The Price of Stardom
Copyright: Demented Thinking Producitons 1998
Sally Kincaid was a beautiful woman. Her dark red hair draped down across her small, milky shoulders. Sally adorned herself with lavish facials and massages, treating her beauty to the finer things in life. Once a week it was an expense she endured, but it was all for the best. Sally could afford it, she could afford anything, she was rich even beyond her own belief. She was a Kincaid and the very name bred wealth and prosperity.
Sally arose early, excited about the possibilities of another day in the comfort and complete pampering she had been receiving every since she was a little girl living in that big mansion on Timber Lane. It was a beautiful place with great huge oak trees lining the long pebbled driveway and more roses a person could count everywhere. The roses, of course, were her mother’s idea. She loved them so, and Sally tended to think they were rather nice herself. The old mansion on Timber Lane was especially pretty in the summer time. They had a huge pond to swim in with the ducks lining the sides, taking their sweet time drinking and eating on the lush vegetation surrounding the pond.
Sally brushed her lovely long hair 100 times this morning in front of her mirror on the make-up table as she did every morning like clockwork. Gazing into the ancient mirror with gold inlays, Sally marveled at her spectacular beauty and puckered her lips in a pretend Marilyn Monroe kiss. Vanity, Sally felt, was one of her strong points, and to this day no one has disputed it.
She’d gaze in the mirror for hours if she didn’t have such a busy schedule these days. A gorgeous model like her has numerous photo shoots, layouts, and commercials planned for months to come jumbling up her schedule to the brink.
Smiling to herself as she carefully put on her backless black dress Sally remembered being a young girl of twelve enrolling in every beauty pageant that was offered. Quite frequently she won first prize. Sally gazed up at her many trophies littering the shelves in her room and smiled.
Talent was another strong point of Sally’s. She was an accomplished violinist and that, as well, came with certain responsibilities just like the modeling career. Next month she had been invited to play with the London Symphony Orchestra, and because of her stardom and talent she would respectfully accept their gracious offer to fly her first class to England all expenses paid and play for a few songs. Sally was quite excited about this prospect and talked about it in length with other friends and family. How she refuses such an honor? She could not let her public and fans down, after all they awaited her every move all over the world with bated breath. The only thing that concerned her was flying. Sally did not like to fly. It terrified her if the truth be known. Planes are small and cumbersome and have been known to catch on fire from time to time. And if there was anything she hated the most, it was fire. It burned and hurt so bad... Sally shook her head clearing the thoughts rummaging around within. No, Sally Kincaid was an honorable woman and she would go to England and serve her public with her enormous presence. But, the fire... Sally violently shook her head back and forth shaking the vision from her mind’s eye, “Best not to think of that, darling,” Sally said to herself.
Sally sat back down at her dressing table and blinked for a moment. She had no knowledge of how she came to be standing at that point in time, but there she was standing there in the middle of the room in a coiled position. “Well, that was strange, darling,” Sally spoke to herself again. Shaking her head she began to apply her make-up evenly and carefully. Starting with the eyes Sally mused, “Must look natural. That’s good for your public, darling, always look natural.” Sally administered the rest of her make-up quickly.
Once finished, Sally looked at her watch and realized it was almost time for Ruthledge to bring her the big breakfast she’d had ordered. She always took breakfast in her room now that she was a star. Sally never knew when a adoring fan would pop up and want an autograph, so a few years back she took to having breakfast in the quiet of her own bedroom.
Taking one last noticeable lasting look in the mirror, Sally began to turn away when out of the corner of her eye she noticed an ugly flaw in the mirror itself. Sally stepped closer to get a better look and the flaw shifted around the edges and into the middle. It seemed to sway and melt before her eyes. Sally stood agape as she helplessly watched the mirror perform its transition. Quickly closing her eyes and wishing it away, Sally took a deep breath slowly counting to ten. “One, Two, Three...” Sally mumbled incoherently, “Four, Five, Six...,” Sally’s voice intensified and began to tremble ever so slightly, “Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten!” Sally slowly opened her eyes and looked, hoping, praying the appendage was gone. It was and Sally breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s got to be all this pressure I’m under. I must have Ruthledge take a look at that mirror. My mind is just playing tricks on me,” Sally said with more assurance than she truly felt.
The huge steel door to her room unlatched with an uneven clanking sound giving away to a high pitched squealing. If Sally noticed she certainly did not jump or react in any way. Sally always kept her room locked tightly against any of her public who may want to pry into her private life. Even though she loved her fans, she did not want them barging into her room and parading around asking all sorts of questions while she was trying to dress or make herself beautiful. It was just plain rude, and one thing Sally Kincaid did not like was rudeness.
The cumbersome door skidded to a halt and Ruthledge appeared from behind like a man on trail. “Oh Ruthledge, it’s so good to see you, darling!” Sally exclaimed, “I’m absolutely famished. What did you bring me this morning, dear?” The man gave Sally a puzzled look and confessed, “I’m not Ruthledge, Miss Kincaid.” Sally glared at the man and for a moment he wasn’t sure what she would do. A big bright smile came over her face and she politely said, “Well, sure you are, darling. You wear the same thing every day. It’s the same white uniform I picked out for you three years ago at the department store, don’t you remember?” Without allowing the man a chance to answer, Sally turned her attention to her plate signaling that the conversation was closed. It was the only way she could do it. With help these days you just had to be abrupt, they never knew when to go away. The young man rolled his eyes in disgust and quietly left the tiny box-like white room.
Sally ate slowly chewing each bite 32 times and savoring the wonderful flavor of each morsel. She put down her fork in a robotic fashion after every bite and fiddled with the napkin she always placed in her lap. Manners were another strong point of Sally’s. Sally always demonstrated good manners every since she was a tiny child. She always ate with her elbows off the table, she always picked the correct fork, spoon and knife, and she chewed with her mouth closed. She was so perfect even God smiled down on her and said, “Wow! That is a perfect specimen!” Whisking away the last bite, Sally checked her watch again. “Oh dear,” she gasped, “I have a meeting with my agent in 10 minutes, I’m going to be late!” Sally quickly gathered her purse and gloves, checked her face one more time in the mirror and left her tiny room to greet her public on the way to see Mr. Stevenson her brilliant agent.
As she glided down the white, immaculate hallway she greeted her public enthusiastically with smiles, hugs and autographs. Sally was usually quick to explain she was in a hurry for an important meeting with Mr. Stevenson and she could not spend the time with them that she would like right now, but later she would sit with them and talk. For the most part, most of them understood her busy schedule with the exception of Miloh Tillston. Miloh was a dear, sweet friend whom she cherished beyond any other. He was a smart man, and just like her he was a star too. Sally relished in his tales of what goes on during the filming of the action movies he acts in. Miloh is a regular rough and tough Arnold Schwarzenegger, but cute and handsome just like Mel Gibson. Sally adored Miloh with all her heart, and if she wasn’t so busy with contracts and endless photo shoots she would settle down and marry Miloh or at least have a fling with him. But, for now she had a groundbreaking meeting to get to. Miloh escorted her down the sterile white corridor while they discussed both of their careers and the importance that they above all remain friends no matter what.
As Sally approached Mr. Stevenson’s door the reminiscent butterflies scrambled around in her stomach. Every time right before their twice a week meetings the same sense of dread crept up and gave Sally a nasty bout of nausea. Taking a deep breath to relieve it as much as possible, Sally rapped lightly on the door and without waiting for a reply barged in and sat across from Mr. Stevenson on a black leather couch.
Mr. Stevenson sat behind his desk glancing through a rather large file making notes on the sides. Without looking up Stevenson said, “How are we doing today, Sally?” Sally fidgeted for a moment and said nothing. She rubbed the edges of her purse while intently watching Mr. Stevenson write the last bit of notes he had and put down his pen on the desk next to the file. “Well?” He said, prodding. Stevenson waited for a reply as Sally squirmed slightly as if in deep thought. After a long pause and overwhelming silence, Sally replied, “Ruthledge came by this morning with my breakfast.” Stevenson’s bushy eyebrows rose in disbelief, “Did he now?”
“Yes, and he insisted he wasn’t Rutledge all. Isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?”
“Indeed it is.” Stevenson replied as he began jotting down notes again on the enormous file sitting opened on his desk. “He rolled his eyes around when he left. I had my back to him and he thinks that I did not see, but I know. I felt it,” Sally interjected excitedly. “Of course, you did.”
“I’m not stupid you know.”
“Oh, I know Miss Kincaid. You’re quite a smart one aren’t you?” Ignoring the sarcasm in Stevenson’s voice Sally began to rattle almost so quickly that Stevenson had to really listen without telling her to slow down. “Not like some of my public, you know.” Stevenson scrawled a few notes, briefly looked up and commented, “No, not at all like them, are you?” Sally kept babbling as if she never heard Stevenson’s comment, “Some them just stare blankly at me as if they are in awe of my beauty. They know a star when they see one.”
Stevenson quickly scribbled a few more notes and bluntly said, “I’m sure they do. Now let’s get down to business. How do you feel today, Miss Kincaid?” A long silence hung in the air before Sally began answering, “Well... This morning there was a flaw in my mirror, or at least I thought there was, but I closed my eyes and counted to ten and my wonderful face was staring back at me again.” “Um...Hmm.” “It’s funny,” Sally continued without paying any attention to Stevenson’s thoughtful response, “...How one’s mind can play tricks on them, isn’t it?” Sally smiled big and bright with a little chuckle to sell the uncomfortable feeling overwhelming her while she talked about the mishap with the jaded mirror. Mr. Stevenson put his pen down and looked at Sally for a long moment before answering, “Yes it is. Does your mind often play these...uh...tricks on you?” Sally laughed openly and out loud, “Now, Mr. Stevenson, you know my mind is as sharp as a tack!” Stevenson regarded Sally for a moment with slight surprise and before she realized it was surprise he looked at her with he bent his head back down to his notes and began scrawling furiously again. “Tell me, Sally, has your mirror ever...uh...faltered like this before?” Sally fidgeted with her purse strap and said with a big pasted on smile she had to work at to force on her face, “Well, yes, but I don’t see the importance in really telling you. I mean, it’s such a little thing, you know.” “Well, nothing in this business is little, Sally.” Sally laughed and slapped her knee hard, “Don’t I know it! That’s what I keep telling Miloh.” Deep in though again Stevenson replied with a, “Um...Hmm.” Sally’s smile faltered a little as she said, “Other than that, I feel fine. I’ve many, many things going for me, thanks to you, Mr. Stevenson.”
“Oh, How so, Sally.” Stevenson replied with a raised eyebrow. “Well, there’s that photo shoot. Oh, and that wonderful layout. And, the best of all, that big commercial coming up next month! I owe it all to you, Mr. Stevenson. I couldn’t of done it without you! You’re a wonderful agent and I just love you to pieces for it!” Stevenson regarded with extreme sympathy for a moment before he frowned and finally answered, “Miss Kincaid, do you know where you are?” Sally’s broad smile fell from her face and threw clinched teeth she countered, “Sure I do. I’m in your office talking about my job.”
“No, I mean overall, do you know where you are?”
“Overall, I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Stevenson.” Stevenson spread his hands out over his desk, “Overall! Outside this office, the entire complex you live in now. Do you know where you really are, Sally?” Sally looked at Stevenson for a moment completely dumbfounded, “Well, I live in an apartment complex not too far from here. I share it with some of my adoring fans and my dear, sweet friend Miloh. They all adore me, even though they say nothing I know in here,” Sally points to her heart with her hand, “I know, I see it in their eyes,” Sally’s voice began to trembled as she continued, “I receive a facial and a massage once a week and I share coffee and conversation about his and my stardom with Miloh on many occasions during the week.” Stevenson cut her off with a wave of his hand, “Miss Kincaid...Sally, Look I know it’s hard for you, but you do not live in an apartment complex, this is a hospital. Miloh is not an actor; he’s a patient just like you with a certain amount of problems. These people here are not you fans, most of them don’t even know who they are nor do they care. You’ve been through an awful lot,” Stevenson’s voice softened as he continued, “You’ve been through a lot in your life, Sally. The fire was really bad. Do you remember the fire that killed your parents, Sally?” Sally’s face reddened as the crocodile tears began to stream down her swollen face racing to her neck and she mumbled, “I..., Don’t like fire,” quietly. “Well, I would suspect not given your circumstances, Sally.” Stevenson soothed calmly, “Look, Sally you suffered a great deal in the past 15 years. I realize it’s hard for you to come to grips with what you have lost, but I know deep down inside you know the real truth, and you have to dig down and remember the bad things to move on to the good ones, don’t you?” Bigger tears rolled down Sally’s cheeks as she remembered small flashbacks from that fatal night 15 years ago. The screams, the flames, oh, God the pain. It hurt so bad. Sally remembered the final inhuman sounding screams escaping from her parents’ bedroom as they died in the flames. Sally remembered the third degree burns that roasted 90 percent of her body including her beautiful face. Her hands flew up to her face, “Oh God, my face, my beautiful face!” Sally broke out into a whole new line of sobs. “They were good to me, you know. Daddy worked so hard to get the money to buy my gowns for the pageants, and momma sewed and stitched together the other ones we couldn’t afford.” Stevenson nodded in agreement, but said nothing as Sally continued, “They didn’t deserve to die! I didn’t deserve this face or this body! Why! Why did this happen to me! I looked so...so...so beautiful!” Sally’s body racked with sobs as she completely broke down. Stevenson flipped a switch on his desk silently signaling the nurse for her assistance, within seconds a tiny black haired nurse named Nancy Brighton appeared, “Yes, doctor?”
“Make sure Miss Kincaid makes it back to her room safely and give her this medication from the pharmacy,” Stevenson quickly scrawled a prescription out and handed it to Nancy Brighton, “Now, Sally, the quicker you face what really happened and began to deal with it the faster you will heal and you will one day go out into the real world and do something meaningful to society. But, first you must stop this fantasy land or else you will staying here for a long time to come, okay?” Still sobbing uncontrollably, Sally eeked out an, “Okay, DR, Stevenson,” in compliance and went with the nurse back to her white room with one pristine hospital bed, one simple nightstand, and one padded chair.
Sally Kincaid sat for hours after rocking in her chair seeing her perfect mirror and her perfect face in a perfectly good insane asylum.
A personal blog with my horror/sci-fi poems, short stories, heavy metal lyrics and personal posts.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Seclusion
Copyright by Demented Thinking Productions 1998
Seclusion
Space is blandly empty, bleak and devout of time and understanding. Time escapes the normal bound in space, and emptiness configures the reality of stars rushing past a portal window in the deep black void of nothingness. But, Space is not without faults of it's own. The blackness which encases those who dare to unleash it's brutal powers always call to the unaware and the young at heart. For Steve Donovan, a self proclaimed human arms dealer operating within the confines of the Gamma Sector galaxies away from his home planet of earth, misunderstandings and emptiness plague his every day life with their inconsistencies. No doubt humans are the weaker life form in the offset Gamma Sector where most humans, if they are smart, take heed and stay away from the thousands of alien races waiting to rage their vengeance upon humanoid heads, but Steve preferred his seclusion and privacy. The Gamma Sector, for Steve, provided all the privacy he needed and dared to hunger for. Space was the only place he could think straight. The enormous glowing stars guided his travels and he was as happy as any arms dealer would be while constantly looking over his shoulder. His life was a dangerous one, but a profitable one as well. Steve made friends just as easily as he made enemies. He was a loner and liked it that way. But, for Steve Donovan perhaps the biggest scare of his mortal life happened along unexpectedly about 8 months ago.
Donovan sailed the Gamma Sector every day of his adult life. He choose the area because it was the most profitable. Alien races would not be accustomed to seeing eye to eye and pulling together as a whole, therefore they fought like cats and dogs, and Steve capitalized on their shortcomings. For years Steve sold weapons to both sides of the track without as so much of a hint of being caught. His customers were happy with their purchases. The guns worked and solved the problems, that was all they cared about.
Steve knew every hole, space rift, and anomaly like the back of his hand and he usually traveled alone because it was cheaper in two respects. One, he did not have to pay an extra crewman to do the work he could do on his own and two, he never had to worry about a disgruntled employee selling him out to the opposition. In Steve's opinion, bringing along an extra mouth to feed was bad business. Eight months ago Steve navigated the outer regions of the Signauch Cluster which was a cluster of ten warring planets nestled deep within the northernmost hemisphere of the Gamma Sector. Tired from flying for three days straight on nothing but high quantities of caffeine and a little miracle drug called the "little yellow missiles," which if you took enough of them they "shot" you into space, Steve decided to lay over at a small little known planet named Syberius 4 just hidden in the back of the cluster. He usually found the outermost remote planet to grab some rest and relaxation, so he could peacefully shake off the weariness of his travels without worrying about time constraints, over populated crowds, and the usual unwelcoming attitudes toward newcomers and foreign traders. Steve left his small barely runnable ship at the space dock in the city of Cacus deep within the depths of Syberius 4 and found himself guided to a small pub known as, The Garden Lily, coined after the 21st century pubs which graced England's countryside’s on Earth. As Steve plopped his aching bones on a bar stool at the far end of the bar he ordered the house specialty entitled, Lily's Secret. What exactly the secret was, Steve was unsure and did not really care, but he assumed the secret was the drink tasted horrible until the forth or fifth swallow and by that time you were drunk and did not care what it tasted like. By the sixth or seventh sip, you became a dilapidated, run-down drunk who knew it all and should be put to rest. Steve was working on his sixth slurp and on knowing every little mystery the universe held in the palms of its hands.
If Steve blew off a little steam it didn't make any difference. He had a 4 day lay over in Cacus while he waited for the Border Wars to cease with the signing of the peace agreement between the Syberiums and the Denauchians. Both chancellors from their perspective sides would sign the treaty tomorrow morning at 0900 hours and all would be rosy between the two warring peoples. Steve wanted to relax and think about what he would do now and who he would sell his highly regarded weapons to. In the next four days his precious cargo would be loaded and he would be on his way out of this sector entirely looking for new clients to wage arms on.
As he sipped nonchalantly on his secretive drink which was beginning to taste pretty good by now, Steve watched a dart game in the corner of the bar between a Syberium named Forghe and a Denauchian named Methus. It was an apparent friendly game and Steve watched with some detached, bemused curiosity as Forghe accused Methus of stepping over the line on his winning dart tagging the center bull dead on, and taking the pile of monetary Sulker Chips the two adversaries promptly bet. Both Forgthe, a biochemical engineer, and Methus, a strong Denauchian warrior, stood toe to toe for at least ten full minutes arguing over the point as if neither had any other forms of money left in the vast universe. Steve, like a few other passive admirers watched thoughtfully as the two aliens called each other and certain members of their families everything in the book. Steve waited until the argument seemed to be getting out of hand and interjected in a soft spoken voice while staring at his emptying glass, "He wasn't over the line. You're upset, Forgthe, because he's a Denauchian and on top of being a better dart player than you, he's beat you fair and square."
