my fanny.”
“Well, it’s nothing I’ve never seen before.” She said with the famous family smirk.
“So uh, what’s up? Everything okay?”
“Oh David, I think I’ve got rats. This morning I could hear something scratching in the walls near the pantry.”
“Hmm.” Was all he said.
“I laid out some traps, but when I went to check they were all sprung and the bait was gone.”
“Alright I’ll see what I can do, have any peanut butter?”
She snapped her fingers and headed inside in answer.
The wall that bordered the pantry was at the back of the house and after a bit of prying back foliage he discovered some signs of rat activity. There was a hole in the mortar that angled up and in, scattered around this entrance were disturbingly large rat droppings.
“You find it?” His mom asked, directly behind, causing him to jump.
“Oh! Uh, sort of. Look there, see those?” He asked while pointing at the dark lumps scattered around the hole.
“My, those are the size of jelly beans! Are you sure this is a rat?”
“I mean, I think so, what else could it be that would chew a hole in your wall like this?”
“Bunny?”
“Mom, I dont think a bunny rabbit chewed a hole in your wall.”
“Oh, but I’d prefer if it was!” She lamented.
“It’s a big one I bet, hopefully these traps you have are enough.”
“Same ones your dad bought years ago, was afraid they’d snap one of my fingers clean off!”
She ushered him to the small pile of traps and he got to work baiting them.
“What did you use before?”
“Oh some bread, cheese and bits of ham.”
David laughed.
“You made it sandwiches, mom, really?”
“I guess I did, does peanut butter work better you think?”
“Yeah, it’s harder to get off the trigger and it guarantees their head will be in the kill zone.” He said while pulling back the thick bit of spring loaded metal then carefully securing it with the trigger latch. As if holding an armed explosive device he set it down near the hole in a spot that he was certain the invading rodent would find.
He repeated this process a few more times then stood while dusting off his hands to signify a job well done. “So, is that pie I smell?”
“Your favorite, yes, just took them out before you got here.”
“Just gonna check the pantry and see if it’s gotten in, then will absolutely devour that rhubarb pie.”
She tutted at him, frowning.
“I know darn well that your favorite is pecan, David Allen Bruce.”
She invoked his full name in mock disappointment.
“Yeah I know, just checking to see if you remembered mom.”
“Okay smart alec, go check the pantry, and wash your hands… golly miss molly, the size of those turds!” She said as she bustled back inside.
He wondered then, why people leave their families at adulthood, like it was some kind of expected thing where they had to stake their claims elsewhere. Start families of their own or whatever. He felt a moment’s span of regret for leaving her alone so long ago to care for his father who had suffered two massive strokes that nearly killed him, leaving him in a wheelchair, unable to use one half of his body. Maybe it was an excuse, maybe it was seeing such a powerful man brought to a state of helplessness that compelled him to go seek some adventure. Maybe on some deeper level he didn’t want to have to change the man’s diapers.
After he passed, his mother sold the house near the coast and settled here, which she called her own little slice of heaven.
Beneath the rich aroma of roasting pecans and buttery crust another smell permeated the small cottage.
It was a foreign odor, musky and feral, emanating from the short hallway that led to the master bedroom. He took this as a subtle sign that maybe she was slipping from her high standards of cleanliness. At her age, he reasoned, it was amazing that she kept it as tidy as it was.
Masonry jars filled with fruit preserves and pickled vegetables lined the shelves of the pantry. Large bins of dry goods were neatly tucked under the bottom shelves containing flour, rice, beans and oats… oats that were spilling from a gnawed out corner of one of them.
He pulled it from its alcove and briefly he saw a long serpentine tail disappear into a hole in the wall.
“Jesus!” He shouted in surprise.
“Language, pig!” His mom yelled from the kitchen. That was something his dad would say. He was a highschool football coach and damn it she got his inflection so perfect that it brought a smile to his face. His family didn’t freak out over foul language, but never missed an opportunity to chastise one for using it.
“It’s gotten to your oats mom! I think I saw it too!”
“Really? In here, oh no.” She said peering into the pantry as if at any moment it would spring out at her.
“I should probably patch that up, but for now maybe just barricade the little bugger?”
He made quick work of it by nailing some scrap wood over the hole, if anything, he thought it would just slow it down until it was caught.
The pie was blue-ribbon-at-the-county-fair delicious, but the way his mother was staring at him made him stop his almost lustfull engagement with the pecan confection.
“Something wrong?” He managed to say with a mouthful of crust.
“Oh it’s nothing dear, just thinking about your father. You hold your fork the same exact way he did… like a shovel.”
“Yeah, old habit I guess.” He said, suddenly self conscious of his table manners.
“Was that something you picked up in jail?”
Did he detect a note of disgust in her tone? Did she seem to be waiting for something? She hadn’t touched her own slice that sat before her which wasn’t all that unusual as she was always insistent on etiquette. And yet, something wasn’t right.
Before he could give it any more thought a distinct sound interrupted the mood from outside.
It was the unmistakable clap of a rat trap springing, but it was the sound of the metal hitting wood and not a furry neck.
He waited in silence, glad for the break in tension between him and his mom.
After a few beats he crept to the patio door and peeked out, and saw what had to be the largest rat he’d ever seen sprawled out on the pave stones, its long pink tail still twitching in slight spasms. The trap was positioned oddly as if the beast had laid down on the trigger as if it were a deadly pillow ending up like a large rectangular hat.
“Think we got it!”
He went to the garage and grabbed a well used shovel and a bucket before heading out to finish the job.
“What’s the bucket for?”
“I don’t want to touch it mom, who knows what it’s carrying… and do you see the size of that thing? It’s huge!” He yell-whispered.
He saw concern in her eyes, but he wasn’t certain it was for him though, as her glance strayed back to the rat outside on the walk it seemed to soften with compassion.
He shook his head, thinking he’d sort it out later. He had a job to finish.
Approaching the beast quietly, the shovel held out like a spear and the bucket as a shield he stepped toe to heel. It was still, unmoving even when it was prodded with the dirt stained blade of the shovel. He relaxed and repositioned his grip on the shovel so that he was holding it by its metal socket where the wood shaft met like a scoop.
Kneeling down he attempted to slide the blade beneath the rat but succeeded only in shoving it off the pave stone into a row of daisies. Not wanting to unearth or damage them he knew he’d have to use his hands this time. Setting the shovel down he reached out to grab it by its long sinuous tail. The texture of it repulsed him and the thing was heavy as it dangled between his pinched fingers. Did he just see its nose twitch? Hastily he swung his catch over to the lip of the bucket and then it jolted back to life. His knee jerk reaction was to fling the writhing beast away from him and he saw it land past a low bank of scrub brush and begin to scamper away while uttering a raspy coughing sound. Adrenaline coursed through him as he grabbed the shovel and bucket before setting off in pursuit.
It wasn’t moving at typical rat speed, as it was probably being slowly suffocated by the trap still affixed to its head. David was himself out of breath as he caught up to it near a steep grade that sloped ever downward into dense foliage.
He took a nervous swing at it with the shovel which clanged harmlessly against the hard dirt, sending a shock through his grip and forearm, noticing through wincing eyes the rat heading toward a large bush dotted with tiny green berries.
