The Beggar

A solitary figure long held to be mythic this shambling humanoid is only ever spotted in the worst neighborhoods and rail yards. Some worship him as the god of beggars, others contend he is an angry spirit who kills the unworthy. But few know the truth: He is the fifth horseman. Poverty personified. But we did a good job with that ourselves, so he turned aside from his task and now wherever he goes destruction follows for the rich, and good fortune for the poor.

Rattlesnake.

From the flash fiction challenge over at Terrible Minds. http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/04/08/flash-fiction-challenge-the-cocktail/

 It was a dead night when he came into the bar. It never did get much business on Wednesdays, especially after midnight. There wasn't anyone else there but the owner. The staff had all gone home shortly after the shift started, no real reason to stick around that night. The stranger was a rather short man, barely over five feet high, and he looked unhealthily skinny. He never really looked up, and bangs ere covering his face. He grabbed a stool and waited, didn't say a word. The owner slid over to him. “First body I've seen in here in hours, what can I get you?”

“Something special, a real treat, and make it nice and strong. Mix two.” “Two already? Be careful, the house specialties got a real bite, if you'll pardon the pun. Call it the Rattlesnake.” “Sounds like my kind of drink.” The stranger smiled, and just for a moment you could have seen fangs in his mouth. The bartender slid two highball glasses to the stranger, he handed one back “For you, after all a toast alone is a tragic thing.” He raised his glass in the air and the owner followed suit. “To a quiet drink in comfortable surroundings, and to your health.” The glasses clinked and the stranger threw back the entire concoction in one shot. As he raised his head the owner saw his eyes. Bright yellow they were with slit pupils. Before he could process what he had seen a large angry man burst in the door. “There you are you filthy snake.” he roared. The stranger didn't move. The owner leaned close “Friend of yours?” He just shook his head and sighed “All I wanted was a quiet drink.” The big guy at the entrance pushed forward, shoving empty tables and seats away from him rather than go around. “You worthless freak, turn and face me.” Still the stranger didn't move. The man was getting close now. “Wait just a minute fella. Why are you doing this? And why in my place of business?” asked the owner. “He's a freak, an abomination to all that's good and pure. And he's dangerous. Check that mouth, you'll find fangs.”

“You may be right about the fangs but that doesn't prove anything. Now this man here came in, ordered a fine drink, and still owes me for it. You came in yelling and hollering. Now sit down, this one's on the house. Afterward you can go kill him.” Disarmed the man sat while the owner mixed another round of rattlesnakes. “A toast, to your health strangers.” The newcomer looked sullenly across at the snake man and downed his drink. The venom kicked in before he could stand up. The owner winked at the short man. “He'll wake up in the hospital. Now get going, I'm sure he's got friends.” “But why?” The owner just smiled, showing his fangs.

Recipe for a rattlesnake (minus the naga venom): 

1.5 oz rye whiskey

1 tsp lemon juice

1 egg white

Dash of Absinthe

Shake and strain.

Frozen Kitchen

 They didn't need the gas masks, not anymore. I just liked the look of really. It gave a kind of twisted humor to the whole scene, like some punk band from the cold war or something. It also served to hide the faces I couldn't stand to see. The horror in their eyes was softened by the glass. Their terrible smiles were completely covered by the tight fabric. And sometimes I liked to think that maybe this would have saved them. Maybe they would be baking cookies in a brightly lit kitchen. If only...

It was a sham of course. A gas mask may help against anything getting on your face but the rest of the skin would be exposed. The poisons that got them would have worked anyway. So it was all a false hope, but what else did I have? As far as I could tell I was the only sane man left in the city. Probably the nation.

The city was dead. Corpses were everywhere, bodies initially piled by the living until they were overwhelmed by the task. Now the pyres are unlit and the stink is overpowering, especially downtown. So I stay safe in the suburbs. Canned food will last me until I die, and camping stoves work. And every day I ask “Why me?”. Why was I the one who lived when everyone else started falling over and staying down? Was there a plan? Was I lucky? Blessed? Cursed?

At first I thought it was my hobby. Taxidermy does get a lot of chemical gunk around you so I guess I'm pre-preserved. But that doesn't make sense. All my friends are just rotting piles of meat now, even the other taxidermists. Their collections are fine though, fine work. I took Bob's prized fiji mermaid fake early on. No sense in it going to waste. I also took his head before it rotted. The body was useless but I felt he deserved better.

I have the only working electricity in the city. It took a few tries but I've got nothing but time. A gas generator and a siphon hose keep the kitchen lit. The gas masked players always finishing cookies, a perfect Rockwell scene. I spend most of my time in that room anymore. It's the last slice sanity and peace in such a grey world, the last remnant of the good life.