The tiny, homely bar fell to a dead silence as both aliens regarded Steve with distrust and contempt. No one moved for what seemed like years as both aliens glared at Steve in anger. Figuring he had opened up one hell of a can of worms, Steve decided to finish it and spoke quietly again, "Why don't you throw the turn over, shake hands and kiss and make up?" Forgthe and Methus eyed each other seemingly contemplating Steve's advice. Slowly turning their attention back to Steve Methus rasped, "And what do you know of darts, human?" Methus drug out the word human like it was foul and disgusting. Steve shuddered, "Here we go," he muttered to himself under his breath. Forgthe sauntered over to Steve's bar stool, grabbed the back of the chair firmly and whipped Steve around to face him in a split second. Claiming in a loud boisterous voice Forgthe announced, "The human will now demonstrate the correct way to play darts!" Again the word human was spit upon and Steve began to see his folly wishing he would just silently slip out of the chair and disappear somewhere away from this confrontation. His heart sped up and his brain worked quickly trying to figure a way out of this craziness.
The bar was still and silent and Steve knew a fight was unavoidable at this point. Steve never backed down from a fight even when he was stupid and drunk like he was now, and he certainly wasn't going to slip away just when things got hot and interesting. Forgthe's nose just about touched the tip of Steve's and his breath smelled like rotten eggs baked all day out on the heat of Mars' dusty surface. Steve could physically see Forgthe's skin oozing a light green secretion from his pores signifying his rage and anger. The stench was unbearable and Steve had to get away from the Syberium. He was choking on the alien's scent and the more Forgthe eyed Steve the madder he seemed to get. Steve noted this and replied, "Oh, are we a little mad, Forgthe? You need a human to tell you how to play?" That was it. Steve sailed over the bar counter and by the time he hit the glass shredded floor he realized Forgthe was stronger than he gave him credit for, not to mention he was glad to be away from the foul smelling alien before he puked in his face.
Brushing himself off while calculating the best plight of defense, Steve looked about the dimly lit room for a weapon within reach. Finding none and, for the moment in his drunken stupor, forgetting about his knife he always carried just for these unexpected occasions, Steve leaped over the bar and put up his fists ready for the blow, but not knowing from which direction it would come. Just as he planted his feet firmly on the ground and took his first swing at Forgthe the blow came from behind. Methus clocked him a good one, right up side the head. As he slipped into the abysmal darkness sure to come Steve kicked himself for not knowing where Methus was. As the lights went totally out Steve heard Methus say, "Let's get this human scum out of our bar!"
Six long hours later, Steve Donovan awoke in his own cramped quarters aboard his little ship, Fresca, and rubbed his eyes slowly. His head hurt from the knockout blow and everything else ached from the hangover he was working on. He wiped his brow and massaged his temples as he fumbled for his cigarettes. His cabin was eerily dark with the exception of the small headboard light securely fastened to the top of his bed. The insignificant light blinded him and he blinked as he searched the most obscure corners of the quaint little chamber. Everything was in its rightful place. Nothing was missing.
The pictures of his family hung on the left-hand wall right where he'd tacked them. All of his books were piled in an organized mess atop his hardwood desk he had picked up in the Delta Sector while running guns for a Moscian investor. But, something was amiss. He didn't know what yet, but something was definitely not right with this picture. Steve sat up quickly and as always hit his head on the overhead light reminding him of the forming headache from the crack to the back of the head he took from Methus. His head spun, and the evenings events swam to and fro within his muddled brain fraying his balance. Waiting for the excruciating pain to cease and his thoughts to clear enough for him to figure out what exactly happened to him, Steve touched the lump on the back of his head and let out a little yelp. Trying his hand at standing, Steve slumped back into the bed like melted butter. "Oh, my head," Steve moaned as he got his bearings. Steve leaned against the headboard waiting for the wave of nausea and dizziness to subside. No matter what he did he could not get comfortable and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was not right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew there was something he should of figured out by now.
Staring out the small port hole in his cabin, one of the only windows on the tiny ship, it came to him. He wasn't in space dock any longer. Somehow, Steve was adrift out in the vast wasteland of space or worse someone else was aboard his ship piloting it to God knows where. A fleeting thought practically brandished Steve right between the eyes. What if my shipment has been tarnished or somehow compromised? Steve hopped up a little too quickly and as he physically shook off the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him again, he headed for the automatic cabin door walking in a zig zag pattern with some certainty. As he approached the door it swished open and another horrible thought occurred to him. What if he was lost in a unforgiving region of space he had not yet chartered? Quickly dismissing this thought, a chill ran up and down his spine acknowledging his terror.
Shaking the cobwebs from his muddled mind, Steve proceeded out the cabin door carefully drawing his old fashioned hunting knife and crept down the Fresca's empty corridors he had felt comfortably alone in until this very moment. Right now, he wished like hell he had picked up the 16 year old boy passenger running away from home on Terinauch. At least he'd have some one to share this insanity with and to talk to. He'd settle for anyone at this point and if it was a 16 year old kid, then so be it.
As Steve Donovan slowly made his way down the darkened hallways to the well equipped bridge he took careful consideration of the most innate possibilities that undeniably sought him ahead. The corridors cried out in loneliness and they became hauntingly quiet. Steve shivered, checked his watch and kept a steady pace to his target. The cool, gray walls closed in around him and panic welled deep within the furthest regions of his aching mind. Steve closed his eyes willing the fear to subside and took a deep breath letting it out slowly as if he was participating in a Lamaze class. Steve kept moving none the less feeling his way along the hall and knowing his own ship's schematics by heart. The tiny hairs at the nape of his neck prickled and frigid chills ran up his spine.
Fighting to overcome his horror, Steve typed in his six digit numerical code with shaky persistence into the command box just adjacent to bridge door. Holding his breath, he hoped the door would gladly obey and rush open as it slowly slid away to reveal the tiny bridge. It was completely empty. No one piloted Fresca through any kind of space, it was flying all on it's own. The bridge controls blinked and beeped as Fresca drifted on what seemed to be autopilot.
Donovan quickly seated himself at the captains console and examined the controls carefully. Everything seemed to be in perfect working order and running smoothly, purring like a kitten. Fresca was logged in on a course, what course he wasn't exactly sure, but all the settings appeared to be correct. The ship's safety buffers were in place and all the systems functioned properly. Steve checked them and then double checked them. Sure that Fresca was working up to specs, Steve decided with some apprehension to leave the bridge for now and investigate the rest of the little ship. Upon exiting the bridge, the door swished shut behind him and he entered his six digit code again locking the door just in case he wasn't the only being roaming about the Fresca. Slowly wandering down the corridors taking in every little tick like a sponge, Steve thoroughly examined every room as he made his way to the engineering room. Fresca was as he had left it, lonely and completely empty.
As he entered main engineering, Steve cast a quick look all over the compartment. Just like all the others aboard the ship, this room boasted it's emptiness. Steve sighed in relief, finally able to breathe normally. He began to concentrate on the controls before him when he heard a noise. It was a familiar sound, but he could not quite place it. Sure he had heard it before, Steve stopped and listened hard to decipher its whereabouts. The sound increased just enough to peak his interest and he could almost make it out. He listened again, this time a little more intently. Steve gasped when realized what the noise was. It was voices. Whispering voices. Some were human, some alien, but it was all voices whispering and reaching out to him just beyond his sight from the dark depths of the corners in the small room. "Oh man, now I'm going insane. I'm hearing voices, next thing I know I'll be seeing things too," Steve mumbled to himself softly. He shook his head violently to block out the noise which seemed to grow louder by the second.
Gazing down at the engineering console again, Steve thought he caught a slight movement in the corner, but he quickly dismissed it as he peered at the brightly displayed controls. Trying to concentrate as best as he could, Steve carefully measured each reading twice to ensure everything coincided with the readings from the bridge. Again a movement just beyond the brilliant light of the control panel. Steve lifted the phaser from the cabinet under the engineering console and silently stepped out from behind the counter to investigate. With his phaser drawn and his heart pumping faster than it ever had in his short 35 years,
Steve narrowed his way into the corner where the movement originated. It came again. Steve froze with his finger on the trigger poised and ready, "Hello?" He said sounding a bit like a wounded child. His voice echoed off the gray walls as it sounded smaller than he'd originally intended. "Oh, thank God it's you!" A relieved voice said from the inky blackness. "Debbie?" Steve inquired. "Yes, it's me, in the flesh!" Debbie threw her arms around Steve's neck and kissed him before he had a chance to think about refusing her. "I'm so happy to see you. What have you been doing with yourself?" Debbie bounced from side to side like a cheerleader at tryouts and hugged Steve again.
Steve, in obvious shock, stuttered a curt hello and yanked Debbie's leach-like grip from around his neck. He could not believe his eyes. He wished for someone to share this insanity with, but Debbie Hurst was the furthest person from his mind, and she was definitely not on the, "want to be stranded on a ship alone with," picks of the century list. Steve hadn't thought of Debbie since he left her stranded in a hotel room alone on Cytel 9. Debbie was really popular there. Steve spent two fun-filled weeks with her, paid her, and went on his merry way. His head was reeling. Trying to stay on top of this, Steve grasped his head and thought hard. Why would she be here right now of all times? Was he dreaming this? Did he unconsciously want to have another fling with Debbie? The dizziness became apparent once again and Steve plopped down on the floor desperately trying to control his stomach from emptying all its sour contents on the floor in front of him.
Steve surveyed Debbie suspiciously and finally said, "What the hell are you doing here? I left you light years away from this place. How did you get here and why are you on my ship without my permission?" The hurt in Debbie's eyes was quite apparent as she countered, "I thought you'd be happy to see me."
"Well,...uh,...I am. I am happy to see you. I just don't understand why your here now and how you got here." Debbie appeared to mull this over in her mind as if she was waiting for someone else to gladly give the answers to her before she finally said, "Well, I happened to be visiting Syberius 4 when I heard you'd been hurt by some aliens. I came to help you if I could. After all, what are friends for if they can't help each other from time to time."
Steve looked at Debbie in utter disbelief. He knew she was lying. What possible reason and motive did she really have for being there? And as far as her being a friend of Steve's that was completely ridiculous. They weren't friends. They did not keep in touch. They never sent sub space messages back and forth, they never called one another to say, hey how's life treating you?
Knowing Debbie's answer was a farce but at a loss to describe what was happening to him, Steve accepted this lame excuse for the moment and restored the controls on the computer panel in front of him. Debbie peeked over his shoulder as he made the final preparations. That irritated him. Debbie irritated him, but he choose to ignore it for the time being. "Are you coming?" Steve shot over his shoulder as he was leaving."Yeah, sure!" Debbie hopped along side and immediately started gibbering about nonsensical things Steve cared nothing about.
As they rounded the first corner Debbie stopped talking a mile a minute like a Ducaurian Hyenna. At first Steve took no notice of the silence which transpired between the both of them. He kept walking along unaware, lost in his own thoughts. Steve stopped dead in his tracks. "Debbie?" She was no where to be found. It was almost like she completely disappeared and was never there in the first place.
Steve rushed back to engineering looking everywhere for her. Not that he really craved her company, he just wanted to make sure he wasn't losing what little mind he had left. She was no where in sight. Debbie was gone into the night as quickly as she had appeared. Panic set in and the whispering voices manifested themselves again surrounding him until he was paralyzed with fear. Steve grabbed both sides of his head with his trembling hands and screamed, "Get out of my head!" He raced down the hallway to what he thought was the bridge and punched in his six digit code on the command panel. Nothing. He tried it again. It would not open. "Damn!" He muttered.
Taking a deep breath he cleared the panel and carefully put the code in again. The door swished open and Steve stood there dumbfounded. It was not the bridge. He was in his quarters again. Blinking he looked again as if the actual motion of doing so would change what he saw. In the end it did not.
Steve ran down the corridors until he broke out into a cold sweat. The voices became louder and his legs grew tired. He ran for what seemed like days before he collapsed against the wall in exhaustion. In a frenzied state of terrifying reality, Steve realized he no longer felt at home on his cozy little ship, Fresca. It wasn't his ship at all. It belonged to the voices. The voices in the shadows that reached out from the depths of a man's muddled mind and grasped his remaining coils of sanity ripping them from their sockets. He was lost on his own ship and had no clue where he was going. Thrashing from left to right, Steve kicked the pristine white sheets off of his sweaty, naked body and awoke screaming in prettified horror. The scream died on his lips when he saw Methus and Forgthe standing at the foot of his hospital bed with their arms folded. "Well, well, Mr. Donovan. Seems you've got a nasty knot on your head and possibly a few bad, violent dreams as well," Forgthe said plainly like a doctor speaking to an uncontrollable patient. "What's going on?" Steve asked meekly. "Mr. Donovan, we've been tracking you for months. Your a hard man to hold down," Methus offered. "We are customs officers," Forgthe chimed in, "On the Syberium border. We knew you were smuggling guns into our sector, but had no proof. Thanks to your involvement in our little dart tiff, we now have the much needed proof we desired."
Steve sat up on the side of his bed in shock with his mouth agape. Methus patted his shoulder in a friendly gesture and confided, "We implanted a special device into your nervous system. It's a nerve conductor which allows us to gain correct readings about your brain patterns. This handy little device also allows access to your thought process deriving the truth from the lies you may tell us."
Steve couldn't believe his ears. Were they telling him they knew everything about him? As if to answer his question, Forgthe began reciting Steve's rights and smacked handcuffs on his wrists.
Steve heard none of it. He drifted off into his own world thinking all along to himself. This can't be real, it can't be happening. "How do you plead?" Methus shook him, "How do you plead, Mr. Donovan?" Steve's eyes cleared and he countered, "Not guilty! D,...Do,...Do I get a trail?" Both aliens laughed uproariously, "There's already been one, Mr. Donovan!" Forgthe yelled. "Guilty!" Methus yelled back. "Sentencing will commence!" Methus and Forgthe laughed together again and Steve stared in disbelief. Steve kicked off the covers and found himself nestled neatly atop his own bed in his cabin within the confines of Fresca. He shook out the blankets vigorously and peered about the dimly lit room with uncharacteristic dismay. Swinging his feet to the side of the bed, he quickly took a peek underneath before putting his feet on the floor like a child checking under the bed for monsters. Exhaling a deep breath, Steve relaxed a little, "It was just a bad dream, all of it a bad dream." As Steve shook off the last residuals of sleep one phrase stuck in his feeble mind. "The sentence is life!" It kept repeating over and over again until the voices chimed in with it. Steve shivered as he glanced out the portal window and the familiar whispering voices got louder. He wasn't in space dock and Fresca was on auto pilot floating aimlessly through voids of uncharted space he'd never dared to capture within all his travels.
Realizing he was reliving earlier events, Steve screamed in sheer terror. Steve Donovan, a broken man with broken dreams now lives out his final days and is in seclusion within his life sentence.
Seclusion
Space is blandly empty, bleak and devout of time and understanding. Time escapes the normal bound in space, and emptiness configures the reality of stars rushing past a portal window in the deep black void of nothingness. But, Space is not without faults of it's own. The blackness which encases those who dare to unleash it's brutal powers always call to the unaware and the young at heart. For Steve Donovan, a self proclaimed human arms dealer operating within the confines of the Gamma Sector galaxies away from his home planet of earth, misunderstandings and emptiness plague his every day life with their inconsistencies. No doubt humans are the weaker life form in the offset Gamma Sector where most humans, if they are smart, take heed and stay away from the thousands of alien races waiting to rage their vengeance upon humanoid heads, but Steve preferred his seclusion and privacy. The Gamma Sector, for Steve, provided all the privacy he needed and dared to hunger for. Space was the only place he could think straight. The enormous glowing stars guided his travels and he was as happy as any arms dealer would be while constantly looking over his shoulder. His life was a dangerous one, but a profitable one as well. Steve made friends just as easily as he made enemies. He was a loner and liked it that way. But, for Steve Donovan perhaps the biggest scare of his mortal life happened along unexpectedly about 8 months ago.
Donovan sailed the Gamma Sector every day of his adult life. He choose the area because it was the most profitable. Alien races would not be accustomed to seeing eye to eye and pulling together as a whole, therefore they fought like cats and dogs, and Steve capitalized on their shortcomings. For years Steve sold weapons to both sides of the track without as so much of a hint of being caught. His customers were happy with their purchases. The guns worked and solved the problems, that was all they cared about.
Steve knew every hole, space rift, and anomaly like the back of his hand and he usually traveled alone because it was cheaper in two respects. One, he did not have to pay an extra crewman to do the work he could do on his own and two, he never had to worry about a disgruntled employee selling him out to the opposition. In Steve's opinion, bringing along an extra mouth to feed was bad business. Eight months ago Steve navigated the outer regions of the Signauch Cluster which was a cluster of ten warring planets nestled deep within the northernmost hemisphere of the Gamma Sector. Tired from flying for three days straight on nothing but high quantities of caffeine and a little miracle drug called the "little yellow missiles," which if you took enough of them they "shot" you into space, Steve decided to lay over at a small little known planet named Syberius 4 just hidden in the back of the cluster. He usually found the outermost remote planet to grab some rest and relaxation, so he could peacefully shake off the weariness of his travels without worrying about time constraints, over populated crowds, and the usual unwelcoming attitudes toward newcomers and foreign traders. Steve left his small barely runnable ship at the space dock in the city of Cacus deep within the depths of Syberius 4 and found himself guided to a small pub known as, The Garden Lily, coined after the 21st century pubs which graced England's countryside’s on Earth. As Steve plopped his aching bones on a bar stool at the far end of the bar he ordered the house specialty entitled, Lily's Secret. What exactly the secret was, Steve was unsure and did not really care, but he assumed the secret was the drink tasted horrible until the forth or fifth swallow and by that time you were drunk and did not care what it tasted like. By the sixth or seventh sip, you became a dilapidated, run-down drunk who knew it all and should be put to rest. Steve was working on his sixth slurp and on knowing every little mystery the universe held in the palms of its hands.