In a desperate hail mary attempt, he flung the bucket at the fleeing rat and miraculously, it landed right on top. A few seconds later he was holding it down listening to its feeble attempts to escape its plastic prison. He couldn’t believe what he had just done, and in all probability knew he could never repeat it. If only he had someone recording this, just as he thought this he heard a twig snap behind him and turned to face a frying pan heading right towards him.
An explosion went off in his sinuses as the cast iron crushed his nose sending him reeling down the hill, stars flooding his fading vision. Confusion, disorientation, and horrified realization all crowded in on his conscious thought like collapsing buildings.
“M…Mom?” He said numbly as he stumbled backward further down the slope.
She didn’t answer him, instead she bent down to the bucket and lifted it to reveal the gasping rodent. It either recognized her, or it was too exhausted to move.
David watched in mute fascination as his mother kneeled close to the rat and pried the trap from its head. Even from this distance he could see its expression of relief as it nuzzled his mom’s finger in gratitude, then it turned its beady gaze on him and let out a husky squeak. As if in answer he heard responses from all around him, small voices, rat voices. He felt a sharp pain at his right achilles heel like wire cutters biting into a particularly thick cable with enough force to cut into, but not sever entirely. The pain drove him to spin around, kicking wildly at whatever had just attacked him, only making himself dizzy and to stumble awkwardly into the brush.
Another rat, this time from the left, attached itself with its tiny claws, began to climb the back of his jeans, surrounded as he was by thin grasping branches and long leaves he couldn’t do anything but push through. Emerging through the bush with some minor scrapes and cuts on his cheeks and forearms he felt the rat leap from its spot above his calf and scurry away.
His body trembled in revulsion, and upon seeing his blood drenched shirt from his broken nose, he felt the pecan pie in his stomach churn and begin to rise, when another bite was taken out of his heel.
He screamed in manic fury and desperation, running full tilt in a direction that he could only think of as, away.
Despite the terror he couldnt help but feel somehow disconnected from his situation, as if he were watching this happen from over his own shoulder.
He didn’t make it very far. For a second of pure confusion he felt a brief sensation of free fall, only to be acquainted with an uneven and tremendous impact. Something cracked beneath him, bones, but not his. Groaning, he rolled to come face to face with a grinning human skull, as if in welcome to its humble abode many feet underground.
He tried to scream but it came out as a wheezing gasp, as the fall had knocked the wind from him so thoroughly. When he could breathe again, his olfactory sense was assaulted by fading decomposition mingled with mushrooms and that familiar odor that he smelled in his mom’s cottage.
That smell he realized, was that of a rat’s warren, where dozens if not hundreds of them might be. The pit was full of bones picked clean by any number of carrion beasts and insects. He could not guess how many hapless souls had fallen in here or find an answer to why his mother had done this to him.
But then again, he did know, didn’t he?
All those years, festering in isolation, too proud to ask for help, slowly and quietly going insane. Yeah, this was what had boiled beneath her surface for so long, and here it was emerging and exploding like the powder keg it was.
Above him, framed by uneven dirt walls was a clear blue sky that was soon blotted out by dark cascading shapes that squealed, in a hungry eager chorus.
His guilt surfaced like an ugly truth that was hiding below layers of skin, skin that was being peeled away, skin that was being consumed by ravenous vermin. He was letting time do to her what she was letting the rats do to him. Behind every visit, and every polite conversation with her over the years, the idea of inheritance was there like a heckler in the stands.
Through the swarming mass of gnashing teeth and furry bodies he saw her standing above him, cradling the giant rat in her arms like a child. Her face was passive and stern as marble, as if she were a judge proclaiming a final verdict.
At least she had granted him one mercy, he thought, that whatever was laced in the pie, saved him from feeling any of it.
-
Rat trap
The drive up to his mothers cottage could never be described as convenient. It was tucked away in the foothills up a long bumpy road that was perilous in the best of circumstances. Parts of this road were so narrow due to seasonal mudslides that in places only one vehicle could drive on it. Fortunately it was not a busy road, but a few times David had the displeasure of having to back up a quarter of a mile just to allow another car to pass as there was an unwritten rule that gave the right away to those heading down the hill.
When he received a panicked phone call from her, his immediate concern was that it was some kind of health issue. She was always mucking about in her garden and maybe she strained her back again. So, forty five minutes later he was bumbling up the root warped road nearing her cottage that looked like something out of a Thomas Kinkaide painting. The lavender was in full bloom, splashing her yard with explosions of purple dotted with fiery orange dahlias. Surrounded like sentries, were huge platter sized sunflowers and dense fragrant bushes of jasmine. While a pain in the butt to get here, it never failed to astound him how she managed to keep the place looking so well tended.
She emerged from her vegetable garden, the creak of the old wood gate squealed as she opened it and it closed shut with a dry clap behind her. She looked prepared to do battle with a vicious pile of leaves, as she brandished a metal rake like a halberd. She hurried over to her son and gave him a warm hug before assuming that appraising look mothers often do.
“Another tattoo? David, I thought one was too many.”
“Glad you approve mom. Should see the one on my fanny.”
“Well, it’s nothing I’ve never seen before.” She said with the famous family smirk.
“So uh, what’s up? Everything okay?”
“Oh David, I think I’ve got rats. This morning I could hear something scratching in the walls near the pantry.”
“Hmm.” Was all he said.
“I laid out some traps, but when I went to check they were all sprung and the bait was gone.”
“Alright I’ll see what I can do, have any peanut butter?”
She snapped her fingers and headed inside.
The wall that bordered the pantry was at the back of the house and after a bit of prying back foliage he discovered some signs of rat activity. There was a hole in the mortar that angled up and in, scattered around this entrance were disturbingly large rat droppings.
“You find it?” His mom asked, directly behind, causing him to jump.
“Oh! Uh, sort of. Look there, see those?” He asked while pointing at the dark lumps scattered around the hole.
“My, those are the size of jelly beans! Are you sure this is a rat?”
“I mean, I think so, what else could it be that would chew a hole in your wall like this?”
“Bunny?”
“Mom, I dont think a bunny rabbit chewed a hole in your wall.”
“Oh, but I’d prefer if it was!” She lamented.
“It’s a big one I bet, hopefully these traps you have are enough.”
“Same ones your dad bought years ago, was afraid they’d snap one of my fingers clean off!”
She ushered him to the small pile of traps and he got to work baiting them.
“What did you use before?”
“Oh some bread, cheese and bits of ham.”
David laughed.
“You made it sandwiches, mom, really?”
“I guess I did, does peanut butter work better you think?”
“Yeah, it’s harder to get off the trigger and it guarantees their head will be in the kill zone.” He said while pulling back the thick bit of spring loaded metal and securing it with the trigger latch. As if holding an armed explosive device he carefully set it down near the hole.
He repeated this process a few more times then stood while dusting off his hands to signify a job well done. “So, is that pie I smell?”
“Your favorite, yes, just took them out before you got here.”
“Just gonna check the pantry and see if it’s gotten in, then will absolutely devour that rhubarb pie.”
She tutted at him, frowning.
“I know darn well that your favorite is pecan, David Allen Bruce.”
She invoked his full name in mock disappointment.
“Yeah I know, just checking to see if you remembered mom.”
“Okay smart alec, go check the pantry, and wash your hands… golly miss molly, the size of those turds!” She said as she bustled back inside.