Last night was strange. I thought, for just a moment, I saw her move. She offered me a cookie. I nearly fell out of my chair but when I looked again nothing had happened. Of course nothing had happened. They were dead, stuffed with sawdust and filled with preservatives. What was I talking about?

Something happened again. The living room is dark, no in the room to shine a light on. But today the room lit up. Someone was moving in there. I put down my book and ran in, but it was dark. The room was empty and I smashed my leg on a chair. I thought I heard someone running, but the sound faded before I could look up.

It gets lonely in the wasteland. I get bored. Most books were burned early on by lunatics attempting to purify the dead and “heal” our society. TV is useless of course. I could watch videos, but the power drain would be to much for the lights. So I read what I can, I scavenge, and I preserve. A few battery powered lamps and my old gear and my workshop is just fine. I do heads these days mostly, to let the future know about us. Bodies take up to much room. Some I do full size, but a lot are to damaged, so I shrink them. I have quite a collection now.

They talk, I'm sure of it. Not to me of course. And they shut up when they think I listen but they talk. The heads in the basement whisper to each other. They blame me. ME! I gave them a second chance to endure, to be preserved. I made them special out of this entire city. Their voices are dry. In the kitchen I hear muffled cries of agony and pain. Supplications for help. They offer me cookies, but I know they are just plastic. Do they think I'm stupid?

Maybe the heads are right. Maybe it is wrong to preserve them, but what will they do about it? They're heads! They can't even move! Especially after I mounted them. I gave them all little bodies. Not real bodies, no that would take to long. But I did display them. In jars, on spikes, one is on a giant teddy bear.

I need to join them. I should join all my headed friends. I will do it tonight. In the kitchen, where my dear sarcastic sister and her brat of a son can watch. A blade, sharp and fast, in a frame. And then? I get to join in the conversation, until my tongue rots out at least. But don't worry I made plans for that. I will fall in a bucket of formaldehyde. It's rough but it works.  

Inspired by the weekly flash fiction challenge at Chuck Wendig's Terribleminds.com Post here: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/04/01/flash-fiction-challenge-the-unexplainable-must-be-explained/

Photo here: http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/60-completely-unusable-stock-photos Number 21. 

A Break in the Clouds

Day 90

The clouds finally broke today. Not for long and not over any wide area, but it was enough. For the first time in months one tony corner of this dark city was illuminated by real sunlight. Everyone in old downtown saw it, a few people barricaded in the old hotel had it stream through their windows. For me I had the gift of being in it. On top of that old, run down, brick lodging the sun struck me through a gap in the clouds and it felt good. The first sun in three months. Five minutes later it was done, but if it happened once it could happen again.

The city hasn't been doing well lately. Three months ago clouds settled in over the entire county. For a while it was just odd, then things started going crazy. Phones and the internet stopped working, people fled to relatives, we can only hope they made it. The power station shut down, all we had left were individual gasoline powered generators. The people started getting twitchy. Some said it was aliens, others the judgment of god, and one street preacher proclaimed it was the government come to control all of us in some sort of test. I don't know which is true really. All I know is that things ain't right. You can feel it in your skin, like the air is oily. Dark things lurk in the back corners of the alleyways, we find bones from time to time.

It may have started bad but at five weeks in it got worse. No one was coming into the city, and fog blocks every road. We may be the last people on earth for all we know. Not that it matters to these people. Gangs are roving the streets, some just thugs with bats and crowbars, others are former cops with full riot gear. The innocent hide, the university is a barricaded fortress, and downtown is a patchwork of territory wars. I was staying in the old hotel when it all happened, visiting the city of my birth. Now I was stuck here again.

I did what I could to keep things safe. The hotel was a safe house now, no gang would touch us. They were getting closer every day though. Defending this little slice of sanity and health was getting harder. It was old enough that the walls were thick and the construction solid. Anyone was free to join us, to make a call for sanctuary from the darkness and the blood thirst. Some people were stumbling in claiming the rotting walking dead had returned. Some rest and they always denied it, but I had seen the things myself when on food runs. This city was hell on earth now, humans and twisted flights of fancy racing to outdo each other. Yet somehow I was sane, or just insane enough to fight. In the land of the blind the one eyed is king, but in the world of the madman the half sane is the vigilante.

But today the sun was out. The sun still exists, even if we are just a tiny dirt clod running around it. Maybe the earth is still out there, just past the fog. Again, I don't know, all I do know is I feel touched. That short ray of sunlight hit me dead on and I haven't felt so warm in weeks. For whatever reason, luck fate or divine intervention, I feel chosen. I'm one of the only sane people left in the known world, and protecting is no longer enough. Carving out a tiny slice of safety won't save the kids stuck in dorms, the family hidden in an apartment. They need help too. It's time to take back the eternal twilight.