If Steve blew off a little steam it didn't make any difference. He had a 4 day lay over in Cacus while he waited for the Border Wars to cease with the signing of the peace agreement between the Syberiums and the Denauchians. Both chancellors from their perspective sides would sign the treaty tomorrow morning at 0900 hours and all would be rosy between the two warring peoples. Steve wanted to relax and think about what he would do now and who he would sell his highly regarded weapons to. In the next four days his precious cargo would be loaded and he would be on his way out of this sector entirely looking for new clients to wage arms on.
As he sipped nonchalantly on his secretive drink which was beginning to taste pretty good by now, Steve watched a dart game in the corner of the bar between a Syberium named Forghe and a Denauchian named Methus. It was an apparent friendly game and Steve watched with some detached, bemused curiosity as Forghe accused Methus of stepping over the line on his winning dart tagging the center bull dead on, and taking the pile of monetary Sulker Chips the two adversaries promptly bet. Both Forgthe, a biochemical engineer, and Methus, a strong Denauchian warrior, stood toe to toe for at least ten full minutes arguing over the point as if neither had any other forms of money left in the vast universe. Steve, like a few other passive admirers watched thoughtfully as the two aliens called each other and certain members of their families everything in the book. Steve waited until the argument seemed to be getting out of hand and interjected in a soft spoken voice while staring at his emptying glass, "He wasn't over the line. You're upset, Forgthe, because he's a Denauchian and on top of being a better dart player than you, he's beat you fair and square."
The tiny, homely bar fell to a dead silence as both aliens regarded Steve with distrust and contempt. No one moved for what seemed like years as both aliens glared at Steve in anger. Figuring he had opened up one hell of a can of worms, Steve decided to finish it and spoke quietly again, "Why don't you throw the turn over, shake hands and kiss and make up?" Forgthe and Methus eyed each other seemingly contemplating Steve's advice. Slowly turning their attention back to Steve Methus rasped, "And what do you know of darts, human?" Methus drug out the word human like it was foul and disgusting. Steve shuddered, "Here we go," he muttered to himself under his breath. Forgthe sauntered over to Steve's bar stool, grabbed the back of the chair firmly and whipped Steve around to face him in a split second. Claiming in a loud boisterous voice Forgthe announced, "The human will now demonstrate the correct way to play darts!" Again the word human was spit upon and Steve began to see his folly wishing he would just silently slip out of the chair and disappear somewhere away from this confrontation. His heart sped up and his brain worked quickly trying to figure a way out of this craziness.
The bar was still and silent and Steve knew a fight was unavoidable at this point. Steve never backed down from a fight even when he was stupid and drunk like he was now, and he certainly wasn't going to slip away just when things got hot and interesting. Forgthe's nose just about touched the tip of Steve's and his breath smelled like rotten eggs baked all day out on the heat of Mars' dusty surface. Steve could physically see Forgthe's skin oozing a light green secretion from his pores signifying his rage and anger. The stench was unbearable and Steve had to get away from the Syberium. He was choking on the alien's scent and the more Forgthe eyed Steve the madder he seemed to get. Steve noted this and replied, "Oh, are we a little mad, Forgthe? You need a human to tell you how to play?" That was it. Steve sailed over the bar counter and by the time he hit the glass shredded floor he realized Forgthe was stronger than he gave him credit for, not to mention he was glad to be away from the foul smelling alien before he puked in his face.
Brushing himself off while calculating the best plight of defense, Steve looked about the dimly lit room for a weapon within reach. Finding none and, for the moment in his drunken stupor, forgetting about his knife he always carried just for these unexpected occasions, Steve leaped over the bar and put up his fists ready for the blow, but not knowing from which direction it would come. Just as he planted his feet firmly on the ground and took his first swing at Forgthe the blow came from behind. Methus clocked him a good one, right up side the head. As he slipped into the abysmal darkness sure to come Steve kicked himself for not knowing where Methus was. As the lights went totally out Steve heard Methus say, "Let's get this human scum out of our bar!"
Six long hours later, Steve Donovan awoke in his own cramped quarters aboard his little ship, Fresca, and rubbed his eyes slowly. His head hurt from the knockout blow and everything else ached from the hangover he was working on. He wiped his brow and massaged his temples as he fumbled for his cigarettes. His cabin was eerily dark with the exception of the small headboard light securely fastened to the top of his bed. The insignificant light blinded him and he blinked as he searched the most obscure corners of the quaint little chamber. Everything was in its rightful place. Nothing was missing.
The pictures of his family hung on the left-hand wall right where he'd tacked them. All of his books were piled in an organized mess atop his hardwood desk he had picked up in the Delta Sector while running guns for a Moscian investor. But, something was amiss. He didn't know what yet, but something was definitely not right with this picture. Steve sat up quickly and as always hit his head on the overhead light reminding him of the forming headache from the crack to the back of the head he took from Methus. His head spun, and the evenings events swam to and fro within his muddled brain fraying his balance. Waiting for the excruciating pain to cease and his thoughts to clear enough for him to figure out what exactly happened to him, Steve touched the lump on the back of his head and let out a little yelp. Trying his hand at standing, Steve slumped back into the bed like melted butter. "Oh, my head," Steve moaned as he got his bearings. Steve leaned against the headboard waiting for the wave of nausea and dizziness to subside. No matter what he did he could not get comfortable and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was not right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew there was something he should of figured out by now.
Staring out the small port hole in his cabin, one of the only windows on the tiny ship, it came to him. He wasn't in space dock any longer. Somehow, Steve was adrift out in the vast wasteland of space or worse someone else was aboard his ship piloting it to God knows where. A fleeting thought practically brandished Steve right between the eyes. What if my shipment has been tarnished or somehow compromised? Steve hopped up a little too quickly and as he physically shook off the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him again, he headed for the automatic cabin door walking in a zig zag pattern with some certainty. As he approached the door it swished open and another horrible thought occurred to him. What if he was lost in a unforgiving region of space he had not yet chartered? Quickly dismissing this thought, a chill ran up and down his spine acknowledging his terror.
Shaking the cobwebs from his muddled mind, Steve proceeded out the cabin door carefully drawing his old fashioned hunting knife and crept down the Fresca's empty corridors he had felt comfortably alone in until this very moment. Right now, he wished like hell he had picked up the 16 year old boy passenger running away from home on Terinauch. At least he'd have some one to share this insanity with and to talk to. He'd settle for anyone at this point and if it was a 16 year old kid, then so be it.
As Steve Donovan slowly made his way down the darkened hallways to the well equipped bridge he took careful consideration of the most innate possibilities that undeniably sought him ahead. The corridors cried out in loneliness and they became hauntingly quiet. Steve shivered, checked his watch and kept a steady pace to his target. The cool, gray walls closed in around him and panic welled deep within the furthest regions of his aching mind. Steve closed his eyes willing the fear to subside and took a deep breath letting it out slowly as if he was participating in a Lamaze class. Steve kept moving none the less feeling his way along the hall and knowing his own ship's schematics by heart. The tiny hairs at the nape of his neck prickled and frigid chills ran up his spine.
Fighting to overcome his horror, Steve typed in his six digit numerical code with shaky persistence into the command box just adjacent to bridge door. Holding his breath, he hoped the door would gladly obey and rush open as it slowly slid away to reveal the tiny bridge. It was completely empty. No one piloted Fresca through any kind of space, it was flying all on it's own. The bridge controls blinked and beeped as Fresca drifted on what seemed to be autopilot.
Donovan quickly seated himself at the captains console and examined the controls carefully. Everything seemed to be in perfect working order and running smoothly, purring like a kitten. Fresca was logged in on a course, what course he wasn't exactly sure, but all the settings appeared to be correct. The ship's safety buffers were in place and all the systems functioned properly. Steve checked them and then double checked them. Sure that Fresca was working up to specs, Steve decided with some apprehension to leave the bridge for now and investigate the rest of the little ship. Upon exiting the bridge, the door swished shut behind him and he entered his six digit code again locking the door just in case he wasn't the only being roaming about the Fresca. Slowly wandering down the corridors taking in every little tick like a sponge, Steve thoroughly examined every room as he made his way to the engineering room. Fresca was as he had left it, lonely and completely empty.
As he entered main engineering, Steve cast a quick look all over the compartment. Just like all the others aboard the ship, this room boasted it's emptiness. Steve sighed in relief, finally able to breathe normally. He began to concentrate on the controls before him when he heard a noise. It was a familiar sound, but he could not quite place it. Sure he had heard it before, Steve stopped and listened hard to decipher its whereabouts. The sound increased just enough to peak his interest and he could almost make it out. He listened again, this time a little more intently. Steve gasped when realized what the noise was. It was voices. Whispering voices. Some were human, some alien, but it was all voices whispering and reaching out to him just beyond his sight from the dark depths of the corners in the small room. "Oh man, now I'm going insane. I'm hearing voices, next thing I know I'll be seeing things too," Steve mumbled to himself softly. He shook his head violently to block out the noise which seemed to grow louder by the second.
Gazing down at the engineering console again, Steve thought he caught a slight movement in the corner, but he quickly dismissed it as he peered at the brightly displayed controls. Trying to concentrate as best as he could, Steve carefully measured each reading twice to ensure everything coincided with the readings from the bridge. Again a movement just beyond the brilliant light of the control panel. Steve lifted the phaser from the cabinet under the engineering console and silently stepped out from behind the counter to investigate. With his phaser drawn and his heart pumping faster than it ever had in his short 35 years,
Steve narrowed his way into the corner where the movement originated. It came again. Steve froze with his finger on the trigger poised and ready, "Hello?" He said sounding a bit like a wounded child. His voice echoed off the gray walls as it sounded smaller than he'd originally intended. "Oh, thank God it's you!" A relieved voice said from the inky blackness. "Debbie?" Steve inquired. "Yes, it's me, in the flesh!" Debbie threw her arms around Steve's neck and kissed him before he had a chance to think about refusing her. "I'm so happy to see you. What have you been doing with yourself?" Debbie bounced from side to side like a cheerleader at tryouts and hugged Steve again.
Steve, in obvious shock, stuttered a curt hello and yanked Debbie's leach-like grip from around his neck. He could not believe his eyes. He wished for someone to share this insanity with, but Debbie Hurst was the furthest person from his mind, and she was definitely not on the, "want to be stranded on a ship alone with," picks of the century list. Steve hadn't thought of Debbie since he left her stranded in a hotel room alone on Cytel 9. Debbie was really popular there. Steve spent two fun-filled weeks with her, paid her, and went on his merry way. His head was reeling. Trying to stay on top of this, Steve grasped his head and thought hard. Why would she be here right now of all times? Was he dreaming this? Did he unconsciously want to have another fling with Debbie? The dizziness became apparent once again and Steve plopped down on the floor desperately trying to control his stomach from emptying all its sour contents on the floor in front of him.
Steve surveyed Debbie suspiciously and finally said, "What the hell are you doing here? I left you light years away from this place. How did you get here and why are you on my ship without my permission?" The hurt in Debbie's eyes was quite apparent as she countered, "I thought you'd be happy to see me."
"Well,...uh,...I am. I am happy to see you. I just don't understand why your here now and how you got here." Debbie appeared to mull this over in her mind as if she was waiting for someone else to gladly give the answers to her before she finally said, "Well, I happened to be visiting Syberius 4 when I heard you'd been hurt by some aliens. I came to help you if I could. After all, what are friends for if they can't help each other from time to time."
Steve looked at Debbie in utter disbelief. He knew she was lying. What possible reason and motive did she really have for being there? And as far as her being a friend of Steve's that was completely ridiculous. They weren't friends. They did not keep in touch. They never sent sub space messages back and forth, they never called one another to say, hey how's life treating you?
Knowing Debbie's answer was a farce but at a loss to describe what was happening to him, Steve accepted this lame excuse for the moment and restored the controls on the computer panel in front of him. Debbie peeked over his shoulder as he made the final preparations. That irritated him. Debbie irritated him, but he choose to ignore it for the time being. "Are you coming?" Steve shot over his shoulder as he was leaving."Yeah, sure!" Debbie hopped along side and immediately started gibbering about nonsensical things Steve cared nothing about.
As they rounded the first corner Debbie stopped talking a mile a minute like a Ducaurian Hyenna. At first Steve took no notice of the silence which transpired between the both of them. He kept walking along unaware, lost in his own thoughts. Steve stopped dead in his tracks. "Debbie?" She was no where to be found. It was almost like she completely disappeared and was never there in the first place.
Steve rushed back to engineering looking everywhere for her. Not that he really craved her company, he just wanted to make sure he wasn't losing what little mind he had left. She was no where in sight. Debbie was gone into the night as quickly as she had appeared. Panic set in and the whispering voices manifested themselves again surrounding him until he was paralyzed with fear. Steve grabbed both sides of his head with his trembling hands and screamed, "Get out of my head!" He raced down the hallway to what he thought was the bridge and punched in his six digit code on the command panel. Nothing. He tried it again. It would not open. "Damn!" He muttered.
Taking a deep breath he cleared the panel and carefully put the code in again. The door swished open and Steve stood there dumbfounded. It was not the bridge. He was in his quarters again. Blinking he looked again as if the actual motion of doing so would change what he saw. In the end it did not.
Steve ran down the corridors until he broke out into a cold sweat. The voices became louder and his legs grew tired. He ran for what seemed like days before he collapsed against the wall in exhaustion. In a frenzied state of terrifying reality, Steve realized he no longer felt at home on his cozy little ship, Fresca. It wasn't his ship at all. It belonged to the voices. The voices in the shadows that reached out from the depths of a man's muddled mind and grasped his remaining coils of sanity ripping them from their sockets. He was lost on his own ship and had no clue where he was going. Thrashing from left to right, Steve kicked the pristine white sheets off of his sweaty, naked body and awoke screaming in prettified horror. The scream died on his lips when he saw Methus and Forgthe standing at the foot of his hospital bed with their arms folded. "Well, well, Mr. Donovan. Seems you've got a nasty knot on your head and possibly a few bad, violent dreams as well," Forgthe said plainly like a doctor speaking to an uncontrollable patient. "What's going on?" Steve asked meekly. "Mr. Donovan, we've been tracking you for months. Your a hard man to hold down," Methus offered. "We are customs officers," Forgthe chimed in, "On the Syberium border. We knew you were smuggling guns into our sector, but had no proof. Thanks to your involvement in our little dart tiff, we now have the much needed proof we desired."
Steve sat up on the side of his bed in shock with his mouth agape. Methus patted his shoulder in a friendly gesture and confided, "We implanted a special device into your nervous system. It's a nerve conductor which allows us to gain correct readings about your brain patterns. This handy little device also allows access to your thought process deriving the truth from the lies you may tell us."
Steve couldn't believe his ears. Were they telling him they knew everything about him? As if to answer his question, Forgthe began reciting Steve's rights and smacked handcuffs on his wrists.
Steve heard none of it. He drifted off into his own world thinking all along to himself. This can't be real, it can't be happening. "How do you plead?" Methus shook him, "How do you plead, Mr. Donovan?" Steve's eyes cleared and he countered, "Not guilty! D,...Do,...Do I get a trail?" Both aliens laughed uproariously, "There's already been one, Mr. Donovan!" Forgthe yelled. "Guilty!" Methus yelled back. "Sentencing will commence!" Methus and Forgthe laughed together again and Steve stared in disbelief. Steve kicked off the covers and found himself nestled neatly atop his own bed in his cabin within the confines of Fresca. He shook out the blankets vigorously and peered about the dimly lit room with uncharacteristic dismay. Swinging his feet to the side of the bed, he quickly took a peek underneath before putting his feet on the floor like a child checking under the bed for monsters. Exhaling a deep breath, Steve relaxed a little, "It was just a bad dream, all of it a bad dream." As Steve shook off the last residuals of sleep one phrase stuck in his feeble mind. "The sentence is life!" It kept repeating over and over again until the voices chimed in with it. Steve shivered as he glanced out the portal window and the familiar whispering voices got louder. He wasn't in space dock and Fresca was on auto pilot floating aimlessly through voids of uncharted space he'd never dared to capture within all his travels.
Realizing he was reliving earlier events, Steve screamed in sheer terror. Steve Donovan, a broken man with broken dreams now lives out his final days and is in seclusion within his life sentence.
Killer Instinct
Killer Instinct
Copyright Demented Thinking Productions 1998
Through his entire adult life Grady Ruthledge cowered to no one, and he wasn't about to start tonight. Granted, when he was a small child he cowered in the sight of his father brandishing a switch as rage tore through his overgrown facial features. But, not on this night. Not on the night Grady had won the most prestigious award in the inner circles of lawyers and judges. This was his night and he wasn't about to let anything or anyone screw it up for him. Grady had become his own man and slithered out from under daddy's impersonal thumb. No, not tonight. It was perfect and nothing would sway Grady otherwise.
Grady plopped on a green park bench within the confines of the nasty, dirty city and fished into his black trench coat for his prize of prizes. Pulling it out and admiring the craftsmanship of the small trophy, Grady rubbed it profusely as if it was a magic lamp indicating a instant genie that would pop out and grant Grady three long awaited wishes. Easily slipping it back into his coat, Grady took a deep breath of the night air allowing the smog, smoke and steam to milk his lungs into a coughing fit. As Grady's swallow of life eased he thought he distinctly heard a scuffle in the bushes behind the park bench he sat upon.
As he turned up the darkened street, his senses came to an upright full alert position. Ruthledge scoped the alleyway noticing ever nook and crevice as he stepped into the tiny corridor of street only drug pushers and criminals he usually prosecuted presided. Try as he might, Grady could not shake the impenetrable eyes, which he felt following his every move. His pulse raced and beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
His palms became sweaty and he licked his lips, as he looked frantically around for a weapon, any kind of weapon he could use against the stalker who now invaded his good evening. Anything would do, a lead pipe, some garbage, hell, he'd settle for a shoe left behind for his amazement and discovery by some old bum too drunk to realize that he had one shoe on and one shoe off. Right now what Grady needed was an edge, some kind of life preserver to swing down and pluck him from the depths of eternal drowning as nothing else could. Instead, he found an old wooden spoon with battle scars of it's own wedged deep into the spoon edge itself. It looked like hell and as if someone had used it for a teething ring, but it would have to do. Ruthledge gripped the spoon tightly in hopes it's demeanor alone would be enough to scare off the most unfriendly visitor, but knowing deep down inside it would be no match for what he was about to encounter.
He waited. He waited for what seemed like years before he heard quiet scuffling noises and labored, heavy, stale breathing projecting from the opposite end of the blackened alleyway. Licking his dry lips, Grady gripped the wooden spoon tighter until his fingers bled through red and then white. Random thoughts cruised through his head with an ineptness that was startling. The beast was coming and it was hungry.