He wondered then, why people leave their families at adulthood, like it was some kind of expected thing where they had to stake their claims elsewhere. Start families of their own or whatever. He felt a moment’s span of regret for leaving her alone so long ago to care for his father who had suffered two massive strokes that nearly killed him, leaving him in a wheelchair, unable to use one half of his body. Maybe it was an excuse, maybe it was seeing such a powerful man brought to a state of helplessness that compelled him to go seek some adventure. Maybe on some deeper level he didn’t want to have to change the man’s diapers.
After he passed, his mother sold the house near the coast and settled here, which she called her own little slice of heaven.
The pantry was as neat and well stocked as ever, masonry jars filled with preserves and jams lining the cedarwood shelves. Dry goods and large bins full of rice, beans and oats…. Oats spilling out of a chewed out corner of the container. It was thick hard plastic that he thought would be very difficult or near impossible for a rodent to get through. This thing was tenacious, he thought. Upon sliding the breached container away from its alcove he saw for a split second, what looked like a pale snake slither into a hole at the baseboard.
“Jesus!” He yelled.
“Language, pig!” His mom yelled from the kitchen. That was something his dad would say. He was a highschool football coach and damn it she got his inflection so perfect that it brought a smile to his face. His family didn’t freak out over foul language, but never missed an opportunity to chastise one for using it.
“It’s gotten to your oats mom! I think I saw it too!”
“Really? In here, oh no.” She said peering into the pantry as if at any moment it would spring out at her.
“I should probably patch that up, but for now maybe just barricade the little bugger?”
He made quick work of it by nailing some scrap wood over the hole, if anything, he thought it would just slow it down until it was caught.
The pie was blue ribbon at the county fair delicious. Just as he was scraping up the last morsels of crust and caramelized filling he heard a sharp clack from outside.
David frowned, as that was the sound of metal hitting wood, not a furry neck.
“Guess I’ll go check. Maybe we got him.”
Upon first glance it looked like it just went off by accident until he realized that one was gone.
Scanning the nearby area he saw it, about fifteen feet down a slight hill in a clearing near some brush. The rectangle of wood was positioned atop the rodent like some kind of hat. This thing was big, if not for the iron gray fur he would have thought it was an opossum.
He tossed a few rocks at it to see if was still alive, one of them plinked off the wood trap and nothing happened. Satisfied, he went back in to get a bucket and a shovel.
“Did we get it?”
“Yeah mom, this thing is huge!”
“Oh, what’s the bucket for?”
“Kinda dont want to touch it.”
“Ah, are you going to bury it?”
“Seems like the thing to do, I dunno would you rather I just toss it into the woods and have its ghost haunt you?”
“David, that’s not funny, you know I don’t care for scary stuff.”
He nodded in silent apology and headed back to the clearing. And as he thought about it, he realized that he was only half joking.
He set the bucket nearby and slid the shovel blade beneath the rat and just as he lifted it to deposit it into the bucket it jerked alive causing him to drop the shovel in astonishment.
It slowly scampered away issuing an odd rasping hiss.
Heart thumping hard in his chest he acted without thinking. He grabbed the bucket and chased after the thing now heading for some thick brush.
“Gotcha!” He exclaimed as he trapped the very much alive rat in the upturned bucket with a hollow thump.
He could feel it scrabbling against the plastic walls as he held it down. Maybe it was just unconscious, the trap was oddly oriented, maybe it just got a nasty crack on the head, he mused wondering what to do next as it thrashed inside its plastic prison.
It would eventually run out of air and suffocate, so he just had to wait, he decided. Its frantic activity would surely use up the oxygen quicker so he gave the bucket a thump every few seconds to antagonize it. Eventually it was quiet, its desperate attempts were stilled.
Just to be sure he waited a few more minutes before lifting the bucket.
The rat was gone. The trap was all that remained.
“Where the…”
Before he could finish his sentence a sharp pain flared at the back of his right foot, as if a pair of wire cutters just bit into his achilles tendon he screamed and lurched forward.
Being on a slight grade the combination of gravity and his injured heel sent him into a staggering downhill run. It was chasing him!
He could hear its furious chittering as it nipped at him fueling his panicked steps.
Risking a glance behind him proved to be a huge mistake but in those moments he remarked inwardly on the strange expression on the rat’s face as he went into free fall. It was just sitting there watching him fall, its forepaws clasped together in front of its chest in a manner that emphasized its smug expression. He hit solid ground feeling something in his shoulder crack sending blasts of red pain through his body.
Where was he? He wondered vaguely as he looked up at the trees and dusky sky that seemed too far away. It was a pit, surely his mom hadn’t dug this, why would she?
As if answering his silent question, the head of his pursuer appeared over the edge, followed by another, and another until there was a countless horde of toothy little faces looking down at him, hungrily.
-
The morning after
I wait for her to stop bustling around the kitchen, letting her complete the complex routine of coffee making and avocado toast preparation. When she’s finally settled into the chair diagonal to mine I try to catch her eye, to get a read on the temperature, but she is focused on gramming her breakfast for her several thousand followers to admire. I don’t know how to bring it up, I don’t know how to ask her. Instead, we discuss our short term plans for the day. Maybe we’ll go out for Thai. It’s always Thai I think, but then, it’s one of those types of cuisines that always sounds good. She looks up from her phone finally and notices the dark circles under my eyes and asks if I got any sleep last night.
I tell her no, hardly any at all, while searching her face for any recollection of last night’s events.
She winces as she swallows some coffee and says she must be coming down with something, her throat feels a bit sore.
I nod and say I can pick up some cough drops later, she hands me the coffee asking if it tastes off.
“It tastes fine, earthy and roasted to perfection” I say.
She frowns in a way that reminds me of a frustrated bunny rabbit, lips cinched to one side.
“You look like you want to ask me something, and for your information the sex was fantastic, thank you babe” She says as she pecks me on the forhead before heading for the shower.
She doesn’t see the look of confusion on my haggard face.
We didnt have sex last night.
I’ve known her for all about two months, and about three weeks in a more intimate capacity. Yes, the nights of passionate love making did bring a flush to my face as I thought about it.
I hear the shower turn on and resist the urge to join her in there, instead I go outside to the back of the house. I’m not an animal tracker or woodsman or anything like that but I can see evidence that something was prowling around the house recently. Prints left in softer patches of exposed dirt tell me something was pacing below my bedroom window. In one of the rose bushes I see fluttering a scrap of pink silk. As I reach out to inspect it I hear the front door open and instead of the fabric, I pluck a blood red rose. She claps her face in her hands and gushes over the gesture and smells it lustily.
We kiss in that way that usually leads to further activities but she pulls away before my hands reach anything that would tempt her to stay.
“I’ve gotta go, can’t be late, have a surgery in forty five, see ya later?”
“Of course” I say, smiling stupidly.
God she is so amazing, I think as I watch her walk briskly to her car, reddish brown ponytail bouncing with her steps. The baby blue scrubs she’s wearing are loose fitting but tight in places that matter to my sense of aesthetics.
Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave, I say to myself and wave as her car speeds off to the veterinary clinic where she works.
Another flutter of pink catches my eye and I head to the grove of tightly packed trees that border my property. Hanging on a snapped branch is the rest of what I recognize as the pair of panties she was wearing last night. The stretchy material is completely distended and torn in several spots. She must have come this way after running out of the house like a woman possessed, shrieking. It’s hard going but there is a clear path, broken twigs and tiny shreds of pink leading me to a clearing beyond a large blackberry bramble.