Day 91

Something changed yesterday, the game is different now. The freaks and the dead are more bold. The dark horrors of hidden ways are creeping out. I went on a run across rooftops and nearly got eaten by something with tentacles. I didn't have a gun, the noise attracts to much attention, just the crowbar I had been carrying since week two. I swear the thing started glowing though. It felt like the sun hitting me all over again and I beat that, that thing back into whatever corner of hell it came from. Resources were scarce when I managed to make it to the old convenience store. Still I managed food, bandages, some aspirin and (for my private enjoyment alone) a case of coke. The rest I will share but I earned that soda.

Day 92

Things keep getting stranger. The wanderers who occasionally hide in the hotel are telling tales of more and more beasts, but also rumors of strange men about town. Men fighting entire gangs and winning, healing bullet wounds, and pulling off other stunts. I might not be as alone as I thought. No time to wonder at it though.

Today I took the fight to the gangs. One group of thugs in particular has been pressing our borders, armed with crude weapons they are desperate and half mad. Negotiations failed quickly but with some work, and a bow I had scavenged, I managed to beat them back. The leader is dead and the gang won't last long. Some might reform but the rest will just wander into new groups. At least that's what I tell myself. It's hell out here but killing doesn't get easier. I took a few hits but I'm already better. No idea why the sunlight did this but I'll take it. Tomorrow I will leave others to defend and see if I can't find some answers.

Day 200

I found the source. The city will recover.

The Waiting Room

 In the back end of nowhere is a small door. The word "Rejected” is scrawled on this door in every language imaginable. There is no handle, merely a metal plate to push on to open it. A tall painfully thin man in black walks towards the door, his footsteps pounding on the flat grey ground half a second after each of his feet touches the ground. The door opens and he steps through it. Into a brightly lit room.

The door cannot be seen from the other side. Instead there is simply an airport terminal, with no visible way out. Creatures are splayed out on chairs, some sleeping on the floor, a few float silently through the air. As the tall man surveys the crowd they size him but no one makes a move to confront him. No one, that is except a hunched dark skinned humanoid in the corner. He shambles forward and introduces himself as a spinal tap vampire.

Speaking without words the tall man asks where he is and who all these people are. The vampire response simply “We are all rejected ideas. Mythologies that never had a chance to fully exist. So here we wait in perpetual limbo.” The tall one looks about with an eyeless face. Some of these creatures are variations on a theme, some are twisted monsters of fevered nighmares, and others are almost nothing but a thick fog in one area. Arrayed on the wall are photos. It points to them. “Ah yes,” says the spine sucker “the escapees. Somehow these bastards got free, reached the mortal realm and got just enough attention to exist. The rest of us? Just irregular creatures, rejected goods from the mind of man. Still at least a few made it. Mothman, the gray aliens, Jersey Devil and Springheel Jack. Hell some people say Cthulhu started here but we try not to think about that possibility.” The thin man questions his surroundings silently. His blank head betraying nothing but mild curiosity. “No easy way out my friend, but better than being killed I suppose. Still I would have loved a chance to transcend to common myth.” the vampire stares wistfully at his razor sharp claws each one a hollow needle. He shuffles back to his corner and the slender man examines the pictures. He is still only partially formed, a blank slate of a tall thin humanoid in a dark suit. The rest of him is a grey miasma.

Weeks pass and the slender man forms himself, in the hope, however slim, of getting out of this wretched timeless place. Nothing changes and most of the residents seem to far gone to care, they sit and rot slowly to nothingness, their bodies and minds breaking down to the component parts of mythology. But the slender man will not do that. With effort he claims the unformed nature of himself and grows to craft himself as an creature of fear, of loss, the loss of a child, of a primal terror of the modern age. Had he a face he would smile as he grows tendrils from his back and stretches to truly inhuman proportions. His body becomes a mockery of the world, a bald faceless businessman, black suit, white shirt, red tie.

A physical form crafted to stick in the mind the slender man tries to escape. It is slow going, finding a mortal mind to nest in. Six and twenty minds are contacted but each has no ability to spread his word or properly give credit to his horrendous nature and sinister purpose.

Months more pass, as time is counted in that grim place. The vampire now is nothing but a single needle on the ground, twitching weakly, but the slender man persists, casting his mind far and wide to find a nesting mind to spread from. Then success strikes in a flash. Someone, thinking themselves clever, crafts an image of the him, dark and terrible, and apparently real to the untrained eye. He whispers terrible secrets in their ear and they write them to go with the photo. Still this isn't enough but it's a toe hold. Within days though he is realized in this world. Fools mix with magi anonymously and spread tales they think they have made up about him. And so the universe slowly shifts itself. The Slender Man is real. He always has been after all. A child killing terror of the fog, invisible to all but the mad, the children, and the legions of Anon. His chest rises and falls as he fades from the terminal of rejected ideas and begins to raise hell in the land of mortals. 