Ruthledge stood with his back to the cold brick wall holding his breath without realizing it wishing this nightmare would just go away and leave him alone. It seemed as though days ago Grady had won that silly award and at this moment it really did not seem all that important to him anymore even though it had only been a few panicked moments before. Tightening his trap-like grip on the spoon, Grady prayed the creature would give up looking for him and leave as he crouched behind a cardboard box. Grady instinctively knew his prayers would not be enough considering this particular beast had a better sense of smell than others and it would surely find him snibbling like a baby behind a box of all things. "The late and great Grady Ruthledge reduced to tears in a dirty alley behind a cardboard box. Wonderful headlines," Grady breathed.
Grady Ruthledge broke out into a cold sweat as the wooden spoon slipped from his hand making a penciled thunk sound on the pavement. Quickly picking up the only weapon of choice, he hoped the unfamiliar sound went unrecognized and unnoticed by his immediate companion. It did not. Grady's eyes shifted left and then right looking for what would be the last thing to see him alive and kicking. He poured sweat now and could not hold on to his own stomach contents much less the spoon even though he held true to it.
Before he could move, blink, think, or breathe the beast was upon him, licking its lips and drooling piles of spittle on Grady's already soaked forehead. Grady gasped and completely forgot about his mighty spoon as he dropped it to the concrete again.
The man sized creature appeared to study Grady Ruthledge as though he was some kind of science project dredged up from a past biology class. It's lips parted and it bared its sharp fangs voicing a low, guttural growl, which expelled from somewhere deep within in its huge, hairy throat. The monster's eyes blazed red with the hint of brown they normally were. Grey and black fur covered the creature's entire body and a rank smell drifted into Grady's lungs as he gagged back the vomit, which was threatening to spew from one end of the alleyway to the other. It was half man and half beast, but at that very moment Grady swore it was more a beast than any man he'd ever seen in his life.
As the monster seized Grady Ruthledge it occurred to him that it was a beast of the old legends he had heard and read about as a small child. Once when he was seven he intermingled into a conversation of older elders of the community talking about the curse of the werewolves in these parts. But never had he dreamed for one second there was an inkling of truth to these wild tales, until now. In a moment the wolf was upon him, tearing and ripping his flesh and arms out of their sockets. Grady uttered his last, weak plea for help and laid helpless as the werewolf finished what it started only moments before.
Three blocks away Simon Wright heard Grady Ruthledge's final cries descending through the night air followed by an eerie silence and he knew it was time to get moving before it was too late. He glanced at his wristwatch and made a minor adjustment hitting the stopwatch button. As Simon threw on his hat and coat, he quickly rechecked all his gear for any disturbances or glitches that may hinder his ability to protect himself from the oncoming onslaught. He had everything, his gun; or weapon his father would of said, silver bullets with a spare cartridge, his Hank Aaron baseball bat, and a silver handled hunting knife his father had given to him on his first hunt at the ripe young age of fourteen.
Simon had rigged his leather trench coat especially for all these items and more. On some nights, when the moon was completely full and he had some reason to believe he would encounter more that one beast on the prowl, Simon would carry an extra 12 gauge shotgun under his coat and his .45 pistol, just in case. Simon Wright cautiously stepped out of his tiny apartment and while taking a deep breath generating fresh air over his lungs, he felt exhilarated for the struggle of life and death would soon be upon him as it always was once a month during the full phases of the moon. Simon silently strolled down the metropolis sidewalk moving quickly to the destination he heard the last screams coming from. He walked carefully and fully alert with his hands poised just above the butt end of his .357 magnum revolver.
Every since Simon was a small child he'd heard the same stories Grady Ruthledge did and he took them a little more seriously. Simon came from a long line of hunters. His father, his grandfather, and many more Wrights down through the ages of every walk of life were hunters of the night. Like any other man in his late thirties Simon held down a daytime job. He was a respected gunsmith, which was also a trade passed down from father to son in his family. It was somehow easier to produce a silver bullet if you were a gunsmith by trade yourself, whether than having to worry about the numerous questions that would be asked about the melting and making of several different calibers of bullets by an outsider. An outsider would raise an eyebrow of suspicion and Simon certainly did not need that. Simon made this decision the moment he took the prized hunting knife from his father, accepting his job as a hunter and a gunsmith. It was a living and Simon actually liked it. It wasn’t bad. It paid the bills and Simon never wanted for a thing.
Simon moved swiftly and silently, darting in and out of alleyways with a speed and endurance most mortal men did not possess let alone dream of while keeping a vigilant lookout for the creature he would soon come into contact with. Half an hour had passed and he had found nothing to clue him in to the beasts last whereabouts. Finding Grady’s broken and bruised body lying in a pool of its making, Simon sensed his blood beginning to pump faster into its chambers. The usual goose bumps rose on his sweating arms and the tiny hairs at nape of his neck began to prickle and dance alerting him he was not alone in the dirty, drab alley. Spinning around faster than he intended to, Simon caught his balance just in time before he completely toppled over like an absolute fool. With it’s bloodied teeth bared and growling deep from within it’s throat the beast spoke, “Well, it seems we meet again, hunter.” Blood dripped from it’s bottom lip as it spit out the word hunter like it was foul and distasteful. The enormous creature’s eyes blazed a bright red with undaunted fury upon Simon as it appeared to examine him from inside out.
In amazement that the beast even spoke to him, Simon stuttered, “I…it…it would s…seem s…so.” As he tried to place where he’d heard the voice before even as distorted as it was the beast saw its opportunity and flung itself upon him in a rage. Simon quickly thrust the baseball bat upwards without thinking holding off the gnashing teeth temporarily with all his might and strength. He fumbled in his pockets while he held off the beast for anything that would inflict some damaging harm to his attacker. Blindly finding his knife, Simon punched it up through his jacket and into the awaiting belly of the creature jerking it in an upwards motion as far as it would allowably go. The werewolf howled in fury and pain. Yanking the knife out in a frenzy, Simon hopped up from the ground and began his hasty retreat. Blood gushed out of the open wound as the animal let out a high pitched scream wallowing in it’s agony. The beast slowly got up with some difficulty holding it’s innards in place and scurried off into the inane shadows all the while swearing, “I’ll get you hunter! You haven’t seen the last of me yet!” The growling screams faded into the moonlit night as the beast traveled further and further away from Simon.
Deciding he’d had enough excitement for one night, Simon staggered back to his one room apartment slightly dazed and with extreme caution. He re-gained more of his strength the closer he came to home and he began to relax a little. While he drug out his keyring with shaking hands, he glanced over his shoulder keeping a close eye out for anymore surprises even though he knew his internal senses would alert him to danger before his eyes perceived it. He unlocked the two deadbolts on the barred iron gate and started on the steel door. Fumbling with the lock he quietly mumbled to himself, “Damn it, Simon, get it together.” As he forged the last key into the fifth deadbolt on his front door he couldn’t help but think he knew his attacker. The sound of its voice echoed in his head like a song played too much on the radio.
Copyright Demented Thinking Productions 1998
Through his entire adult life Grady Ruthledge cowered to no one, and he wasn't about to start tonight. Granted, when he was a small child he cowered in the sight of his father brandishing a switch as rage tore through his overgrown facial features. But, not on this night. Not on the night Grady had won the most prestigious award in the inner circles of lawyers and judges. This was his night and he wasn't about to let anything or anyone screw it up for him. Grady had become his own man and slithered out from under daddy's impersonal thumb. No, not tonight. It was perfect and nothing would sway Grady otherwise.
Grady plopped on a green park bench within the confines of the nasty, dirty city and fished into his black trench coat for his prize of prizes. Pulling it out and admiring the craftsmanship of the small trophy, Grady rubbed it profusely as if it was a magic lamp indicating a instant genie that would pop out and grant Grady three long awaited wishes. Easily slipping it back into his coat, Grady took a deep breath of the night air allowing the smog, smoke and steam to milk his lungs into a coughing fit. As Grady's swallow of life eased he thought he distinctly heard a scuffle in the bushes behind the park bench he sat upon.
As he turned up the darkened street, his senses came to an upright full alert position. Ruthledge scoped the alleyway noticing ever nook and crevice as he stepped into the tiny corridor of street only drug pushers and criminals he usually prosecuted presided. Try as he might, Grady could not shake the impenetrable eyes, which he felt following his every move. His pulse raced and beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
His palms became sweaty and he licked his lips, as he looked frantically around for a weapon, any kind of weapon he could use against the stalker who now invaded his good evening. Anything would do, a lead pipe, some garbage, hell, he'd settle for a shoe left behind for his amazement and discovery by some old bum too drunk to realize that he had one shoe on and one shoe off. Right now what Grady needed was an edge, some kind of life preserver to swing down and pluck him from the depths of eternal drowning as nothing else could. Instead, he found an old wooden spoon with battle scars of it's own wedged deep into the spoon edge itself. It looked like hell and as if someone had used it for a teething ring, but it would have to do. Ruthledge gripped the spoon tightly in hopes it's demeanor alone would be enough to scare off the most unfriendly visitor, but knowing deep down inside it would be no match for what he was about to encounter.
He waited. He waited for what seemed like years before he heard quiet scuffling noises and labored, heavy, stale breathing projecting from the opposite end of the blackened alleyway. Licking his dry lips, Grady gripped the wooden spoon tighter until his fingers bled through red and then white. Random thoughts cruised through his head with an ineptness that was startling. The beast was coming and it was hungry.
Ruthledge stood with his back to the cold brick wall holding his breath without realizing it wishing this nightmare would just go away and leave him alone. It seemed as though days ago Grady had won that silly award and at this moment it really did not seem all that important to him anymore even though it had only been a few panicked moments before. Tightening his trap-like grip on the spoon, Grady prayed the creature would give up looking for him and leave as he crouched behind a cardboard box. Grady instinctively knew his prayers would not be enough considering this particular beast had a better sense of smell than others and it would surely find him snibbling like a baby behind a box of all things. "The late and great Grady Ruthledge reduced to tears in a dirty alley behind a cardboard box. Wonderful headlines," Grady breathed.
Grady Ruthledge broke out into a cold sweat as the wooden spoon slipped from his hand making a penciled thunk sound on the pavement. Quickly picking up the only weapon of choice, he hoped the unfamiliar sound went unrecognized and unnoticed by his immediate companion. It did not. Grady's eyes shifted left and then right looking for what would be the last thing to see him alive and kicking. He poured sweat now and could not hold on to his own stomach contents much less the spoon even though he held true to it.
Before he could move, blink, think, or breathe the beast was upon him, licking its lips and drooling piles of spittle on Grady's already soaked forehead. Grady gasped and completely forgot about his mighty spoon as he dropped it to the concrete again.
The man sized creature appeared to study Grady Ruthledge as though he was some kind of science project dredged up from a past biology class. It's lips parted and it bared its sharp fangs voicing a low, guttural growl, which expelled from somewhere deep within in its huge, hairy throat. The monster's eyes blazed red with the hint of brown they normally were. Grey and black fur covered the creature's entire body and a rank smell drifted into Grady's lungs as he gagged back the vomit, which was threatening to spew from one end of the alleyway to the other. It was half man and half beast, but at that very moment Grady swore it was more a beast than any man he'd ever seen in his life.
As the monster seized Grady Ruthledge it occurred to him that it was a beast of the old legends he had heard and read about as a small child. Once when he was seven he intermingled into a conversation of older elders of the community talking about the curse of the werewolves in these parts. But never had he dreamed for one second there was an inkling of truth to these wild tales, until now. In a moment the wolf was upon him, tearing and ripping his flesh and arms out of their sockets. Grady uttered his last, weak plea for help and laid helpless as the werewolf finished what it started only moments before.
Three blocks away Simon Wright heard Grady Ruthledge's final cries descending through the night air followed by an eerie silence and he knew it was time to get moving before it was too late. He glanced at his wristwatch and made a minor adjustment hitting the stopwatch button. As Simon threw on his hat and coat, he quickly rechecked all his gear for any disturbances or glitches that may hinder his ability to protect himself from the oncoming onslaught. He had everything, his gun; or weapon his father would of said, silver bullets with a spare cartridge, his Hank Aaron baseball bat, and a silver handled hunting knife his father had given to him on his first hunt at the ripe young age of fourteen.
Simon had rigged his leather trench coat especially for all these items and more. On some nights, when the moon was completely full and he had some reason to believe he would encounter more that one beast on the prowl, Simon would carry an extra 12 gauge shotgun under his coat and his .45 pistol, just in case. Simon Wright cautiously stepped out of his tiny apartment and while taking a deep breath generating fresh air over his lungs, he felt exhilarated for the struggle of life and death would soon be upon him as it always was once a month during the full phases of the moon. Simon silently strolled down the metropolis sidewalk moving quickly to the destination he heard the last screams coming from. He walked carefully and fully alert with his hands poised just above the butt end of his .357 magnum revolver.
Every since Simon was a small child he'd heard the same stories Grady Ruthledge did and he took them a little more seriously. Simon came from a long line of hunters. His father, his grandfather, and many more Wrights down through the ages of every walk of life were hunters of the night. Like any other man in his late thirties Simon held down a daytime job. He was a respected gunsmith, which was also a trade passed down from father to son in his family. It was somehow easier to produce a silver bullet if you were a gunsmith by trade yourself, whether than having to worry about the numerous questions that would be asked about the melting and making of several different calibers of bullets by an outsider. An outsider would raise an eyebrow of suspicion and Simon certainly did not need that. Simon made this decision the moment he took the prized hunting knife from his father, accepting his job as a hunter and a gunsmith. It was a living and Simon actually liked it. It wasn’t bad. It paid the bills and Simon never wanted for a thing.
Simon moved swiftly and silently, darting in and out of alleyways with a speed and endurance most mortal men did not possess let alone dream of while keeping a vigilant lookout for the creature he would soon come into contact with. Half an hour had passed and he had found nothing to clue him in to the beasts last whereabouts. Finding Grady’s broken and bruised body lying in a pool of its making, Simon sensed his blood beginning to pump faster into its chambers. The usual goose bumps rose on his sweating arms and the tiny hairs at nape of his neck began to prickle and dance alerting him he was not alone in the dirty, drab alley. Spinning around faster than he intended to, Simon caught his balance just in time before he completely toppled over like an absolute fool. With it’s bloodied teeth bared and growling deep from within it’s throat the beast spoke, “Well, it seems we meet again, hunter.” Blood dripped from it’s bottom lip as it spit out the word hunter like it was foul and distasteful. The enormous creature’s eyes blazed a bright red with undaunted fury upon Simon as it appeared to examine him from inside out.
In amazement that the beast even spoke to him, Simon stuttered, “I…it…it would s…seem s…so.” As he tried to place where he’d heard the voice before even as distorted as it was the beast saw its opportunity and flung itself upon him in a rage. Simon quickly thrust the baseball bat upwards without thinking holding off the gnashing teeth temporarily with all his might and strength. He fumbled in his pockets while he held off the beast for anything that would inflict some damaging harm to his attacker. Blindly finding his knife, Simon punched it up through his jacket and into the awaiting belly of the creature jerking it in an upwards motion as far as it would allowably go. The werewolf howled in fury and pain. Yanking the knife out in a frenzy, Simon hopped up from the ground and began his hasty retreat. Blood gushed out of the open wound as the animal let out a high pitched scream wallowing in it’s agony. The beast slowly got up with some difficulty holding it’s innards in place and scurried off into the inane shadows all the while swearing, “I’ll get you hunter! You haven’t seen the last of me yet!” The growling screams faded into the moonlit night as the beast traveled further and further away from Simon.
Deciding he’d had enough excitement for one night, Simon staggered back to his one room apartment slightly dazed and with extreme caution. He re-gained more of his strength the closer he came to home and he began to relax a little. While he drug out his keyring with shaking hands, he glanced over his shoulder keeping a close eye out for anymore surprises even though he knew his internal senses would alert him to danger before his eyes perceived it. He unlocked the two deadbolts on the barred iron gate and started on the steel door. Fumbling with the lock he quietly mumbled to himself, “Damn it, Simon, get it together.” As he forged the last key into the fifth deadbolt on his front door he couldn’t help but think he knew his attacker. The sound of its voice echoed in his head like a song played too much on the radio.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Eternal Life
Eternal Life
Copyright: Demented Thinking Productions 1998
He relished the dark of the night. The unwanted sounds and feelings surrounding the beliefs that nighttime was evil and above all brought forth with the dark side of all mankind. The smell of dead dried leaves and old wispy branches filled his lungs to capacity. He moved silently for the most part, but completely unwarranted for the later.
At night a person could see and hear things that would never be heard during the daylight hours. Strange and ominous creatures and beings came out and acted as naturally as you and I showing their true colors and feelings. People and things you wouldn’t ordinarily see during the daytime roam without a real purpose in the cascading blackness of night.
Sniffing the stale city air he quietly hops from building top to building top without so much as a glance down to wonder where the earth sits and when it will swallow him up in a diving death for which he is untouchable. Careful to watch his step, though light, he moved through the outskirts of Los Angeles evenly and silently by rooftop scattering various black birds and bats to and fro. He knew these buildings like the back of his hand and at times did not even have to look where he was going.
His eyes, well adjusted to the bleak darkness, scanned the city below searching for his next victim or would maybe become his next of kin. People seemed incredibly tiny as they hustled and bustled down the dimly lit broken down sidewalks.
The year was sometime after the millennium, he wasn’t sure exactly what year since he long ago stopped keeping track. Los Angeles was mostly in ruins, but he loved his city of angels dearly and found it hard to part with it. Leaving it behind would be so troublesome when everything was just as he wanted it to be, right here among the living dead and the plentiful mortals.
Long ago burnt out cars rolled over on their sides littered the side streets making them impassable to another vehicle of any kind and some still smoldered in the distance from the many gang riots when the Crypts overthrew the Bloods in a final viscous gangland battle which killed many of the human population as well as some kindred. But, all in all, he still cherished his sweet deadly city and all it’s violence. It could not touch him for he was immortal just as some of the others.
He leaped to another rooftop and sat waiting and watching. As he watched intently he spotted exactly what he was looking for. His first victim of the night. She was lovely and quite a beautiful woman within this dread and the un-kept city. Dark black hair caressed her tanned, bare shoulders and her hourglass figure complemented her piecing blue eyes. He observed distantly with bated breath swiftly hopping from building top to building top gazing on her splendor and beauty. Walking quickly and with some apparent purpose, she seemed completely unaware of his presence.