I smell it before I see it, a heavy meat smell tinged with a sharp musky tang of ammonia.
Whatever it was, lies in a pile of gore, shattered bone and stringy bits of connective tissues.
I nearly toss up the coffee that roils in my stomach mixed with sour bile and hot flash that precedes a hurl. I am relieved to see that it is not human remains, indicated by a blood matted striped tail of a raccoon nested in the blackberry bush a few feet away.
I am suddenly exhausted and head back to the house wearily.
She was straddling me, I remember clearly, and just as she removed her sports bra I saw her eyes flash yellow as if lit from within by fire.
She went stiff, as if every muscle had turned to steel, and she seemed to gain about a hundred pounds before leaping off and running into the night.
Such was my shock that I just lay there before heading to the open front door. Her car was still parked on the street and it was quiet, like all the night birds and crickets were holding their collective breaths. A thick fog diffused the porch light making the darkness somehow soft and full of undulating movement.
I called out to her, my voice sounded weak and small as the dense fog absorbed it like a muffler.
From somewhere, not far, or particularly close, a violent commotion erupted.
Snarls and pain filled screeching, branches snapping and one final yelp followed by silence, thick and oozing silence.
Faintly I could hear wet tearing, soft crunching and the dull thudding of my own heart pounding in my chest.
I needed to get out of here, I needed my shoes! As I backed into the house the unmistakable howl of a wolf pierced the fog and my soul.
Before I could shut the door I could see something emerging from the grove, a dark shape lumbering towards me. Frozen in terror filled shock I simply watched it approach the threshold and enter without the slightest hesitation. It was a wolf, but loped on two lanky hind legs, its forelegs nearly reaching the ground were more like arms ending in hands tipped with long claws. It advanced, I retreated. The beast closed the door, almost gently, and even turned the deadbolt to lock it.
I could hear it breathing, I could smell its breath, coppery and hot. We repeated this odd dance until I was herded into my bed, thinking this was it. This was how I was going to die.
To my surprise it merely laid down next to me, and cradled me in its powerful arms.
I don’t know how long I stayed there awake as hell, and afraid to move lest it change its mind and decide it wanted seconds. When its breathing became a slow rhythmic bellows I relaxed a bit, and somehow fell asleep. Upon waking, surfacing from dark liquid dreams I refused to open my eyes and instead reached to one side as stealthily as I could. Smooth soft skin, not coarse fur. Thank god. I rolled to face her, and as I did she inhaled that first morning lungful and opened her eyes to meet mine. She smiled. I smiled.
“Hey” I say.
“Hey” She replied.
“My girlfriend is a werewolf” I say out loud to confirm my conclusion, and close my eyes for a much needed nap.
I really liked that last place we went, should go there again, I think before drifting off.
-
Beyond
This journey began as most journeys do, with a palpable charge of excitement, infecting myself and my company with a sense of adventure. I could see it in their eyes mostly, a lust propelled by stories of fortune and glory, no doubt spread like a brush fire through dry grass in a high wind. That fire quenched a bit upon seeing how abruptly the land towered from its shores. Clinging to that meager stretch was a tightly packed cluster of small buildings and two long jetties that reached out into the water like wooden arms ready to catch us. Once unhindered by the confines of the steamship we were no longer idle passengers and remembered again what our legs were supposed to be good for.
The fresh arctic air cooled our blood and cleansed our senses from the acrid odors of refuse and so many unwashed bodies. And, it just felt good to be on land again.
To say this little seaside town was bustling would be a severe understatement. Every which way I looked there was some kind of frenetic activity, a butcher cleaving a huge chop of something while a hungry dog watched eagerly for any scraps to fly its way. The soot stained face of a smithy dousing a lump of red hot iron into a bucket with a hiss, obscured momentarily by a cloud of steam. A pair of staggering men leaving a building with huge drunken smiles, the smell that trailed behind them redolent of whiskey and debauchery.
Barkers trying to outyell each other for the sale of various goods like german knit undergarments, seal skin gloves, and gumboots.
There was a tension amidst all the chaos, wary eyes watching from piles of stacked goods not yet loaded and packed away to their destinations. Men with rifles and grim faces bristled if anyone got too close. Thievery was met with swift and brutal justice involving either bullets or public displays of punitive flogging. I could see the latter in effect just off the main thruway. Two men stripped naked and striped all over with red from the lashes, their howls of pain a chorus mingled with jeers from the angry crowd around them. This wild place, made wilder by our incursion.
In the not so far distance through the haze of fire smoke we could see an unbroken line of dark shapes ascending a steep white wall like so many ants climbing towards a cleft between two tall peaks. Our path lay further South and was thankfully not as precarious, but then it was really just a choice of choosing between a rock or a hard place, now that I think about it.
The steady increase of incline was hardly noticed the first few days and the mood was light. We could hear songs amongst the line, and around the campfires stories of, what if and when, were told. Whatever fortunes these men hoped to find have already been spent, that much was obvious by their greedy smiles and raucous laughter.
Hard going came first in the form of cold muddy bogs hiding slippery wet stones that threatened to twist ankles and break legs. An injury like that out here, well, one is as good as dead.
A collective exhaustion took hold of and sunk our spirits. All we seemed to be able to do at this point was watch the immediate step ahead with our heads bowed. The horizon, our destination, flanked by endless soaring snow capped mountains never seemed to grow closer.
Stopped for the night, or what passes for it here, as the days are unnaturally long, the sun barely skims the horizon before deciding to come back up again. My stomach twisted in empty knots even after having a sparse meal having walked more miles that day than mouthfuls of fuel. I had never seen snow before, its usual pristine white glows like fire in the dusk. Its beauty is lost on me as I pine for home and all of its comforts, the warm air, the open spaces, the taste of fresh apples. This place is as indifferent to us as it is vast, it does not seem to notice our passing, or our tendency to break upon its treacherous paths. The ambivalent cruelty of it is reflected upon us like a fever and in turn making us just as cruel. Speed compelled by fists and harsh words, a violent coercion. Yet for some of us, there was nothing left to squeeze out. They would fall and wouldn’t get up again, their supplies distributed to the rest of us and our task became that much harder. Our progress had slowed, and ahead of us standing like a threat was yet another climb. We slipped on loose stones, our knees buckled but we managed to reach its dour height. Out of breath, out of energy, and out of hope, we took what rest afforded to us and were prodded again too soon after.
Those ahead were not faring much better but they seemed to shrink smaller as each day passed. We came upon some of their discarded supplies, none of it particularly useful, especially the corpses.
One such body must have fallen right along the path and was then trod upon so dispassionately that it mixed and muddied the ground with its viscera by thousands of trodding feet.
All that remained was scraps of skin and the head lying alongside, eyes rolled into the sockets writhing with fat white maggots.
The food supply was becoming scarce, what little was rationed had been cut to less than half of even that, and soon it would be gone entirely. I was still strong however, and was able to continue forward. I guess you could say I was born to do this.
No matter how fast we could go it was never fast enough for them, perhaps they realized this and spared us further torment for a time.