Booze Run

Based on the flash fiction challenge at Terrible Minds. 984 words. Enjoy. 

 It was a stunning gala event I must say. These rich guys really know how to throw a party, I had to admit. Everywhere I looked industrialists, blue bloods and the nouveau riche rubbed elbows. Most of them had a lovely woman (or man) on one elbow. Bought and payed for I'm sure. I felt a little out of place in an ill fitted rented tux and apparently on my own but for the most part the assembled crowd didn't notice me. They were busy either talking business with friends and rivals, bragging to the assembled gold diggers or admiring the centerpiece of this event.

The banner, a thick silk thing, hanging over the archway of the ballroom proudly proclaimed this to be the Tenth Annual Antiquities Banquet, hosted by the ever magnanimous Jonathan Freed. The nominal theme tonight was intoxication and chemical alterations. On one end of the ballroom was the display for the auction tonight. Strange hand crafted hookahs and pipes lifted from the old Limehouse opium dens were crowded next to Carrie Nation's original hatchet, wines dating back hundreds of years were on display and brand new designer drugs just waiting for the right millionaire to prove his worthiness in filthy lucre. I sidled over to the table and gazed over the assembled artifacts, trying to decide on what to lift.

A voice on my left “Lovely spread isn't it?” I looked up and some kid who couldn't have reached drinking age was failing at disguising the lust in his eyes as he stared at the drinks, drugs and paraphernalia. He smelled like inherited money. I kept my head down as I examined a gem encrusted cigaret case “Yeah it's not bad. I've seen better years but at least this theme is daring.” He tried to keep talking but I stepped away before he could talk. In reality a lot of this sickened me. Gross excess alone is disquieting but this collection was just flaunting how much these rich bastards could get away with.

The evening was starting to look like a bust. What wasn't inherently illegal was pointlessly gaudy. The only thing I could have wanted to steal was the wine but those weren't of any value to my buyers. I grabbed a flute of champagne from one of the cocktail waitresses floating around and sipped at it, taking in the room. My partner was near the entrance chatting up a wealthy television personality. William always did have a way with people. He looked better in the tux than I did too. I caught his eye and he excused himself, earning a quick and uncharacteristic hug from the woman. We stepped out of the flow of people “Yeah Jacob what's up?” “Nothing here man. It's all either expensive junk, legally obtained or totally illegal to posses. The hatchet is kind of nice as an artifact but I think it's a fake.” he glanced over the table of goods. “Don't worry my friend. Your bosses at the archive will have a score tonight. And if they don't enjoy the night. Oh and confidentially I can tell you that the best is yet to come. Now loosen up, drink your champagne.” He flashed me one of his dazzling smiles and I had to shake my head as he moved away to greet an ambassador. If I didn't know better I would swear he really did belong here with the movers and shakers of the world. I took another sip of the bubbly and tried to relax. The department of relics expected results from it's field agents.

Just as I was going to give up and head home Mr. Freed made his grand entrance. Fanfare erupted from hidden speakers as he came down a stairway decked out in a fine tuxedo, his wife on his arm and his personal valet behind him holding a small wooden box. He made his way to the head of the room and was handed a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to my little shindig.” general polite laughter “And now the moment you have all been waiting for. The capstone of tonight's auction: Shackleton's Scotch. A recipe that the world hasn't seen in over a century, buried in Antarctic ice, retrieved last month, and now the one and surviving crate up for auction.” Now I knew what William had been talking about.

The auction moved at a crawl, each item going for at least a few hundred thousand. Until finally the Scotch itself was up for bid. I nodded to William but it wasn't necessary really. He hit a hidden button in his coat and the lights blew out. I slipped on my night goggles and shed the stupid tux in favor of the lighter t-shirt and tight pants underneath. The crowd would only be immobilized for a few seconds so I made the most of it, using that young prick from earlier as a platform to vault over. I tumbled forward and snagged the bottle out of poor old Freed's hand and ran like hell, praying none of the guards could get a clear shot in the crowd. A few silenced shots came close to me, but they pinged off of the stone wall as I ducked through the door. William and he hit the door at the same time I did, pushing it open. The noise gave away our position and guards came out yelling. A shot slammed into my leg and I fell onto a parked car. I clutched the booze in my hand and managed to claw the door open. Will got in the other side and we sped off into the night. My leg was killing me but it was worth it. Now this artifact could be properly preserved and who knows, maybe we could replicate the recipe. My bosses would be happy.