Following her for ten blocks maybe twelve he drifted down in flight behind her and landed quietly careful not to overwhelm her. Walking several paces behind her following her every move for five blocks he thought out in his mind how simple and easy this kill would be. The first kill is always the best and the easiest of the night. Lost in his own thoughts he just about ran right into her when he heard her say as if from some other place and time, “If you’re going to mug me or something you’d better do it now, because I don’t have time to play games with some creep like you.” Stunned that she even realized he was there, he recoiled and slowed his pace coming to a halt behind her without saying a word. She turned to face her night stalker and looked him dead in the eye, “Well?” She pushed. Running his trembling fingers through his straight long brown hair he fought to quell the hunger growing ever so present deep from within his bones. He could smell the blood coursing through her veins and he hears it as well. “Well!?!” She insisted. “You are a beautiful creature,” he gasped.
In the darkness his significant green eyes sparkled, but she felt somewhat apprehensive and controlled looking deep into them. They were beautiful eyes and she could of gazed into them for a lifetime, but a deep hidden mischievousness danced just beyond the surface and she shuddered as a chill ran the length of her tingling spine. Becoming suddenly chicken caught in the rivets of his piercing stare she stammered, “W...,W...,Well, Th...,Thank you. N..., Now go away!”
Before she turned to begin to walk away he seized her and bit deeply into her unprotected neck with such quickness a normal mortal wouldn’t have seen him move. She was warm and her blood was sweet to the taste. It flushed through his system in sweet relief as every fiber of his being took notice to the fresh new blood rampaging through his own veins.
Even though he drained to the point of death he knew what he would do next. He wanted her. He had to have her. She needed him and he needed her to live and be his life long companion. She was so perfect in every way and detail. The night did not do her justice. He stopped. Gazing into her eyes he spoke quietly and calmly, “You are a charm. Do you want to live or do you want the bleak darkness of death? Do you want my undying love and devotion or do you want to die cold and alone? Do you want to live forever?”
She blinked in disbelief, as she appeared to compute this radical information. Her head spun slightly as if she had drunk a little too much wine and she became increasingly dizzy as the seconds ticked by. The entire world whirled around her and she was becoming incapable of independent thought. Looking deep into his eyes all her fears, hopes and dreams were realized for the first time in her 25 years of life and with what little strength she had left that was still her own she answered meekly, “Yes, I do.” A devilish smile played upon his lips as he countered with a lulling voice, “Then you shall have my eternal life and gift.”
Sweeping her helpless body into his revitalized arms he effortlessly glided up into the rooftops he cherished so much and made the becoming final. The city below took no time to morn the loss and kept eternally beating for the next prey would appear soon.
Copyright: Demented Thinking Productions 1998
He relished the dark of the night. The unwanted sounds and feelings surrounding the beliefs that nighttime was evil and above all brought forth with the dark side of all mankind. The smell of dead dried leaves and old wispy branches filled his lungs to capacity. He moved silently for the most part, but completely unwarranted for the later.
At night a person could see and hear things that would never be heard during the daylight hours. Strange and ominous creatures and beings came out and acted as naturally as you and I showing their true colors and feelings. People and things you wouldn’t ordinarily see during the daytime roam without a real purpose in the cascading blackness of night.
Sniffing the stale city air he quietly hops from building top to building top without so much as a glance down to wonder where the earth sits and when it will swallow him up in a diving death for which he is untouchable. Careful to watch his step, though light, he moved through the outskirts of Los Angeles evenly and silently by rooftop scattering various black birds and bats to and fro. He knew these buildings like the back of his hand and at times did not even have to look where he was going.
His eyes, well adjusted to the bleak darkness, scanned the city below searching for his next victim or would maybe become his next of kin. People seemed incredibly tiny as they hustled and bustled down the dimly lit broken down sidewalks.
The year was sometime after the millennium, he wasn’t sure exactly what year since he long ago stopped keeping track. Los Angeles was mostly in ruins, but he loved his city of angels dearly and found it hard to part with it. Leaving it behind would be so troublesome when everything was just as he wanted it to be, right here among the living dead and the plentiful mortals.
Long ago burnt out cars rolled over on their sides littered the side streets making them impassable to another vehicle of any kind and some still smoldered in the distance from the many gang riots when the Crypts overthrew the Bloods in a final viscous gangland battle which killed many of the human population as well as some kindred. But, all in all, he still cherished his sweet deadly city and all it’s violence. It could not touch him for he was immortal just as some of the others.
He leaped to another rooftop and sat waiting and watching. As he watched intently he spotted exactly what he was looking for. His first victim of the night. She was lovely and quite a beautiful woman within this dread and the un-kept city. Dark black hair caressed her tanned, bare shoulders and her hourglass figure complemented her piecing blue eyes. He observed distantly with bated breath swiftly hopping from building top to building top gazing on her splendor and beauty. Walking quickly and with some apparent purpose, she seemed completely unaware of his presence.
Following her for ten blocks maybe twelve he drifted down in flight behind her and landed quietly careful not to overwhelm her. Walking several paces behind her following her every move for five blocks he thought out in his mind how simple and easy this kill would be. The first kill is always the best and the easiest of the night. Lost in his own thoughts he just about ran right into her when he heard her say as if from some other place and time, “If you’re going to mug me or something you’d better do it now, because I don’t have time to play games with some creep like you.” Stunned that she even realized he was there, he recoiled and slowed his pace coming to a halt behind her without saying a word. She turned to face her night stalker and looked him dead in the eye, “Well?” She pushed. Running his trembling fingers through his straight long brown hair he fought to quell the hunger growing ever so present deep from within his bones. He could smell the blood coursing through her veins and he hears it as well. “Well!?!” She insisted. “You are a beautiful creature,” he gasped.
In the darkness his significant green eyes sparkled, but she felt somewhat apprehensive and controlled looking deep into them. They were beautiful eyes and she could of gazed into them for a lifetime, but a deep hidden mischievousness danced just beyond the surface and she shuddered as a chill ran the length of her tingling spine. Becoming suddenly chicken caught in the rivets of his piercing stare she stammered, “W...,W...,Well, Th...,Thank you. N..., Now go away!”
Before she turned to begin to walk away he seized her and bit deeply into her unprotected neck with such quickness a normal mortal wouldn’t have seen him move. She was warm and her blood was sweet to the taste. It flushed through his system in sweet relief as every fiber of his being took notice to the fresh new blood rampaging through his own veins.
Even though he drained to the point of death he knew what he would do next. He wanted her. He had to have her. She needed him and he needed her to live and be his life long companion. She was so perfect in every way and detail. The night did not do her justice. He stopped. Gazing into her eyes he spoke quietly and calmly, “You are a charm. Do you want to live or do you want the bleak darkness of death? Do you want my undying love and devotion or do you want to die cold and alone? Do you want to live forever?”
She blinked in disbelief, as she appeared to compute this radical information. Her head spun slightly as if she had drunk a little too much wine and she became increasingly dizzy as the seconds ticked by. The entire world whirled around her and she was becoming incapable of independent thought. Looking deep into his eyes all her fears, hopes and dreams were realized for the first time in her 25 years of life and with what little strength she had left that was still her own she answered meekly, “Yes, I do.” A devilish smile played upon his lips as he countered with a lulling voice, “Then you shall have my eternal life and gift.”
Sweeping her helpless body into his revitalized arms he effortlessly glided up into the rooftops he cherished so much and made the becoming final. The city below took no time to morn the loss and kept eternally beating for the next prey would appear soon.
Dark Captive
Copyright Demented Thinking Productions 1998
Dark Captive
Darkness. Nothing but shrouded darkness encompassing his very thoughts. No daylight, no manufactured light, no glimmer of hope. The husky man sat straight up slowly with his throbbing head in his trembling hands. "I can't believe this," he spoke aloud in a thick English accent.
Clearing his parched throat the man peered disbelieving through the empty darkness. "Where am I? Am I dead or alive?" Shaking his head violently back and forth doing his best to clear the cobwebs from his hazy mind, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Jesus, how did I get here? What the hell happened?"
Rubbing the callused heels of his palms hard into his eye sockets, the man realized for the first time since he awoke he remembered nothing. His mind was a void. His own name, his job, whether or not he had family, all of it gone and seemingly wiped from his memory. Dizziness waved through the fog. He swayed a little and steadied himself with his left elbow. He was uncomfortable and he had one heck of a headache. He rubbed his head unconsciously and peered into the obscurity again.
As he struggled to remember who he was and why he was in a place such as this, he enveloped his surroundings quickly and assessed it was not a place he wanted to spend plenty of time in and it surely was not heaven. The stone walls were cold and dank like a cave and he could faintly hear a dripping sound in the distance. It was eerie. He couldn't shake the sensation of plain and simple evil riveting the air around him. Scratching his hurting head the man gripped the frigid wall and steadied himself on his feet unsure. "I've got to remember who I am?" He mumbled under his breath.
Searching himself for the smallest possible clue to his identity, the man turned out all of his pockets. He looked in his pants where everyone keeps a wallet or some form of identification. He rummaged through his shirt pockets and even looked in his shoes and socks, but on all counts found nothing. Frustrated he bailed out loud, "Whoever put me here must of taken every form of identification I had."
Purging his mind deeply, the man fell silent as he groped his surroundings around this purgatory he was to now call home. After 15 minutes of feeling, smelling and crawling he concluded he was in some sort of underground prison with stone dungeon like walls and horrid smells of men dying. He was alone in his cell and he seemed somewhat physically battered. But the silence was deafening, and there was no one else to share in his misery. Instead of answering his questions his bout around the mildewed cell block brought many new ones to light and still solved nothing.
He sighed heavily and sank against the cool stone wall caressing his riddled, aching bones with its icy grip. The walls seemed to invite him and invade him at the same time. Shivering he backed off a little and looked at it in the darkness, but nothing was there only his deranged imagination getting the best of him.
Deciding to find out if anyone else shared his fate in this dark state of reality, he called out a little too loudly for such an empty place, "Hello? Is anybody there?" The sound of his own voice reverberated off the the walls and traveled down the lonely corridors. He listened intently for the smallest possible sound, a scuffle of shoes on the concrete floor, other voices, someone, anyone, hell he'd settle for rats roaming about this place, but his own voice kept crawling back into his ears louder than ever with definite emptiness and a certainty he felt. He was alone. No human contact. No memory. No lights. "Damn!" He screamed out in pure frustration. "I've got to do something, I just cannot sit here and wait to die."
Struggling to his feet, intending to do a more thorough search of his new dim surroundings he slipped and fell full force against the slimy wall. "Oh, good one. You're so damned clumsy, Linden." The man struggled to his feet again but a little more carefully as realization took hold. "Wait!" He rubbed his forehead feverishly, "That's it! My name! My name is Stewart Linden! I'm Stewart Linden and I work for,...for,...for,...Oh hell, I don't remember!"
Scowling Linden forced himself back to his feet and scathed the entire damp cell looking for any broken pieces to possibly dig his way out. The search turned up the same information as before. Nothing. "It's small and not very cozy." Linden mused to himself, "Whoever put me here must not like me very much." As he turned around for better bearings he heard in his own head, "On the contrary, Mr. Linden, I like you very much, always have." "What the,..." Linden looked around madly for a moment and dismissed it as his own fear of closed in places getting the best of him. And as quickly as it came it was gone. Stewart shrugged and sighed plopping down in what he thought might be the middle of the cool cell like room.
Distantly he heard a rumbling sound, but he couldn't quite place it. He sat quietly and thought hard, but still could not quite place it. The ground shook and he had to hold on to keep from falling over and hurting himself.
Deciding for the time being to forget the noise and work on a probable way out of this mess, Linden began to rub the floor hoping he'd fall upon a loose brick or anything escape worthy. In his travels he discovered two loose bricks in the far left hand corner, but when he removed them he only found more cold, hard concrete below. It could of been concrete has wasn't exactly sure. He was sure of one thing. He was in a serious predicament. Past that, he didn't know anything, for all he knew Stewart Linden could be his best friend or his worst enemy. But it was something until he regained his memory. It was a start.
The cell block he was in was old and carried a certain smell, but besides the smell of age laid another stench far different, but he couldn't quite place it and quickly dismissed it. In his journey he noticed one heavy steel door locked from the outside was his only means of escape. Obliviously the door was manifested to keep someone in instead of out and all around the walls, floor and air bled dampness. Stewart could not reach the ceiling, therefore he couldn't tell if it bread the same dank, dampness the rest of the chamber did, but he assumed it must.
He searched his pockets a little more carefully for any signs of his existence or whereabouts and realizing he had inside pockets he had not looked in previously in his shirt, he fumbled his hands into them a little too quickly with anticipation tearing them slightly. Finding a small object in his right hand inside pocket, Linden reveled in the fact that he could at least have some closure of his dim thoughts for the time being. He brought the tiny cardboard pack out and opened it carefully treating it as though it were gold and it would break if he opened it too eagerly. It was a book of matches. Excitedly he pried the matchbox open almost wrecking it in the process. His numb fingers and sweaty hands trembled fiercely as he finally unfolded the matches. Quickly running his fingers over the contents of the book he landed what he was looking for. A single match. Wiping his scrawling hands one at a time on his pant leg , he took a deep breath, knowing it was his only chance, and lit the match on the first strike.
Turning around slowly in a full circle he saw his own private hell for the first time and gasped. "My God." The ceiling stood at least 20 feet if it was an inch above the old callous stone floor and in the far right hand corner hung a battered and worn skeleton. Linden whimpered and drew back as if the skeleton jumped out and bit him. His jaws agape, Linden uncertainly walked to his ragged cellmate. His match became shorter by the moment and he tore at his sleeve frantically. Reaching up in a split second and quickly tearing the femur bone from the dilapidated bag of bones, Stewart remarked quietly, "I'm sure you don't need this anymore, mate." Placing the weathered remains on the frigid rock floor he wrapped his sleeve sound the tip and fastened it tightly. He lit it with his depleting match fastidiously before it burned out altogether.
The fire blazed brilliantly from his makeshift torch as he searched for a secure place to anchor his flickering light. He remembered the two loose bricks in the corner, and quickly scurried to the spot and planted the torch gingerly. "Now...If I could just remember where the hell I am, I'd be alright." Linden mused to the skeleton. "Well, never give up, keep a stiff upper lip, devil may care and all that utter crap."
Linden rubbed his rough hands together for warmth noticing for the first time just how cold and damp his domain was. As the cool walls and floor surrounded him he shuttered uncontrollably and scanned the small tomb-like room with unregarded apathy. His eyes were mere slits as he lurked them in and out of the shadows caressing the walls for some sort of portal or catch to unlock the door or reveal a secret passageway to freedom. Still nothing.
Again, Linden heard the faint rumbling rattling into his very soul and bones, and it seemed to be getting closer. The sound spark some memory deep within the crevices of his mind, but before Stewart could grasp it, it was gone and hopelessly lost.
Dismissing it once again, he plopped in the center of the cold concrete cell nervously waiting. "Well, it's obliviously a hard place to get out of, " Linden said with a quiver nodding to his cellmate. "Looks like this bloke had a run in with someone who did not agree with him. If I could only remember everything, I know I could get out of here. Jesus I should of listened to my mother and been an accountant instead of a spy."
Everything began to flood back in waves and flashes. His memory, his kids, his parents, and, oh God,...his wife."Why!" Linden screamed in blind anguish. Insane with rage Stewart beat on the heavy steel door with his fists until they were bruised and becoming bloody, "Let me out of here you bastards!"
Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably as the events unfolded in his mind's eye. The memories. He couldn't stop them if he wanted to. His wife, Erica Linden, was dead. There was nothing he could of done for her. And her face...her face...Oh God, her face. He moaned like a wounded animal and slipped down to the ground coiled like a snake. Her torn, riddled body lying there on the icy September ground lifeless. No breath expelled from her once heavenly lungs, no beat emerged from her sturdy heart. "Blood, oh God, the blood." Linden sobbed. Flashes of her bloodied face raced through his unbelieving mind darkening every untouched corner with an icy preciseness. "Erica...My dear sweet Erica. I'm so sorry. Why? Why did this happen?" But even as he spoke the words he knew why. Stewart sunk into the unfeeling floor and his entire body felt like warmed jelly. Beating his fists on the unforgiving floor one more time for good measure he dispelled the sour contents of his empty stomach. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve he shouted at the top of his lungs, "I'll get you! Do you hear me? I'll get you and when I do I will kill you!" His body, wrecked with tears and wrenched with pain heaved twice more and everything faded to black.
He slept. Sleep came quickly for him, but it was disturbed with visions of a dark clad figure slowly and effortlessly raping his thoughts. It was endless. The nightmares went on for what seemed like hours as he tossed and turned on the frigid stone floor uncomfortably. And no matter what he did the dark being probed and prodded him, not physically, but mentally.
Linden awoke abruptly with a start. Shaking the last remnants of the nightmares that still lingered in the darkest regions of his tired mind he fought back the tears threatening to overcome him. The very real nightmare encompassed him in his waking moments. The memories flooded back once again and he lost the battle and started sobbing deep and hard.
After the deepened fog cleared from his startled mind he turned his aching head and realized he had been moved from his dank cell. His cell mate was nowhere in sight and now instead of cold stone floor and walls he was nestled neatly in a warm bunk with the chain link walls of a prison cage. Hearing a faint hum, a bit like electricity in a fluorescent light warming up, Linden stirred and scrutinized his surrounding cell. Light flooded through the fencing from the long corridor and Stewart struggled into a sitting position while wiping the last remnants of sleep from his swollen eyes.
Linden leaned against the cage wall in a daze when the rumbling sound came again much louder this time than it was before. The rumbling sound became a grating like metal on metal. Gigantic metal doors were opening and closing and it was getting closer. Someone or something was coming for him. Stewart sat up straighter and busied himself with the residue of clothes he had on.
He heard heavy footsteps as whomever came to the final door and it opened with a loud whoosh. "Mr. Stewart Linden, A harsh foreign voice called from the doorway. "Y...Y...Yes?" Linden stammered unsure. Linden got to his feet quickly and straightened his ruffled pants and shirt the best he could, and reply with a little more authority, "Yes. I'm Stewart Linden." The voice unlocked the steel door to the cage and replied with no emotion, "If you will come with me." The cage creaked and croaked with the weight of the steel door and it rolled open with a loud bang as Linden stepped out into the well-lit hallway.
Strangely enough he couldn't make out the stranger's facial features nor could he place the accent. It was unlike any he'd heard before in his life time. A cold, unfeeling hand gripped his wrist with immeasurable strength as the foreign man gasped, "This way." And for a moment the stranger's face seemed to change. It rippled as if he was presenting a new face. In an instant it was gone and Stewart blinked clearing his head before he really started to lose his frayed mind.