A commotion rippled down the line as it wormed to a stop. Furious screams and the sound of a leather strap hitting flesh over and over again, set my heart racing. On such a narrow path it was impossible to get a clear scene of what was happening, to one side, a sheer rock face and the other, a steep drop into a ravine. Several heads before me were shifting to either side to get a better view and through that constant shuffling I caught a glimpse of his face. His eyes were wild, his mouth frothing with madness and gibbering fury.
Instead of following the line of a pointed finger he hurled himself into the air. For a moment I thought he might make it to the opposing ledge, but he fell without another sound until his body splattered on the jagged stones below.
The line crept forward.
I considered the sensation of free fall and the fast approaching impact as a welcome end to this experience. But I did not jump, I chose to suffer a little while longer.
The lost supplies were lamented more so than the recent suicide.
Rounding the ravine we descended down a gentle slope free of loose stones. In almost every regard this could have been described as easy going if not for the fact that we were beyond exhaustion. A lazy stream glittered in the midday sunlight, I went to take a drink of it and came face to face with an apparition. I did not recognize my own features, my skull pressed through tight skin and withered muscle. A jagged line of dried blood streaked across my face from when I had been struck by a cascading stone set loose by a careless foot above.
The clear water filled my stomach but did little to ease my hunger.
As we turned another bend expecting to see just a valley, or a near impassable climb, we saw the lake. My heart soared in my chest, feeling delight at finally being so close to the end of our trail.
Free of my burdens I indulge in a generous meal followed by a long rest. Drifting away to the sounds of wood chopping and the intermittent crack of trees falling. Perhaps I dreamed, if so it was something I clung to with a desperation that numbed me to the rough boots jabbing at my side to wake me. Wherever I was I cannot say, the details of it evaporating like mournful ghosts, leaving behind a fleeting sense of being happy and content.
It was time to work again.
It happened as I was hauling a large log to be sawn into planks for boat making, the smell of pine tar was heavy in the air. I might have been distracted, noting how naked the surrounding hills looked without their coat of trees, then I felt it. A sudden plunge, my weight shifting towards the change in footing, sharp splinters of pain accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a bone snapping. This is it, I thought.
Nearby a tree being hacked at by two men with axes, tottered and swayed a moment, and then we both fell together.
As I lay here, I think about how small those boats look. Even the hastily made barges seem only big enough for just the men and remaining supplies. Perhaps this was intended to be a one way trip for me from the beginning. Footsteps approach from behind me and I hear the distinct metallic click of a hammer locking back. All of this effort and sacrifice for those little yellow rocks, but who am I to question such things? I am just a horse.
-
The layoff
My feet dangle off the edge of the jetty, the water is calm today and gently swells against the barnacle crusted concrete. The tide is going out I think, watching as the receding water exposes the tops of the boulders and slabs of rock that protect the jetty from erosion. Tiny crabs scuttle into crevices and cracks to evade being seen by the vigilant gulls that wheel above, screeching their plaintiff cries.
It’s not yet noon and it’s monday, a day and time that I would usually be in the office. I do enjoy this, the peace and perspective of it all. But I love my job too… loved my job, that is.
As of this last Friday I am a free agent. Not by my choosing of course, myself and about five hundred others across the company got the short goodbye.
I knew something was up when my new manager sent me an official meeting request. He never did that, and he never responded to Email. I just assumed he didn’t know how to use it.
Our first meeting he informed me that he was a hammer.
I wish I could have said what I was thinking at that moment, and I regret it now but it makes me smile in spite of it all. I would have asked in response – “So, you’re a tool then?”
I can almost see his blotchy pink face turn red in embarrassment as I play this scenario out again.
Ten minutes before the meeting and there’s a knock at my cube, it was my manager who looked as nervous as I should have felt but I didn’t. I knew exactly what was happening and I let him lead me to the room where I was sure there was paperwork to sign. I just accepted it, knowing the decision was already made.
In the present, I stare off past some rocks to see a couple of otters enjoying a late breakfast. I can see them bashing shellfish against stones on their tummies.
Just floating out there beyond the breakers amidst the tops of a kelp forest eating clams, what a life!
Waiting for us in the conference room was my director, and I wondered if this was a courtesy or a precaution. I smiled when I saw the open box of tissues, and sat within reach of them, taking the not so subtle hint.
It was the director who did the explaining, but at the same time not offering much. Just what HR had scripted for him probably, but this man was and is someone I respect and he seemed just as annoyed with the procedure as I was. I was stitching the scattered threads of truth to complete the actual reason. High level people in the company made promises they couldn’t keep and as such had to cut a percentage of the workforce to appease the shareholders.
Then there’s the paperwork. But I didn’t have a pen.
The middle manager holds one out across the wide desk. I notice his hands are trembling, and realize that he knows who should actually be signing these papers, the one truly expendable person in the room.
I was given seven months severance and benefits until the end of the year.
Absently I am chewing on my right thumbnail, it’s not a habit really, it’s just that it was uneven and jagged, prone to getting caught on things. A minor annoyance.
A sharp pain informs me that I had taken off too much and now there is a large sliver of thumbnail hanging right at the point where it curves into the skin.
I grip the loose bit between my left thumb and forefinger and yank. Best to do this kind of thing quickly, the pain is momentary, and I am pleased to see that there is no blood, just a pink swath of skin unaccustomed to open air.
I realize that I would prefer to have been fired instead of laid off. Because being fired involves willful discriminate actions or inactions. Something the one being fired can be held accountable for. A layoff typically has nothing to do with them, or their work ethic and contribution. Like being hit by a drunk driver on the road. Like paying for someone else’s mistakes. Collateral damage.
I can only guess as to the source of this kind of glorification.
I hold the chunk of nail to the ash colored sky before flicking it into the water, it doesn’t go far and floats for a second or two before sinking into the gray green soup.
I should be updating my resume, networking on various social sites, and thinking about next steps.
But I really don’t want to. I’m tired of the whole process. I’d rather be an otter.
I glance back to where I saw them but they have gone.
The ever present keening of the seagulls is gone as well.
Only the distant chorus of the waves breaking at the shoreline is heard.
As if this particular part of the world has sensed some kind of a predator and is holding very still.
The waves are no longer crashing because the water is rising, either the tide is coming back in or something very big has just entered the cove beneath the surface.
I look down to see the rising water and right between my dangling shoes a pale face resolves in the murk. It’s a woman, her skin white with icy undertones surfaces with the rising water, her dark hair covers one half of her features like a wet towel but forming to the shape of what looks skeletal and sunken in contrast to the uncovered side.
I scoot back away from the edge and stand in preparation for any further surprises and sure enough, her eye opens and fixes right on me.
The iris is so dark that it appears to be a huge dilated pupil and I see my terrified face in this black mirror. She smiles at my shocked expression but says nothing.
In a hand that looks more like bone shrink wrapped with charred skin is my fingernail, the fingers close around it and she brings the fist to her collarbones and nods in thanks.
The water behind her is pierced by three lances of white material that unfurl ephemeral sails as they hit the air. It is a ship, and as the dragonesque figure head rises to snarl at me I am close enough to see that it is composed of countless nails like the one I had so recently flicked into the water. She places my contribution into a protruding fang of the dragon and suddenly, very far away a deep drone sounds, words without form coalesce in my mind, words evocative of doom, and destruction not in any language that I understand.
She smiles in satisfaction at this, as if some long laid out plan is coming to fruition.