The two men walked in silence for what seemed like hours. Stewart watched the foreigner with horrid interest. His face displayed absolutely nothing. He was pale and cold and Stewart was sure the man had no human emotion left in him. When they finally reached their destination the stranger said, "Here," gesturing to a wooden seat in the middle of another small room and before Linden could say anything the stranger disappeared. "That bloke was a barrel of laughs." Linden mumbled to himself. He felt the stranger's gaze upon him penetrating his very soul. Wishing he had kept his big mouth shut, Linden shivered from head to toe trying to keep pace with the goose bumps running their own rendition of a hundred yard dash up and down his chilled spine. "Welcome," boomed a voice from the darkness. Linden jumped as though he had been goosed, "You scared the hell out of me!" Well, yes I usually have that exact effect on most people, " The voice spoke clearly and slowly with the same accent as the eerie guard. "My name is Leeland ." the voice said matter-of-factly. Linden stood agape and ran through his thoughts carefully before choosing his words. Leeland allowed the silence anticipating the barrage oncoming questions with a playful interest as Stewart tried to make out the familiar facial features shrouded in the darkness. In a loud, bold voice Linden claimed, "My name is Stewart Linden, I am special agent number 9126 and I demand to converse with my commander in London!" Leeland laughed uproariously. It was a grating sound as if laughter was not part of Leeland's every day life.
Leeland moved closer, raised his eyebrows and made a futile attempt at a whistle, "Well, well Mr. Linden. I have been greeted in all sorts of manners from men more than you and less than you, but never one as demanding as you. The fact that you are number,...What was it?" "9126." Linden muttered. "Ah, yes 9126. The fact that you are number 9126 holds no relevancy here. I do not care if you are a spy or a garbage collector. It makes no difference to me whatsoever." Leeland finished with a little chuckle. Linden thought about this information, turning it over and over in his rattled mind. Panic welled at the base of his mind and grew until he blurted out, "So, you are not the enemy?" Leeland laughed heartily again and coughed, "No, Mr. Linden, I am not the enemy. On the contrary, I could use a man with your...shall we say, skills." Leeland sniffed and lit a candle not too far away from Stewart's head with such speed an accuracy he wasn't sue he really saw it until the candle beamed brightly and flickered. "You're an intelligent man, Mr. Linden, are you not?" Leeland continued without missing a beat, "After you hear my proposal, I am sure you will say yes." Leeland waited for some response from his captivated audience but none came. "Allow me to begin, then." Leeland spoke clearly and evenly. "Feel free to stop me when you like and ask any questions." Leeland waited, still no response. "You and your family were on vacation and you all were abducted by my,...shall we say, staff and myself. My full name is Leeland Forsythe and my family has been in power for many, many centuries in this region and we will be here for many more. I was born approximately 450 years ago. I have seen many things, and I will see many more. And if you so choose you can live forever. Do you make the choice? Or do you choose to die now with your family?"
Linden stood completely dumbfounded. He could not believe his ears. Did this man just tell him what he thought he did or did he image the entire conversation? As if Leeland read Stewart's mind he calmly said, "No Mr. Linden, you are not imagining things." Linden jumped and stared at Leeland Forsythe in amazement. Stuttering, Linden finally found his tongue and spoke, "S...So...What you are...T...Telling...me is that you are a V...Vam...Vampire?" Leeland snickered, "No I am not what you perceive to be a vampire. I do drink blood and I choose my victims carefully, but I hold no resentment for garlic, crosses or wooden stakes. And sunlight, yes, sunlight is something I care not to think about." As if to prove his point Leeland reached out and grabbed the gold cross from around Linden's neck and held it in such a quick movement Linden didn't even see the man stutter and released it a few moments later unharmed speaking as he did it, "You see, Mr. Linden, the old myths do not always ring truth."
Stewart Linden shivered deep down inside his soul despite himself and muttered, "What of my family?" "Dead, as I just told you, Mr. Linden." Linden gasped in shock and surprise. "Oh, come now, Mr. Linden. surely you knew they were dead. Why would I spare them? They were too weak to endure the first bite. They all died too quickly."
Linden scanned the room quickly for a way out, found none and spoke in a raspy voice, "So, now you think after you've killed my entire family I will just allow you to make me one of you, just like that!" "Yes, I do. Once I present all the facts."
Stewart's mouth was dry, he licked his lips in a vague attempt to regain some control of his missing saliva, he swallowed hard, but the dryness did not succumb. "You see Mr. Linden, or should I call you, Stewart," without waiting for a reply Leeland went on, "You really have no choice because I've already bitten you once. All I have to do is bite again and drain you to death. Either way you will either die or come to my side. All that is required of you is to drink." Linden felt his own heart pounding in his chest as he unconsciously reached up and scraped his fingers across the neat puncture wounds on his neck. "Oh, God." Stewart squeaked and the dream came flooding back to him as clear as if it was happening all over again. His hands trembling erratically, Stewart Linden plopped down hard in the wooden chair provided for him. "If you come with me, Stewart, I'll show you beauty beyond any human belief. I will teach you and pamper you, and without me, you will die painfully and quickly. I will show you how to live and how rewarding life can be, if you just come to me."
Fighting every impulse he had Stewart looked dramatically away from the dark figure waiting just beyond the darkness, but he couldn't escape Leeland's eyes glaring at him, boring into him. Unable to control his feelings he was drawn to Leeland like a passionate lover. "Come." Leeland whispered, "Come to me, my child."
As if Stewart's feet and legs had minds of their own he moved closer to Leeland Forsythe for the first terrifying time since he entered the uncomfortable chamber. Welcome and complete understanding flared from Leeland's outstretched arms as Linden gradually and willingly came closer. Stewart's blood coursed through his mellow veins, pumping fiercely past his heart into his awaiting brain. Yearning for Leeland's touch, his warmth, and his knowledge, Stewart stepped closer into his open arms. Stroking his hair and caressing Stewart like a lost child, Leeland cooed, "There, there.Isn't that much better, my child?"
The two men stood there for minutes before Leeland spoke quietly, "It's time. It's time." Linden gazed deep into Leeland's dark violet eyes and discovered everything in his life that was missing. Leeland plummeted into Stewart's neck and heavily sucked his blood until almost dry for a second time that evening. Ecstasy raged through Linden's body and he could think of nothing else or anything else he wanted more than Leeland Forsythe. Leeland pulled away from Stewart and he hung on tightly while he offered his own vampire blood for the taking. Stewart drank thirstily. Lightheaded and swimming, Linden slumped against Leeland's hard, cool chest as the new blood bubbled and surged through his rich veins. Contentment spiraled through Stewart Linden's body as he sank deeper and deeper into the bliss Leeland Forsythe offered and he finally succumbed to.
Dark Captive
Darkness. Nothing but shrouded darkness encompassing his very thoughts. No daylight, no manufactured light, no glimmer of hope. The husky man sat straight up slowly with his throbbing head in his trembling hands. "I can't believe this," he spoke aloud in a thick English accent.
Clearing his parched throat the man peered disbelieving through the empty darkness. "Where am I? Am I dead or alive?" Shaking his head violently back and forth doing his best to clear the cobwebs from his hazy mind, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Jesus, how did I get here? What the hell happened?"
Rubbing the callused heels of his palms hard into his eye sockets, the man realized for the first time since he awoke he remembered nothing. His mind was a void. His own name, his job, whether or not he had family, all of it gone and seemingly wiped from his memory. Dizziness waved through the fog. He swayed a little and steadied himself with his left elbow. He was uncomfortable and he had one heck of a headache. He rubbed his head unconsciously and peered into the obscurity again.
As he struggled to remember who he was and why he was in a place such as this, he enveloped his surroundings quickly and assessed it was not a place he wanted to spend plenty of time in and it surely was not heaven. The stone walls were cold and dank like a cave and he could faintly hear a dripping sound in the distance. It was eerie. He couldn't shake the sensation of plain and simple evil riveting the air around him. Scratching his hurting head the man gripped the frigid wall and steadied himself on his feet unsure. "I've got to remember who I am?" He mumbled under his breath.
Searching himself for the smallest possible clue to his identity, the man turned out all of his pockets. He looked in his pants where everyone keeps a wallet or some form of identification. He rummaged through his shirt pockets and even looked in his shoes and socks, but on all counts found nothing. Frustrated he bailed out loud, "Whoever put me here must of taken every form of identification I had."
Purging his mind deeply, the man fell silent as he groped his surroundings around this purgatory he was to now call home. After 15 minutes of feeling, smelling and crawling he concluded he was in some sort of underground prison with stone dungeon like walls and horrid smells of men dying. He was alone in his cell and he seemed somewhat physically battered. But the silence was deafening, and there was no one else to share in his misery. Instead of answering his questions his bout around the mildewed cell block brought many new ones to light and still solved nothing.
He sighed heavily and sank against the cool stone wall caressing his riddled, aching bones with its icy grip. The walls seemed to invite him and invade him at the same time. Shivering he backed off a little and looked at it in the darkness, but nothing was there only his deranged imagination getting the best of him.
Deciding to find out if anyone else shared his fate in this dark state of reality, he called out a little too loudly for such an empty place, "Hello? Is anybody there?" The sound of his own voice reverberated off the the walls and traveled down the lonely corridors. He listened intently for the smallest possible sound, a scuffle of shoes on the concrete floor, other voices, someone, anyone, hell he'd settle for rats roaming about this place, but his own voice kept crawling back into his ears louder than ever with definite emptiness and a certainty he felt. He was alone. No human contact. No memory. No lights. "Damn!" He screamed out in pure frustration. "I've got to do something, I just cannot sit here and wait to die."
Struggling to his feet, intending to do a more thorough search of his new dim surroundings he slipped and fell full force against the slimy wall. "Oh, good one. You're so damned clumsy, Linden." The man struggled to his feet again but a little more carefully as realization took hold. "Wait!" He rubbed his forehead feverishly, "That's it! My name! My name is Stewart Linden! I'm Stewart Linden and I work for,...for,...for,...Oh hell, I don't remember!"
Scowling Linden forced himself back to his feet and scathed the entire damp cell looking for any broken pieces to possibly dig his way out. The search turned up the same information as before. Nothing. "It's small and not very cozy." Linden mused to himself, "Whoever put me here must not like me very much." As he turned around for better bearings he heard in his own head, "On the contrary, Mr. Linden, I like you very much, always have." "What the,..." Linden looked around madly for a moment and dismissed it as his own fear of closed in places getting the best of him. And as quickly as it came it was gone. Stewart shrugged and sighed plopping down in what he thought might be the middle of the cool cell like room.
Distantly he heard a rumbling sound, but he couldn't quite place it. He sat quietly and thought hard, but still could not quite place it. The ground shook and he had to hold on to keep from falling over and hurting himself.
Deciding for the time being to forget the noise and work on a probable way out of this mess, Linden began to rub the floor hoping he'd fall upon a loose brick or anything escape worthy. In his travels he discovered two loose bricks in the far left hand corner, but when he removed them he only found more cold, hard concrete below. It could of been concrete has wasn't exactly sure. He was sure of one thing. He was in a serious predicament. Past that, he didn't know anything, for all he knew Stewart Linden could be his best friend or his worst enemy. But it was something until he regained his memory. It was a start.
The cell block he was in was old and carried a certain smell, but besides the smell of age laid another stench far different, but he couldn't quite place it and quickly dismissed it. In his journey he noticed one heavy steel door locked from the outside was his only means of escape. Obliviously the door was manifested to keep someone in instead of out and all around the walls, floor and air bled dampness. Stewart could not reach the ceiling, therefore he couldn't tell if it bread the same dank, dampness the rest of the chamber did, but he assumed it must.
He searched his pockets a little more carefully for any signs of his existence or whereabouts and realizing he had inside pockets he had not looked in previously in his shirt, he fumbled his hands into them a little too quickly with anticipation tearing them slightly. Finding a small object in his right hand inside pocket, Linden reveled in the fact that he could at least have some closure of his dim thoughts for the time being. He brought the tiny cardboard pack out and opened it carefully treating it as though it were gold and it would break if he opened it too eagerly. It was a book of matches. Excitedly he pried the matchbox open almost wrecking it in the process. His numb fingers and sweaty hands trembled fiercely as he finally unfolded the matches. Quickly running his fingers over the contents of the book he landed what he was looking for. A single match. Wiping his scrawling hands one at a time on his pant leg , he took a deep breath, knowing it was his only chance, and lit the match on the first strike.
Turning around slowly in a full circle he saw his own private hell for the first time and gasped. "My God." The ceiling stood at least 20 feet if it was an inch above the old callous stone floor and in the far right hand corner hung a battered and worn skeleton. Linden whimpered and drew back as if the skeleton jumped out and bit him. His jaws agape, Linden uncertainly walked to his ragged cellmate. His match became shorter by the moment and he tore at his sleeve frantically. Reaching up in a split second and quickly tearing the femur bone from the dilapidated bag of bones, Stewart remarked quietly, "I'm sure you don't need this anymore, mate." Placing the weathered remains on the frigid rock floor he wrapped his sleeve sound the tip and fastened it tightly. He lit it with his depleting match fastidiously before it burned out altogether.
The fire blazed brilliantly from his makeshift torch as he searched for a secure place to anchor his flickering light. He remembered the two loose bricks in the corner, and quickly scurried to the spot and planted the torch gingerly. "Now...If I could just remember where the hell I am, I'd be alright." Linden mused to the skeleton. "Well, never give up, keep a stiff upper lip, devil may care and all that utter crap."
Linden rubbed his rough hands together for warmth noticing for the first time just how cold and damp his domain was. As the cool walls and floor surrounded him he shuttered uncontrollably and scanned the small tomb-like room with unregarded apathy. His eyes were mere slits as he lurked them in and out of the shadows caressing the walls for some sort of portal or catch to unlock the door or reveal a secret passageway to freedom. Still nothing.
Again, Linden heard the faint rumbling rattling into his very soul and bones, and it seemed to be getting closer. The sound spark some memory deep within the crevices of his mind, but before Stewart could grasp it, it was gone and hopelessly lost.
Dismissing it once again, he plopped in the center of the cold concrete cell nervously waiting. "Well, it's obliviously a hard place to get out of, " Linden said with a quiver nodding to his cellmate. "Looks like this bloke had a run in with someone who did not agree with him. If I could only remember everything, I know I could get out of here. Jesus I should of listened to my mother and been an accountant instead of a spy."
Everything began to flood back in waves and flashes. His memory, his kids, his parents, and, oh God,...his wife."Why!" Linden screamed in blind anguish. Insane with rage Stewart beat on the heavy steel door with his fists until they were bruised and becoming bloody, "Let me out of here you bastards!"
Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably as the events unfolded in his mind's eye. The memories. He couldn't stop them if he wanted to. His wife, Erica Linden, was dead. There was nothing he could of done for her. And her face...her face...Oh God, her face. He moaned like a wounded animal and slipped down to the ground coiled like a snake. Her torn, riddled body lying there on the icy September ground lifeless. No breath expelled from her once heavenly lungs, no beat emerged from her sturdy heart. "Blood, oh God, the blood." Linden sobbed. Flashes of her bloodied face raced through his unbelieving mind darkening every untouched corner with an icy preciseness. "Erica...My dear sweet Erica. I'm so sorry. Why? Why did this happen?" But even as he spoke the words he knew why. Stewart sunk into the unfeeling floor and his entire body felt like warmed jelly. Beating his fists on the unforgiving floor one more time for good measure he dispelled the sour contents of his empty stomach. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve he shouted at the top of his lungs, "I'll get you! Do you hear me? I'll get you and when I do I will kill you!" His body, wrecked with tears and wrenched with pain heaved twice more and everything faded to black.
He slept. Sleep came quickly for him, but it was disturbed with visions of a dark clad figure slowly and effortlessly raping his thoughts. It was endless. The nightmares went on for what seemed like hours as he tossed and turned on the frigid stone floor uncomfortably. And no matter what he did the dark being probed and prodded him, not physically, but mentally.
Linden awoke abruptly with a start. Shaking the last remnants of the nightmares that still lingered in the darkest regions of his tired mind he fought back the tears threatening to overcome him. The very real nightmare encompassed him in his waking moments. The memories flooded back once again and he lost the battle and started sobbing deep and hard.
After the deepened fog cleared from his startled mind he turned his aching head and realized he had been moved from his dank cell. His cell mate was nowhere in sight and now instead of cold stone floor and walls he was nestled neatly in a warm bunk with the chain link walls of a prison cage. Hearing a faint hum, a bit like electricity in a fluorescent light warming up, Linden stirred and scrutinized his surrounding cell. Light flooded through the fencing from the long corridor and Stewart struggled into a sitting position while wiping the last remnants of sleep from his swollen eyes.
Linden leaned against the cage wall in a daze when the rumbling sound came again much louder this time than it was before. The rumbling sound became a grating like metal on metal. Gigantic metal doors were opening and closing and it was getting closer. Someone or something was coming for him. Stewart sat up straighter and busied himself with the residue of clothes he had on.
He heard heavy footsteps as whomever came to the final door and it opened with a loud whoosh. "Mr. Stewart Linden, A harsh foreign voice called from the doorway. "Y...Y...Yes?" Linden stammered unsure. Linden got to his feet quickly and straightened his ruffled pants and shirt the best he could, and reply with a little more authority, "Yes. I'm Stewart Linden." The voice unlocked the steel door to the cage and replied with no emotion, "If you will come with me." The cage creaked and croaked with the weight of the steel door and it rolled open with a loud bang as Linden stepped out into the well-lit hallway.
Strangely enough he couldn't make out the stranger's facial features nor could he place the accent. It was unlike any he'd heard before in his life time. A cold, unfeeling hand gripped his wrist with immeasurable strength as the foreign man gasped, "This way." And for a moment the stranger's face seemed to change. It rippled as if he was presenting a new face. In an instant it was gone and Stewart blinked clearing his head before he really started to lose his frayed mind.
The two men walked in silence for what seemed like hours. Stewart watched the foreigner with horrid interest. His face displayed absolutely nothing. He was pale and cold and Stewart was sure the man had no human emotion left in him. When they finally reached their destination the stranger said, "Here," gesturing to a wooden seat in the middle of another small room and before Linden could say anything the stranger disappeared. "That bloke was a barrel of laughs." Linden mumbled to himself. He felt the stranger's gaze upon him penetrating his very soul. Wishing he had kept his big mouth shut, Linden shivered from head to toe trying to keep pace with the goose bumps running their own rendition of a hundred yard dash up and down his chilled spine. "Welcome," boomed a voice from the darkness. Linden jumped as though he had been goosed, "You scared the hell out of me!" Well, yes I usually have that exact effect on most people, " The voice spoke clearly and slowly with the same accent as the eerie guard. "My name is Leeland ." the voice said matter-of-factly. Linden stood agape and ran through his thoughts carefully before choosing his words. Leeland allowed the silence anticipating the barrage oncoming questions with a playful interest as Stewart tried to make out the familiar facial features shrouded in the darkness. In a loud, bold voice Linden claimed, "My name is Stewart Linden, I am special agent number 9126 and I demand to converse with my commander in London!" Leeland laughed uproariously. It was a grating sound as if laughter was not part of Leeland's every day life.
Leeland moved closer, raised his eyebrows and made a futile attempt at a whistle, "Well, well Mr. Linden. I have been greeted in all sorts of manners from men more than you and less than you, but never one as demanding as you. The fact that you are number,...What was it?" "9126." Linden muttered. "Ah, yes 9126. The fact that you are number 9126 holds no relevancy here. I do not care if you are a spy or a garbage collector. It makes no difference to me whatsoever." Leeland finished with a little chuckle. Linden thought about this information, turning it over and over in his rattled mind. Panic welled at the base of his mind and grew until he blurted out, "So, you are not the enemy?" Leeland laughed heartily again and coughed, "No, Mr. Linden, I am not the enemy. On the contrary, I could use a man with your...shall we say, skills." Leeland sniffed and lit a candle not too far away from Stewart's head with such speed an accuracy he wasn't sue he really saw it until the candle beamed brightly and flickered. "You're an intelligent man, Mr. Linden, are you not?" Leeland continued without missing a beat, "After you hear my proposal, I am sure you will say yes." Leeland waited for some response from his captivated audience but none came. "Allow me to begin, then." Leeland spoke clearly and evenly. "Feel free to stop me when you like and ask any questions." Leeland waited, still no response. "You and your family were on vacation and you all were abducted by my,...shall we say, staff and myself. My full name is Leeland Forsythe and my family has been in power for many, many centuries in this region and we will be here for many more. I was born approximately 450 years ago. I have seen many things, and I will see many more. And if you so choose you can live forever. Do you make the choice? Or do you choose to die now with your family?"
Linden stood completely dumbfounded. He could not believe his ears. Did this man just tell him what he thought he did or did he image the entire conversation? As if Leeland read Stewart's mind he calmly said, "No Mr. Linden, you are not imagining things." Linden jumped and stared at Leeland Forsythe in amazement. Stuttering, Linden finally found his tongue and spoke, "S...So...What you are...T...Telling...me is that you are a V...Vam...Vampire?" Leeland snickered, "No I am not what you perceive to be a vampire. I do drink blood and I choose my victims carefully, but I hold no resentment for garlic, crosses or wooden stakes. And sunlight, yes, sunlight is something I care not to think about." As if to prove his point Leeland reached out and grabbed the gold cross from around Linden's neck and held it in such a quick movement Linden didn't even see the man stutter and released it a few moments later unharmed speaking as he did it, "You see, Mr. Linden, the old myths do not always ring truth."
Stewart Linden shivered deep down inside his soul despite himself and muttered, "What of my family?" "Dead, as I just told you, Mr. Linden." Linden gasped in shock and surprise. "Oh, come now, Mr. Linden. surely you knew they were dead. Why would I spare them? They were too weak to endure the first bite. They all died too quickly."
Linden scanned the room quickly for a way out, found none and spoke in a raspy voice, "So, now you think after you've killed my entire family I will just allow you to make me one of you, just like that!" "Yes, I do. Once I present all the facts."
Stewart's mouth was dry, he licked his lips in a vague attempt to regain some control of his missing saliva, he swallowed hard, but the dryness did not succumb. "You see Mr. Linden, or should I call you, Stewart," without waiting for a reply Leeland went on, "You really have no choice because I've already bitten you once. All I have to do is bite again and drain you to death. Either way you will either die or come to my side. All that is required of you is to drink." Linden felt his own heart pounding in his chest as he unconsciously reached up and scraped his fingers across the neat puncture wounds on his neck. "Oh, God." Stewart squeaked and the dream came flooding back to him as clear as if it was happening all over again. His hands trembling erratically, Stewart Linden plopped down hard in the wooden chair provided for him. "If you come with me, Stewart, I'll show you beauty beyond any human belief. I will teach you and pamper you, and without me, you will die painfully and quickly. I will show you how to live and how rewarding life can be, if you just come to me."
Fighting every impulse he had Stewart looked dramatically away from the dark figure waiting just beyond the darkness, but he couldn't escape Leeland's eyes glaring at him, boring into him. Unable to control his feelings he was drawn to Leeland like a passionate lover. "Come." Leeland whispered, "Come to me, my child."
As if Stewart's feet and legs had minds of their own he moved closer to Leeland Forsythe for the first terrifying time since he entered the uncomfortable chamber. Welcome and complete understanding flared from Leeland's outstretched arms as Linden gradually and willingly came closer. Stewart's blood coursed through his mellow veins, pumping fiercely past his heart into his awaiting brain. Yearning for Leeland's touch, his warmth, and his knowledge, Stewart stepped closer into his open arms. Stroking his hair and caressing Stewart like a lost child, Leeland cooed, "There, there.Isn't that much better, my child?"
The two men stood there for minutes before Leeland spoke quietly, "It's time. It's time." Linden gazed deep into Leeland's dark violet eyes and discovered everything in his life that was missing. Leeland plummeted into Stewart's neck and heavily sucked his blood until almost dry for a second time that evening. Ecstasy raged through Linden's body and he could think of nothing else or anything else he wanted more than Leeland Forsythe. Leeland pulled away from Stewart and he hung on tightly while he offered his own vampire blood for the taking. Stewart drank thirstily. Lightheaded and swimming, Linden slumped against Leeland's hard, cool chest as the new blood bubbled and surged through his rich veins. Contentment spiraled through Stewart Linden's body as he sank deeper and deeper into the bliss Leeland Forsythe offered and he finally succumbed to.
Behind Enemy Lines
Copyright 1996 by: Demented Thinking Productions
In Loving Memory Of: Ted M. Holdren
Based on true accounts of an 82nd Airborne Division Soldier during World War II
Behind Enemy Lines
An old man, wrought with aching pains and disease sat upon his roomy screened in porch watching the sun’s violet rays play upon the Saint John’s River in Jacksonville, Florida as it set slowly. The bright golden rays leaped and danced bringing to existence a fiery image of lives past and gone through an old man’s sharp memory. As he quietly pondered the long, but unforgotten past, water laps the river shore gently as a small speedboat cruises by displaying girls in bikinis and guys in shorts.
The man observes his own wrinkled hands carefully as if they would give some indication or comfort from his unbearable pain. Flexing them unconsciously he lets out a deep sigh and surveys the quaint porch with a detached fascination.
A gentle breeze blows the new autumn leaves peacefully, scraping the patio ground as the old man fixes his unblinking gaze on his eldest grand daughter, Becky. “A man,” he began almost startling the child out of her chair, “Goes through life wondering if he’s made the right choices or decisions. He grows up, goes to war, comes home, gets married, has three lovely children, watches his eldest depart to a better place in Heaven, gets sicker and then finally dies. Life is life, and death, well, death is, death, but it’s not so final as everyone likes to think. Do you understand?” Becky, surprised the man had said anything at all blinked and replied, “I think so.”
The elderly man shifted in his seat uncomfortably stealing one more glance at the uncanny sunset and finally says, “What I mean is, life is a complicated series of ups and downs and we all do our best to make it enjoyable, but no one lives forever.” Knowing exactly what he meant since her own mother passed away 4 years earlier, Becky turned her head not wanting her grandfather to see her cry. Viewing the spectacular sunset disappearing quietly behind the St. John’s Bridge a lonely tear streamed down her right cheek and plopped delicately to the ground beside her without a sound. Lines creviced deeply in the man’s weathered face as his brows frowned in dismay.
Deciding for the time being to drop the sordid subject of death, the man switched to another one quickly. “Did I ever tell you about the time we parachuted behind enemy lines in East Germany?” The little girl, knowing full good and well he had told her many times and memorizing the story by heart, but wanting deeply to hear it again surprisingly said, “No grandpa, I don’t think you told me that one.” The man smiled widely giving off a slight chuckle so much like him the little girl had to smile herself.
Finding a comfortable story position his ancient bones creaked and groaned as he began with a little more enthusiasm. “Well then. I’ll tell ya!” Clasping his big hands in front of his warm, untimely face he flickered a smile and narrated, “It was night time and as dark as the ace of spades. We were flying over West Germany and we were scheduled to drop at 22:30 hours. The natives were restless; as they say, and everyone fidgeted with their uniforms, jumping gear, boot laces, or eyeglasses whichever they had and whatever made them more comfortable. Several of us rechecked our parachutes and thought about the upcoming jump. Some prayed. I checked my parachute, ammunition, weapon, and prayed just to cover all basis. Once I was satisfied everything was ready to go I fumbled with my boot laces just like the rest of ‘em, saying my silent prayers for a safe return home.”
The man gave a little nervous chuckle and continued, “Now, there was this one fella in our outfit named Brady, I think, hell, I don’t know it could have been anything, it was a long time ago. Anyway, it was Brady’s first jump with our outfit. It was his first jump anywhere except probably out of bed, and he was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. He must of checked his equipment, oh I’d say at least ten times and I think he said at least a good dozen prayers.”
The old man smiled broadly and laughed again remembering Brady’s nervousness. Clearing his throat he continued, “Time had come for the jump. Everyone lined up like robots and got ready to plunge into the uncertain European darkness that came consistent throughout the war. Everyone except Brady, that is. I don’t know if the man sensed his own fate to come or if he was just plain scared to death like the rest of us. Some people just seem to know what’s about to happen and they become scared and tense as a frog caught in the gig light somewhere deep in the swamp, but he jumped. So did we all.”
As he shifted his position to a more comfortable spot since nothing seemed comfortable to him anymore, the old man sighed aloud and whistled at nothing in particular, “Did you know I was in the 82nd Airborne Division, Becky?” Becky stared at the man blankly for a moment pondering this information carefully and finally answered with excitement, “Yes sir!” The old man smiled and nodded ruffling his grand daughter’s hair, “Yep! I jumped all over the world, but no jump would compare or compete with that one. Hell, I even jumped in Africa where the Desert Fox, Rummel, holed up with his troops, but still there was no comparison. Well, as I said, time had come to jump. Our Lieutenant gave the direct order to go and I’ll be damned if he didn’t actually fling poor Brady out the plane first. The Lieutenant was a damned fool and Brady was a good man. Anyway, just like the rest, I waited my turn for the big push out into the unknowing darkness and when it came it was as surprising as it was the first time the lieutenant shoved me out of the small door into the night air. The total shock of diving through midair more or less against your own free will as wind drove hard through your eardrums until your head felt like it was afire with the pain is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy and I never care to see it or do it again. Why people jump out of a perfectly good, flyable airplane for fun is beyond me.”
The old man fell silent casting his gaze across the black river at the now twinkling lights lining the opposite shore. The sun had long fallen away into blank darkness and the crickets sang and chirped a tune only the insects shared at night. Frogs rang their plea boldly with their own version of the cacophony as mosquitoes flew feverishly about landing on anything that could possibly satisfy their hunger. The man swatted a lone mosquito biting his lower forearm in a quick, unthinking motion before he spoke quietly again. “Yep. There’s a definite surge of adrenalin when a man plunges 20,000 feet out of a moving airplane.”
Ruffling Becky’s hair affectionately, the old man took up his story where he left off, “Well, as usual in the military, things did not go one hundred percent according to plan. The supplies we needed were dropped before we jumped and for all I know they could still be looking for them to this day. One thing’s for certain, we never saw hide nor hair of them. In a very odd way it makes a man wonder if they were dropped at all. It makes you think that some high and mighty pilot back on that bucket of nuts and bolts you just flung yourself from for God, country, and mankind is sitting there in his warm cockpit flying away in the night sky with a candid camera crew laughing hysterically watching us below search for something that obviously wasn’t there in the first place. That was the first to many, many clues as to how this particular jump was going to be. The second clue was young, handsome Brady. That kid had a wife and a 3-month-old daughter back home in Oregon. He showed everyone their picture and held it like a talisman day in and day out. Both were widowed that fatal night. I had the unfortunate displeasure of finding Brady’s broken body. You see, his landing wasn’t as easy as the rest of ours were. He found the one sturdy tree in the whole German countryside left still standing. It broke his fall and unfortunately his neck with it. He was tangled up in a twisted mess when I found him. It made me sick to my stomach staring into his dark, pleading eyes, knowing there was nothing I or anyone could do for him. I cut him down as quietly as possible and hid him well under some brush to cover our tracks. I closed his eyes, said a silent prayer for him and made a mental note to write Mrs. Brady when I got myself out of this mess. I’ll never erase his face from my memory as long as I live. He was so damned scared to jump, and he died just as scared. It was painless and quick for Brady, and that’s the only good thing about it, some were not that lucky. I still see his terrified face before I go to sleep at night and the first thing when I wake in the morning. I’ve often wondered over the years how Mrs. Brady held up through it all, but I guess like many other World War II widows, she went home to her mother and grieved her tragic loss. Brady was such a family man, always holding the picture of his wife and daughter before going to sleep. He’d look at them for what seemed like hours without moving. He loved them, God, and his country dearly. It was a real shame, a real shame.”
The fragile man shook his head sadly back and forth before he continued with a sigh, “Well, ole Brady wasn’t the only causality, there were many others throughout the time of the war. Some just like ‘em, some different. By the time we figured out the supplies had not landed any where nearby the Sergeant informed us we were just as lost as the supplies were. To make matters worse, we were four miles off course and four miles behind enemy lines in the heart of East Germany. Murphy’s law, I guess. If it can go wrong, it probably will. And everything about that night in particular went wrong. Along with venomous snakes and deadly insects we had to be on the lookout for armed and dangerous Nazi troops. Sometimes I think it was better that Brady met his fate before we found out our location. Death might have been better for him. I don’t think he would of made it through the long hike back to fight, but there’s no way of knowing for sure.”
“We took immediate cover in a thicket of bushes nearby completely equipped with thorns and brambles. I don’t know what kind of bushes they were, I didn’t ask. It was pitch black and you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Shells and magazines ripped through the warm night air from all sides of us in the distance.”
“Oddly enough a man could hear various forms of wildlife with all the noise in the background voicing its pleas in the embezzlement of unwanted sounds in every direction. Some friendly. Some not so friendly. Crickets, insects of all kinds and things much larger I didn’t care to come into contact with stirred all about us. It could be downright deafening and would make your skin crawl if you had even the slightest idea what kind of animals peered out at you through the inky darkness watching and waiting. Sometimes, hell most of the time, we had had to sleep on bedrolls under the stars at night. One morning I awoke to an unwanted visitor in the bag with me. If someone hadn’t of told me to be careful when I got out of the bag in the morning I would of died long before this jump. I had to slowly and carefully peel back my bedroll to reveal poisonous snakes more than once the four years I was at war. Snakes take liberty at your feet in the bedroll because they seek warmth. It scared me to death. My heart felt like a sledgehammer beating on bare metal as I quickly flipped him 20 yards away with the barrel of my riffle. Before you put your boots on in the morning when we were in the desert you had to turn them upside down and shake out the scorpions or any other critters that stowed away in the night. Yep. That’s defiantly where my heart problems started I think.”
Becky, wide-eyed and astonished, swallowed hard. She couldn’t imagine waking up every morning shaking her bed and shoes out before moving. The ancient man grinned broadly portraying perfectly lined dentures and turned his head to the side so his only grand daughter would not see him giggling at her amazed look. “What kind of snake was it, grandpa?” Becky asked meekly. “Now,” the old man countered, “I don’t rightly know and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask the slithery fella either. All I know is I didn’t like him curling up beside me uninvited.”
Waving his hand in the air diligently signifying enough questions and getting back to the business at hand, the man tweaked Becky’s nose and continued his story while the little girl laughed happily. “There was some confusion to begin with,” he began again, “The sarge looked like a man possessed trying to pinpoint our exact location. It’s not easy giving the obvious fact that there were no road signs telling us exactly where we were, but ole sarge was really good at finding out our exact location by examining the lay of the land. As a matter of fact, I believe he was one of the few men of the world that rarely got lost. I doubt if any woman sat in the passenger seat of his car asking him if they were lost or just taking some absurd detour. Ole sarge would of found his way out of Fort Knox on a wing and a prayer. I never saw him lost and I suppose the man had never been lost a day in his life. Well, it took ole sarge about ten minutes to pinpoint our location. He knew exactly where we were and he knew exactly how to go from there. Sarge informed us that we had to walk (or hike as he put it) west 4 miles to meet the drop spot. Everyone moaned silently including me. He instructed us not to talk and not to light any cigarettes.” The little girl looked puzzled, “But why, grandpa?”
The man stared out at the stars reflecting in the night sky and glanced at the moonlight dripping across the river in streams before answering quietly. His face and demeanor duplicated a serious tone frightening Becky slightly. “The Germans.” He said solemnly. Becky gazed at him for a long moment in total disbelief. “If a man,” her grandfather said seriously, “Lit a cigarette or talked it would give away the position of the entire company. The Germans would see the flicker of the lighter or hear a voice and fire everything they had in our general direction killing everyone.” Becky pondered this information carefully and looked back into her grandfather’s warm, sensitive face. Sighing, the old man continued, “We grabbed our gear, what we had that is, and began walking to the west. We were in the midst of a heavy forest and it became increasingly difficult to move through the underbrush silently. As tough as it was, we somehow made it without a hitch. As we stepped into a clearing all hell broke loose. Gunfire rained through the trees sprinkling chaos everywhere it landed and hit the man next to me directly in the heart killing him instantly. His name was, Sanderson, I believe. He fell dead right at my feet and I hardly had time to think. I hit the ground pulling the other man next to me down as quickly as I possibly could. No one moved, breathed or spoke for what seemed like hours. The problem was we didn’t know for sure if the whole freaking German army waited on the other side of the clearing or if it was one lonely man strayed from his outfit cold and alone. Silence bated the heavy night air and finally we could hear the sniper running away from us through the underbrush on the other side. We knew he was alone, but we also knew there would be more close by. We waited, oh; it must have been at least ten minutes before regrouping. We had to get out of there, and fast, so we took a hasty turn south and moved swiftly through the thick forest again. We knew we were getting closer to the front line and we were a little more tense than usual. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up at attention prickling my skin and I broke out into a cold sweat even though it felt like it was 20 degrees. I’ll tell ya, you haven’t seen or smelled fear until you’ve been put into a situation like that. All the other men around me knew it too. It’s the kind of fear you go to bed at night thinking of and you sleep with one eye open and one eye closed. You wake up in the morning stiff and felling as though you didn’t sleep a wink the night before. Yep, no fear like that fear. Yep.”