She scales the side of the massive ship with ease and is looking down at me from the prow as it continues to ascend till the hull is floating over the surface of the water. Another blast from that cosmic horn shakes the very concrete I’m standing on and in the distance I see a vast plume of water erupt to reveal a gargantuan form of scales as big as buses. Its head eclipses the sun and for a moment it is dark, the ground trembles at even its slightest movements. What follows is a bellow from a titanic maw and it thunders back into the water sending a tidal wave in every direction. The water recedes rapidly as if the ocean is being drained, the sea life not sucked away scuttles, flops and skitters about exposed in the open atmosphere.
I know I’ve got about two minutes before the wave hits land, and all I can think of is how small I am. It’s all just a matter of magnitude, this is just another layoff on a much grander scale.
A song breaks out on the ship of nails, deep voices from enormous throats thrum out a dirge that is both stirring and dreadful to hear. Oars emerge from its sides and they move in unison, in rhythm to the war chant. I don’t know where this ship is sailing to but its purpose is surely battle, I think. A war not meant for us mere mortals, only the dispassionate consequence in the wake of its fury.
The woman’s expression changes to something I can only read as pity as the ship heads off towards the horizon, sails full of nonexistent winds. Oars paddling invisible tides.
I guess the world ends for someone every day.
Today it’s all of us.
-
The Butterfly
Marcus isn’t listening as Lilla speaks. The conversation is drowned out by his own inner dialogue. He hears her voice, her tones rising and modulating in familiar conversational rhythms until that particular one that demands his input. Usually that is a cue for him to nod in agreement or utter some form of acknowledgement to what she had said.
Marcus is driving, and though he is distracted, traffic is light affording him some leeway in terms of staying in the lanes. Not too much, as he is still feeling the effects of the few drinks he had at the party. He tells himself he is fine to drive, even under the best of conditions and mental clarity, reaction time bears heavily on luck and impulse. Automatic actions requiring no thought, like catching a set of keys flung from across the room. Thinking too much about something can easily result in disaster. Then again, in Lillas case, this was exceptionally true. His mind’s eye keeps seeing the way her hand looked, resting on the forearm of a guy at the party.
Her skin so pale contrasted with his deep tan. The way her eyes lit up with laughter at something the guy said. Marcus’ hands grip the wheel a bit tighter as he wonders why she no longer does that for him, laugh that is. These days conversation was more of a routine exchange of words, without energy, just a dull weary act. Perhaps it’s all the things they actively avoid discussing so as not to degenerate into an all out argument. Such veritable landmines include her alcoholism, or her habit of staying out late with her friends, coming home smelling of cigarettes, alcohol sweat and something else.
This isn’t how things should be, he thinks.
He hated waiting for her, hated the absence of her light that she seemed to shine on everyone else except for him. Yet, they were still intimate, sometimes, and perhaps in those moments his frustrations with her were exorcized like howling demons. In those moments they were connected, which was one of the few things they had left in common.
He wanted to be the one coming home drunk, with her, laughing as she did, tossing her shoes on the floor making him have to lean down to kiss her open mouth.
But he would have to suffer the experience of seeing her flutter about like a butterfly, exuding affection and basking in its reciprocal waves of adoration.
Tonight had been one such experience, another truth he was finding hard to accept. He wanted something that she was never going to give him, assurance, a promise of tomorrow.
She has stopped talking, and is immersed in the glow of her phone. Probably posting photos of the party on some social network. Her dose of adoration and attention has worn off so she seeks it in the form of likes and reaction emojis.
This is Marcus’ only weapon against her. To withhold from her. To deprive her of that essence she seems to feed on, like a vampire, or parasite.
He wants to punish her.
He wants to throw her phone out the window.
He wants to crash this car into a concrete pylon.
Shes giggling and trying to show him something on her phone, he glances at it for a second. Its a group of smiling faces over an array of empty bottles. He notices how one face in particular is turned profile towards hers, perhaps leaning to whisper something in her ear. Marcus would like to see the other photos on her phone. He also dreads what he might discover.
Lilla lights a cigarette despite his admonishments about smoking in his car.
She’s pushing it, inviting a fight, he decides. He doesn’t bite, and watches the yellow lines serpentine ahead of him in the headlights. He does glance over to give her the look and sees for a second on her phone a short crop of pubic hair and something beneath that familiar shape of turf an unfamiliar object. He knows its not him in that picture, and it is almost definitely her.
Lilla is quite the exhibitionist, as he knows perfectly well. Could be an old picture from a past fling, or it could just be his imagination.
He would ask her if she was cheating on him, but those boundaries were never really set down. Just a whole lot of assumptions. The kind that he might have formed at a very young age thinking that is how it’s supposed to be, conditioned by television shows and of course his family. Instead he asks who that was.
She doesn’t reply, and just pulls a stalling drag on her cigarette. He can hear it sizzle, as it gives her time to answer. Something evasive he guesses. It’s someone he wouldn’t know, a long time ago. She says this offhandedly, like a long time ago wasn’t last week. She’s being way too cool about it but asks why he’s suddenly so concerned.
In response to this he accelerates the car.
She laughs, it’s not the light sound of amusement or delight, more of a startled reaction to the unexpected.
He’s taking curves a bit too fast and is drifting into other lanes, she’s asking him to slow down, but this only compels more speed.
An oncoming set of headlights fast approaches and has to swerve to avoid being clipped by Marcus’ wild driving. The blare of their horn dopplers away angrily.
She’s screaming at him now, her voice rising higher in panic like an impending climax.
He’s getting what he wants, her undivided attention, though this might be the last time, ever.
Of course he would prefer her affection, and to see desire in her eyes again, he doesn’t know when he lost her to other men, other interests.
He had missed a turn some time ago with no way to turn around, no direction to go except forward, both literally and figuratively. She’s calling him an asshole, spewing a tirade of obscenities at him. She’s telling him the truth now, she’s showing him who she really is.
He turns to look at her again, and she’s not there. Just the memory of her, and the cigarette burn left above the window. He wonders how she’s doing these days, and if she even thinks about him. Maybe her jumping out of the car when he was stopped at a red light saved both of their lives that night. What died though, left ghosts behind. And they dont rest easy.
-
Mellora’s Quest
I, like millions of people, play online games and have been playing them for a good chunk of my life. Well, one online game in particular. I realize that this is escapism, reality just has not been kind to me, it’s not that I think I deserve more, it’s that no matter what I’ve achieved in life it was never as good as I had imagined. Here I am already speaking of myself in the past tense… Im not depressed, nor am I suicidal, let me make that clear, I will just say that nothing in the real world can provide me with the satisfaction I desire. It doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else, I’m just getting this out there. I don’t have a social life to speak of, nor any interest to climb any corporate ladders. I make enough to be content with my lifestyle. Yes, it’s a lifestyle, or whatever you want to call it. I feel like people put labels on things so they can all nod and agree with each other. Just another way to validate their own choices. I suppose my obsession could be something like drugs or I dunno waifu body pillows. What I’m saying is, it could be way more cringey.
Now, I know technology is advancing to places that sci fi writers could only imagine decades ago. Fusion reactors, warp technology, nanomachines, the list goes on and though discovery and scientific progress is important, we as a culture have prioritized entertainment in ways that previous generations would be shocked by. We live vicariously through our tv stars and our elected officials. We exist by association, with no way to really contribute to these mediums save for watching, open mouthed and possibly drooling.