The old man paused glancing thoughtfully over the blackened water. Waves gently lapped the shore and a mullet answered with a splash of its own somewhere near the pine pier. Becky’s bright blue eyes cut through the darkness and she urged, “Go on, grandpa!” The old man looked at his grand daughter lovingly and asked, “Oh! You want me to finish the story, do you?” Becky laughed in spite of herself heartily and retorted quickly, “Of course I do!” The man ruffled Becky’s head of blonde hair vigorously and said, “Well, if you say so. Well, when ole serge deemed we had gone far enough south we turned west again and headed toward our original destination. We were supposed to hit a small German armory at the front line. I guess I can tell ya that, makes no difference now. Sarge made us fall out to rest while he calculated our distance. We had already gone 5 miles including the 2-mile detour south through the woods. Sarge told us we were just about there. We had to quickly hit the place and get out before the Germans had time to retaliate. We were supposed to meet a chopper at 05:30 hours in a clearing about a mile away from the armory. It would safely bring us back to an English Air Force base just outside of London. We rested for 15-20 minutes. It seemed to fly by. Things always seem that way when they are good, but when it’s bad it seems to take forever. We had roughly a mile to go, so we gathered our gear and got started again. After a good 45 minutes of twisting and turning through the thicket we snuck up on the armory and the sarge did his usual quick calculations. He figured there were four guards on foot with dogs and two in the tower. There was 15-20 of us so we had it covered. I was in charge of throwing the grenades into the armory blowing it up. Four others quietly took out the guards and their trusting companions while five others ran in and threw the grenades into the small armory. We had one fella who was a damn good sniper shot stationed in a tree just in case. He took out the two in the tower with speed and the accuracy of a rattlesnake. Everything blew up and the entire squad hauled buggy for cover in the woods. There must have been one German soldier caught inside the tin building because I heard the most unbelievably pathetic cry of pain, I think I’ve ever heard in my life. When a man experiences pain like that he always tends to sound like a wild animal caught in a trap rather than a man. It was a high-pitched, piercing scream and very final. It sent chills down my spine. We met up with our helicopter on time and flew safely to much more friendly ground. I’ll never forget that jump as long as I live. Yep. Not in a million years.” The old man yawned and stretched. Standing he turned to face Becky and advised, “It’s past your bed time little lady.” Becky blinked and mumbled, “I love you, grandpa. Your stories are so neat.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and scampered off to bed. He watched her go as if it was the last time and whispered, “I love you too. I only wish you knew really how much.”
The tired old man retired for the evening to his own bed and never regained consciousness the next morning. But, as Becky went through her life, she always did know just how much he really did love her.
In Loving Memory Of: Ted M. Holdren
Based on true accounts of an 82nd Airborne Division Soldier during World War II
Behind Enemy Lines
An old man, wrought with aching pains and disease sat upon his roomy screened in porch watching the sun’s violet rays play upon the Saint John’s River in Jacksonville, Florida as it set slowly. The bright golden rays leaped and danced bringing to existence a fiery image of lives past and gone through an old man’s sharp memory. As he quietly pondered the long, but unforgotten past, water laps the river shore gently as a small speedboat cruises by displaying girls in bikinis and guys in shorts.
The man observes his own wrinkled hands carefully as if they would give some indication or comfort from his unbearable pain. Flexing them unconsciously he lets out a deep sigh and surveys the quaint porch with a detached fascination.
A gentle breeze blows the new autumn leaves peacefully, scraping the patio ground as the old man fixes his unblinking gaze on his eldest grand daughter, Becky. “A man,” he began almost startling the child out of her chair, “Goes through life wondering if he’s made the right choices or decisions. He grows up, goes to war, comes home, gets married, has three lovely children, watches his eldest depart to a better place in Heaven, gets sicker and then finally dies. Life is life, and death, well, death is, death, but it’s not so final as everyone likes to think. Do you understand?” Becky, surprised the man had said anything at all blinked and replied, “I think so.”
The elderly man shifted in his seat uncomfortably stealing one more glance at the uncanny sunset and finally says, “What I mean is, life is a complicated series of ups and downs and we all do our best to make it enjoyable, but no one lives forever.” Knowing exactly what he meant since her own mother passed away 4 years earlier, Becky turned her head not wanting her grandfather to see her cry. Viewing the spectacular sunset disappearing quietly behind the St. John’s Bridge a lonely tear streamed down her right cheek and plopped delicately to the ground beside her without a sound. Lines creviced deeply in the man’s weathered face as his brows frowned in dismay.
Deciding for the time being to drop the sordid subject of death, the man switched to another one quickly. “Did I ever tell you about the time we parachuted behind enemy lines in East Germany?” The little girl, knowing full good and well he had told her many times and memorizing the story by heart, but wanting deeply to hear it again surprisingly said, “No grandpa, I don’t think you told me that one.” The man smiled widely giving off a slight chuckle so much like him the little girl had to smile herself.
Finding a comfortable story position his ancient bones creaked and groaned as he began with a little more enthusiasm. “Well then. I’ll tell ya!” Clasping his big hands in front of his warm, untimely face he flickered a smile and narrated, “It was night time and as dark as the ace of spades. We were flying over West Germany and we were scheduled to drop at 22:30 hours. The natives were restless; as they say, and everyone fidgeted with their uniforms, jumping gear, boot laces, or eyeglasses whichever they had and whatever made them more comfortable. Several of us rechecked our parachutes and thought about the upcoming jump. Some prayed. I checked my parachute, ammunition, weapon, and prayed just to cover all basis. Once I was satisfied everything was ready to go I fumbled with my boot laces just like the rest of ‘em, saying my silent prayers for a safe return home.”
The man gave a little nervous chuckle and continued, “Now, there was this one fella in our outfit named Brady, I think, hell, I don’t know it could have been anything, it was a long time ago. Anyway, it was Brady’s first jump with our outfit. It was his first jump anywhere except probably out of bed, and he was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. He must of checked his equipment, oh I’d say at least ten times and I think he said at least a good dozen prayers.”
The old man smiled broadly and laughed again remembering Brady’s nervousness. Clearing his throat he continued, “Time had come for the jump. Everyone lined up like robots and got ready to plunge into the uncertain European darkness that came consistent throughout the war. Everyone except Brady, that is. I don’t know if the man sensed his own fate to come or if he was just plain scared to death like the rest of us. Some people just seem to know what’s about to happen and they become scared and tense as a frog caught in the gig light somewhere deep in the swamp, but he jumped. So did we all.”
As he shifted his position to a more comfortable spot since nothing seemed comfortable to him anymore, the old man sighed aloud and whistled at nothing in particular, “Did you know I was in the 82nd Airborne Division, Becky?” Becky stared at the man blankly for a moment pondering this information carefully and finally answered with excitement, “Yes sir!” The old man smiled and nodded ruffling his grand daughter’s hair, “Yep! I jumped all over the world, but no jump would compare or compete with that one. Hell, I even jumped in Africa where the Desert Fox, Rummel, holed up with his troops, but still there was no comparison. Well, as I said, time had come to jump. Our Lieutenant gave the direct order to go and I’ll be damned if he didn’t actually fling poor Brady out the plane first. The Lieutenant was a damned fool and Brady was a good man. Anyway, just like the rest, I waited my turn for the big push out into the unknowing darkness and when it came it was as surprising as it was the first time the lieutenant shoved me out of the small door into the night air. The total shock of diving through midair more or less against your own free will as wind drove hard through your eardrums until your head felt like it was afire with the pain is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy and I never care to see it or do it again. Why people jump out of a perfectly good, flyable airplane for fun is beyond me.”
The old man fell silent casting his gaze across the black river at the now twinkling lights lining the opposite shore. The sun had long fallen away into blank darkness and the crickets sang and chirped a tune only the insects shared at night. Frogs rang their plea boldly with their own version of the cacophony as mosquitoes flew feverishly about landing on anything that could possibly satisfy their hunger. The man swatted a lone mosquito biting his lower forearm in a quick, unthinking motion before he spoke quietly again. “Yep. There’s a definite surge of adrenalin when a man plunges 20,000 feet out of a moving airplane.”
Ruffling Becky’s hair affectionately, the old man took up his story where he left off, “Well, as usual in the military, things did not go one hundred percent according to plan. The supplies we needed were dropped before we jumped and for all I know they could still be looking for them to this day. One thing’s for certain, we never saw hide nor hair of them. In a very odd way it makes a man wonder if they were dropped at all. It makes you think that some high and mighty pilot back on that bucket of nuts and bolts you just flung yourself from for God, country, and mankind is sitting there in his warm cockpit flying away in the night sky with a candid camera crew laughing hysterically watching us below search for something that obviously wasn’t there in the first place. That was the first to many, many clues as to how this particular jump was going to be. The second clue was young, handsome Brady. That kid had a wife and a 3-month-old daughter back home in Oregon. He showed everyone their picture and held it like a talisman day in and day out. Both were widowed that fatal night. I had the unfortunate displeasure of finding Brady’s broken body. You see, his landing wasn’t as easy as the rest of ours were. He found the one sturdy tree in the whole German countryside left still standing. It broke his fall and unfortunately his neck with it. He was tangled up in a twisted mess when I found him. It made me sick to my stomach staring into his dark, pleading eyes, knowing there was nothing I or anyone could do for him. I cut him down as quietly as possible and hid him well under some brush to cover our tracks. I closed his eyes, said a silent prayer for him and made a mental note to write Mrs. Brady when I got myself out of this mess. I’ll never erase his face from my memory as long as I live. He was so damned scared to jump, and he died just as scared. It was painless and quick for Brady, and that’s the only good thing about it, some were not that lucky. I still see his terrified face before I go to sleep at night and the first thing when I wake in the morning. I’ve often wondered over the years how Mrs. Brady held up through it all, but I guess like many other World War II widows, she went home to her mother and grieved her tragic loss. Brady was such a family man, always holding the picture of his wife and daughter before going to sleep. He’d look at them for what seemed like hours without moving. He loved them, God, and his country dearly. It was a real shame, a real shame.”
The fragile man shook his head sadly back and forth before he continued with a sigh, “Well, ole Brady wasn’t the only causality, there were many others throughout the time of the war. Some just like ‘em, some different. By the time we figured out the supplies had not landed any where nearby the Sergeant informed us we were just as lost as the supplies were. To make matters worse, we were four miles off course and four miles behind enemy lines in the heart of East Germany. Murphy’s law, I guess. If it can go wrong, it probably will. And everything about that night in particular went wrong. Along with venomous snakes and deadly insects we had to be on the lookout for armed and dangerous Nazi troops. Sometimes I think it was better that Brady met his fate before we found out our location. Death might have been better for him. I don’t think he would of made it through the long hike back to fight, but there’s no way of knowing for sure.”
“We took immediate cover in a thicket of bushes nearby completely equipped with thorns and brambles. I don’t know what kind of bushes they were, I didn’t ask. It was pitch black and you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Shells and magazines ripped through the warm night air from all sides of us in the distance.”
“Oddly enough a man could hear various forms of wildlife with all the noise in the background voicing its pleas in the embezzlement of unwanted sounds in every direction. Some friendly. Some not so friendly. Crickets, insects of all kinds and things much larger I didn’t care to come into contact with stirred all about us. It could be downright deafening and would make your skin crawl if you had even the slightest idea what kind of animals peered out at you through the inky darkness watching and waiting. Sometimes, hell most of the time, we had had to sleep on bedrolls under the stars at night. One morning I awoke to an unwanted visitor in the bag with me. If someone hadn’t of told me to be careful when I got out of the bag in the morning I would of died long before this jump. I had to slowly and carefully peel back my bedroll to reveal poisonous snakes more than once the four years I was at war. Snakes take liberty at your feet in the bedroll because they seek warmth. It scared me to death. My heart felt like a sledgehammer beating on bare metal as I quickly flipped him 20 yards away with the barrel of my riffle. Before you put your boots on in the morning when we were in the desert you had to turn them upside down and shake out the scorpions or any other critters that stowed away in the night. Yep. That’s defiantly where my heart problems started I think.”
Becky, wide-eyed and astonished, swallowed hard. She couldn’t imagine waking up every morning shaking her bed and shoes out before moving. The ancient man grinned broadly portraying perfectly lined dentures and turned his head to the side so his only grand daughter would not see him giggling at her amazed look. “What kind of snake was it, grandpa?” Becky asked meekly. “Now,” the old man countered, “I don’t rightly know and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask the slithery fella either. All I know is I didn’t like him curling up beside me uninvited.”
Waving his hand in the air diligently signifying enough questions and getting back to the business at hand, the man tweaked Becky’s nose and continued his story while the little girl laughed happily. “There was some confusion to begin with,” he began again, “The sarge looked like a man possessed trying to pinpoint our exact location. It’s not easy giving the obvious fact that there were no road signs telling us exactly where we were, but ole sarge was really good at finding out our exact location by examining the lay of the land. As a matter of fact, I believe he was one of the few men of the world that rarely got lost. I doubt if any woman sat in the passenger seat of his car asking him if they were lost or just taking some absurd detour. Ole sarge would of found his way out of Fort Knox on a wing and a prayer. I never saw him lost and I suppose the man had never been lost a day in his life. Well, it took ole sarge about ten minutes to pinpoint our location. He knew exactly where we were and he knew exactly how to go from there. Sarge informed us that we had to walk (or hike as he put it) west 4 miles to meet the drop spot. Everyone moaned silently including me. He instructed us not to talk and not to light any cigarettes.” The little girl looked puzzled, “But why, grandpa?”
The man stared out at the stars reflecting in the night sky and glanced at the moonlight dripping across the river in streams before answering quietly. His face and demeanor duplicated a serious tone frightening Becky slightly. “The Germans.” He said solemnly. Becky gazed at him for a long moment in total disbelief. “If a man,” her grandfather said seriously, “Lit a cigarette or talked it would give away the position of the entire company. The Germans would see the flicker of the lighter or hear a voice and fire everything they had in our general direction killing everyone.” Becky pondered this information carefully and looked back into her grandfather’s warm, sensitive face. Sighing, the old man continued, “We grabbed our gear, what we had that is, and began walking to the west. We were in the midst of a heavy forest and it became increasingly difficult to move through the underbrush silently. As tough as it was, we somehow made it without a hitch. As we stepped into a clearing all hell broke loose. Gunfire rained through the trees sprinkling chaos everywhere it landed and hit the man next to me directly in the heart killing him instantly. His name was, Sanderson, I believe. He fell dead right at my feet and I hardly had time to think. I hit the ground pulling the other man next to me down as quickly as I possibly could. No one moved, breathed or spoke for what seemed like hours. The problem was we didn’t know for sure if the whole freaking German army waited on the other side of the clearing or if it was one lonely man strayed from his outfit cold and alone. Silence bated the heavy night air and finally we could hear the sniper running away from us through the underbrush on the other side. We knew he was alone, but we also knew there would be more close by. We waited, oh; it must have been at least ten minutes before regrouping. We had to get out of there, and fast, so we took a hasty turn south and moved swiftly through the thick forest again. We knew we were getting closer to the front line and we were a little more tense than usual. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up at attention prickling my skin and I broke out into a cold sweat even though it felt like it was 20 degrees. I’ll tell ya, you haven’t seen or smelled fear until you’ve been put into a situation like that. All the other men around me knew it too. It’s the kind of fear you go to bed at night thinking of and you sleep with one eye open and one eye closed. You wake up in the morning stiff and felling as though you didn’t sleep a wink the night before. Yep, no fear like that fear. Yep.”
The old man paused glancing thoughtfully over the blackened water. Waves gently lapped the shore and a mullet answered with a splash of its own somewhere near the pine pier. Becky’s bright blue eyes cut through the darkness and she urged, “Go on, grandpa!” The old man looked at his grand daughter lovingly and asked, “Oh! You want me to finish the story, do you?” Becky laughed in spite of herself heartily and retorted quickly, “Of course I do!” The man ruffled Becky’s head of blonde hair vigorously and said, “Well, if you say so. Well, when ole serge deemed we had gone far enough south we turned west again and headed toward our original destination. We were supposed to hit a small German armory at the front line. I guess I can tell ya that, makes no difference now. Sarge made us fall out to rest while he calculated our distance. We had already gone 5 miles including the 2-mile detour south through the woods. Sarge told us we were just about there. We had to quickly hit the place and get out before the Germans had time to retaliate. We were supposed to meet a chopper at 05:30 hours in a clearing about a mile away from the armory. It would safely bring us back to an English Air Force base just outside of London. We rested for 15-20 minutes. It seemed to fly by. Things always seem that way when they are good, but when it’s bad it seems to take forever. We had roughly a mile to go, so we gathered our gear and got started again. After a good 45 minutes of twisting and turning through the thicket we snuck up on the armory and the sarge did his usual quick calculations. He figured there were four guards on foot with dogs and two in the tower. There was 15-20 of us so we had it covered. I was in charge of throwing the grenades into the armory blowing it up. Four others quietly took out the guards and their trusting companions while five others ran in and threw the grenades into the small armory. We had one fella who was a damn good sniper shot stationed in a tree just in case. He took out the two in the tower with speed and the accuracy of a rattlesnake. Everything blew up and the entire squad hauled buggy for cover in the woods. There must have been one German soldier caught inside the tin building because I heard the most unbelievably pathetic cry of pain, I think I’ve ever heard in my life. When a man experiences pain like that he always tends to sound like a wild animal caught in a trap rather than a man. It was a high-pitched, piercing scream and very final. It sent chills down my spine. We met up with our helicopter on time and flew safely to much more friendly ground. I’ll never forget that jump as long as I live. Yep. Not in a million years.” The old man yawned and stretched. Standing he turned to face Becky and advised, “It’s past your bed time little lady.” Becky blinked and mumbled, “I love you, grandpa. Your stories are so neat.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and scampered off to bed. He watched her go as if it was the last time and whispered, “I love you too. I only wish you knew really how much.”
The tired old man retired for the evening to his own bed and never regained consciousness the next morning. But, as Becky went through her life, she always did know just how much he really did love her.
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