They say the general population is growing less intelligent as our dependencies on intuitive machines do the heavy lifting for us. Our brains are smoothing out, becoming passive receptors to any and all subversive ideas that penetrate our dulling minds.
I guess that’s the fear, and I don’t watch the news, or any shows following certain celebrities or what passes for royalty these days… such a waste of time.
No, I prefer to be engaged, challenged. I go on adventures all the time in this virtual place, you might know what it’s called, who doesn’t?
So I won’t name it here, but yes it’s the one you’re thinking about.
You could say I know quite a lot about it, and even now as I write this I would much rather be running through vibrant forests killing ratmen for loot, or chatting with people from all over the world about why pineapple on pizza is delicious.
Except I’m a little freaked out right now, not sure logging in would be such a good idea because I know she is there. I should explain why I guess.
Now as I’ve said, I’ve been playing this game for a long time and am very familiar with the world and its characters. I like to play in areas that are sort of off the beaten path, enjoying the story and its setting without the pressure of raid times and equipment requirements. Just me and the tasks set for me called quests. Some of these areas are just neglected for the most part as they tend to be out of the way which leaves the zone largely to myself. There’s a questline that I like to do sometimes when leveling a new character that has a pretty good reward at the end. Plus I liked the area a lot, the color scheme is lots of cool tones blues and purples with dappled green ground textures. Some people like to listen to their own music or play podcasts while playing but I enjoy the ambient music and sound effects, birds calling in the distance, the crunch of leaves as the character moves through the implied brush. It just makes it more immersive I guess. Along a winding path leading to a little valley there is a small cottage with an NPC named Mellora (that’s a non player character if you don’t know already) who starts a quest chain that eventually leads the player to a dungeon along the coastline if you have a specific item in your inventory. In this case it’s a message found in a bottle. Her story is about her lover lost at sea, presumably captured by a band of hideous fish creatures. I admit the questline is rather tedious having to run back and forth so much, but it’s worth it in the end. So I ran to the little cottage expecting to see her waiting inside with a big yellow exclamation mark hovering over her, ready to dispense the quest. Except she wasn’t there.
“What the hell? Maybe someone killed her? I said aloud, irritably.
As I waited for her to respawn which could be a few minutes I checked my crafting list to see where I was at with my chosen profession, alchemy. I could busy myself with gathering herbs in the meantime and just as my camera swung around to point out through the door I saw her walking towards the cottage.
“Huh, this is new.”
She was carrying something and upon seeing my avatar standing in the doorway she dropped it, a bundle of flowers scattering and falling to the ground. I moused over them and saw they were water lilies, something I could use for potions, but for some reason I could not target her. Very odd, maybe I should let her complete her path, some kind of RP event.
But instead of approaching she drew a longbow and aimed a notched arrow at me. From this angle it seemed like she was aiming right through my monitor and at my face.
White text appeared in a chat bubble over her head.
“What are you doing in my house?”
Stunned, I just stared in amazement. This was definitely new, and well beyond what I thought NPCs were capable of.
“Answer me or I will drop you where you stand!” She yelled, this time the text was in red.
“I was looking for you.” I typed out.
“To what purpose?” She spoke.
The text was white and I swear I could hear the tension in her bow relax a bit with a subtle creaking.
“Holy shit.” I said out loud, marveling at this entirely new experience in interaction with the game.
“I’m here to help you, your lover is missing.”
“How do you know that? Who are you?” She says as the bow disappears.
Knowing this storyline very well I tell her about the message in a bottle I recovered on the shore to the west. She then demands to see it and I open my inventory and am not sure how but the item I had found that starts this whole quest had become interactive so I clicked on it. I saw my avatar holding out a scrap of paper which she took from him, almost reverently.
The detail was incredible, I could see her eyes tracking lines written on a page as if she were actually reading it! She then seemed to shrink, and began to cry softly. Not the scripted sound bite that emotes a dramatic wail that you can do by typing in a command, but quiet, bitter sobs. By then I was wondering if I was not hallucinating, or what might have been in that energy drink I had earlier. After a moment she approached and stopped in front of my character and in white text said:
“Could you please move? You are blocking the door.”
Almost everything that moves in this game does not have collision, otherwise you’d have players obstructing things on purpose or if not on purpose then it would just be annoying to navigate a crowded area. So, players just pass through each other like ghosts avoiding such situations entirely. I accidentally hit the W key that moves my character in the direction he’s facing and collided with her, who responded with an indignant yelp. Hastily I backed him up into the cottage and she breezed by him with an odd expression on her face. Again, I was astounded by the animations, was this some kind of test or preview for new game mechanics? Mind you this is not a current gen game and generally has pretty low poly count but I swear I could see a furrow between her eyebrows. This quest I was doing had undergone some dramatic changes, and it seemed I would have to play along to proceed.
It took me a while to adjust to this new format of play and though it was so far the most granular quest experience I’ve ever seen, it had me engaged to the point that several hours had passed without me realizing it. The interactivity is what had me wondering if this was really an NPC and not like a game master taking the reins so to speak. Or, if this was AI it was really good cutting edge AI as our conversation seemed, well, real. She would comment on my combat skills as we proceeded to the shoreline, battling huge spiders and packs of starving wolves. She laughed when I would stop near their corpses asking what I was going to do with the various things I was collecting from them. One spider had a belt of decent quality and I showed it to her, the response was a mixture of bewilderment and amusement saying:
“why would a spider have such a thing on it?” And only nodded when I said maybe the adventurer that it ate must have had it on them. Now, I’ve never really RP’d before – that’s roleplayed for those that don’t know what that means, and I began to feel like I had been missing out on a very engaging aspect to my beloved game. Mellora’s responses were always in character and not wanting to break that fourth wall I played along Eventually I realized it had gotten very late and had work the next day, actually in about six hours to be exact, and she seemed genuinely confused when my character sat down as the log out timer ticked down. Just before the screen dissolved into the login portal I saw her wave, not to my character… but to me.
I sleepwalked through work, did my tasks, sent the emails, ate my lunch and performed everything with a mechanical sort of monotony. Not that anyone really noticed, as long as my emails ended with a friendly “Best Regards, Kevin” everything was just as it should be. My mind kept returning to the shaded woods of my game and to Mellora, and the chagrin that most players concerned with high stakes boss battles and pvp rankings would laugh at my experience, call me a weeb or something. In my downtime I checked out the wiki dedicated to the game and didn’t see any new posts or threads involving Mellora’s questline. No developer announcements save for server maintenance on its usual scheduled day.
I checked a few game forums and still nothing confirmed there was anything different.
Maybe I was the only one who knew about this?
In any case I couldn’t wait to get home and continue the quest with Mellora.
When I logged back in, my character was still sitting on the shore where I had left him, but nearby there was a campfire blazing cheerfully. As if someone placed it there for my benefit.
I checked my quest log and saw that the quest I was on was still active, but the description simply said; wait for Mellora to return. Weird, and kind of amazing. A couple minutes passed and I began to receive private messages from my guild asking why I was still out here. I replied that I was just enjoying the zone and when I was done I would run a dungeon or two with them. And then some white text appeared, which indicates speaking distance in the game. Not sure I clarified that earlier, I forget that not everyone plays these games… but anyway, it was Mellora and I saw the quest log update to the next part of her storyline.
The text read:
“Who are you talking to? Certainly not me?”
“Oh, I was speaking privately with one of my guild mates.”
“As in telepathy? Of course, I’m sure they were worried about you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“How you vanished, and yet I could still sense you somehow, as if you were still there and yet not.”
Of course she would know the exact coordinates of my character’s last position before logging off.
“Yes, something like that, not to worry, I’m here to stay for a good long time. And thanks for the fire, very thoughtful of you.”
“After you had vanished, I was uncertain what to do so I made camp here. You never know what could be prowling near these waters. She turned to gaze out over the water then, although there was no animation, the sounds of gentle waves breaking and distant seagulls suggested them. I could tell she was thinking about her lover, lost and probably dead… and somehow I think maybe it might be different this time. Having done this quest a few times before, I knew that Lonus was indeed dead inside the dungeons’ depth nearby, hacked to pieces by fishmen. But this time around, I wonder if that is true.
As we approached the entrance to what looked like a temple partially buried in sand, covered in corals and clinging sea life, I realized that going in there would mean the death of both of us. I told her that we needed more help to proceed. She looked at my character appraisingly, saying that she was sure the two of us could do it.
I won’t bore you with the details but at my character’s level I would be hard pressed to make it past the first few monsters that lurked inside the instance. Usually these things are intended for five players with special skills to effectively navigate them.
But inside we went, and it was not what I was expecting at all. The usual groups of monsters were spread out more and seemed more attentive to would be trespassers, so we had to sneak if such a thing was possible. It wasn’t just this NPC that had been given this new dynamic upgrade but maybe being on this special questline changed everything around it. It was quite an experience, and upon seeing the body of her beloved Lonus in one of the many waterlogged chambers she didn’t seem sad, more relieved as the finality was presented to her. Nonetheless I felt a tug at my heartstrings knowing that she preferred knowing the truth rather than living with ambiguity. And again time had slipped by without notice and as I logged off again after telling Mellora that I had to, she said something that didn’t hit me until I was looking at my desktop interface.
She called me by name, my real name. She said:
“Sleep well Kevin.”
I just sat there gaping at my screen, wondering how this was possible. Either I was just really tired and imagining things or this was a pretty severe security leak. My account information was not included in the game files, that was separate… I must have told her my name at some point in one of our many conversations but that didn’t track… our conversations rarely broke character and when they did she would just get confused and interpret it into relevant game stuff. Something I tried very hard to avoid, I’m not sure why but I was really invested in the immersion. Perhaps this was when I began to think it was not intended functionality. The next day, thankfully, was Saturday and before I logged on again I pinged some of my guildies from a message service the guild uses to organize raids and such. I asked them to ride out to Mellora’s cottage and see if they noticed any changes to the questline.
Of course they wanted to know why, it being so far out of their usual routines, so I offered twenty gold to whoever would go and check it out.
Twenty gold is a fair amount and so I quickly had a response in the affirmative. I demanded screenshots as proof, and my guild mate did one better. He streamed his journey out to Mellora’s cottage that’s like a real time video of what he was doing in the game. Once there I saw the old familiar character of Mellora standing in the doorway.
“Ah man, I dont have the message in a bottle I need to do this… you gonna make me go get it?
“Twenty gold is twenty gold man.” I replied.
“Okay, fair enough.”
I watched as he did the tedious trek from the cottage to the coastline and then back again to see Mellora standing there with a yellow exclamation point hovering over her head, like an NPC, not my Mellora.
“Huh, interesting.” I said.
“You want me to do the whole dang quest too?”
“No man, it’s cool you can drop it, just wanted to see something thanks. Gold will be on its way presently.”
“Haha nice, thanks.”
I logged in on one of my many other characters to send him his fee then switched over with an odd foreboding. While the status bar crept across the screen I wasn’t sure what to expect, but sure enough there was a campfire there to greet me as the game resolved.
My quest log simply read:
“Save Mellora from the tide reavers.”
“Shit!” I exclaimed while setting my character off in the direction of the quest indicated. Tide reavers are the zones free roaming baddies that account for many deaths, myself having died to them several times when going afk for a drink or a bathroom trip only to come back to the ghost screen. I wished as I ran that I had my higher level character to do this as they had a fast land mount and much better armor to deal with these things. But I suspected that on any other character this questline would not be active in the way that it was. And so I ran all the way up the long stretch of shoreline, letting mobs chase after me until they reached the end of their chase protocols or picked off by other players.
I could see a lone figure fending off two massive crablike creatures, her bow was out and she was shooting while moving away from them. My character dashed in at triple speed when he was close enough to do so and began to hack at them. Together we made short work of them, as she could unload without having to keep her distance for harder hitting attacks.
This was the last stage in the quest as I recalled, having to bring a keepsake from one of the tide reavers which belonged to Lonus, and sure enough there was a necklace on one of the husks. I wondered then what would happen once I turned this in to her. Would she just return to her cottage for the next player like myself or was this something else? There was only one way to find out as my character approached her with the necklace in his inventory.
There wasn’t an icon hovering over her head but she held out her hand instead and I clicked on the item. She held it for a moment and clasped a fist around it tightly before kissing her knuckles then promptly cast it into the motionless water.
“Goodbye Lonus.” The white text seemed almost a pale gray which I read as a hushed tone, then she turned to my character with another quest prompt.
There was the familiar option of the chainmail shoulder piece I would have normally picked and another thing. The other option was a dialogue option, and forsaking the sweet shield I clicked on that and then her text began to scroll across the chat window.
“Kevin, you now have a choice to make. A big choice, and you can take all the time you need to think about it, for it will change your life forever. I will return to my cottage now and await your answer. You truly love this world and you are being offered a chance to live here, for as long as the world exists.”
I couldn’t believe what I was reading, was this for real? Can this really happen? I just typed one word before logging out.
“Okay.”
So now here I am staring at the log in screen with a mixture of excitement, terror and about a million questions unanswered. I’m not sure if this will work, but I’ve decided to see where this goes. If given the choice to stay in my so-called reality, where I hate my job, my family, no real friends or lovers speak of, or to go where I’ve never felt like an outsider, a place I truly belong, I’d be committing a terrible tragedy if I stayed here. This being a record of what happened in case it’s real of course, if not, I will just file this away under weird things that happened to me in life and no one else is the wiser… but if it does work, holy crap. I guess you might see me again, adventuring somewhere in my beloved online world.
Well, here goes nothing, I’ve got a quest to turn in.
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Job hunting
So I’ve settled. Currently work in a liquor store which is a fall from the lofty positions and titles I’ve held. But is it really? I have steady income. Its enough. I don’t have a lengthy commute and I never have meetings that could have been emails. Nor do I feel pressure to gain ranks within the organization. I’m just trading my time for money in an efficient manner. Had I gotten the next corporate gig or some other promising entry level thing I would still be settling. I would perpetually be seeking ascension. Inevitably hitting a wall as I do, splattering my career across the pavement. I am accomplished, I’ve written and published a novel. My artwork is all over the planet. So here I am free to pursue things at my own pace. Fame and fortune are not my goals, simply satisfaction at seeing it through will suffice. Perhaps I’ve learned that when you have things others want, you are at risk of it being stripped away. Maybe one day my work will be acknowledged, and fame will be granted, posthumously I prefer because in all honesty I would not know what to do with it.
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The Exit Light 