The Raisins of Gluttony (pt 2)

It the Kittatinny Mountains were snow packed that November.  There was a peace on the train during that time.  The cars were crowded but there was something in the air in the start of the trip, something new.  We were hungry for a change.  I was sick of trying to hack it in New York’s fashion industry, the opportunity to be pushed in a direction otherwise was a breath of mountain air.  You were happy to leave the city too.  “I can write from anywhere.” you told me.  And you proved it on a daily basis.  I still read the journals you kept and the stories you wrote in the margins.

When the train broke down near Pittsburgh we took to our luck and decided to just walk the next thirty some odd miles of Pennsylvania back country.  I told to that if we just took a straight shoot we could make it in two days of easy travel.  Most of the other passengers stayed with the train.  I wonder what became of them.

As for us, days of travel was an understatement.  I didn’t account for the tunnels the trains bore through the mountains.  We were’t equipped for mountain climbing.  So we traveled south by foot and came to Homer City.  The sign said, “A Wonderful Place to live and Grow-up.”  We snickered at the sign, but considered the town’s name a good omen as we too had begun our Odyssey.

We stepped into the general store, and to our surprise it was stocked to the gils.  Had the panic been in vain?  The owner told us that most of the stock came from local small farmers, which explained the abundance of the store.  Money was no good there though.  If we wanted to trade he’d have a look at our wares.  We had nothing to speak of.

I never invested myself in a trade.  Woodworking had long since been in my family’s blood, but I never took the time to learn it.  But you, had something.  “I tell stories.” you told the man.  And we have news from back East.  I almost laughed, surely they couldn’t care about a girl’s fictions or news from a place they’d never seen.  Oh how wrong I was.

Before I could say a word, the man asked where we were from “back east.”  When I puffed my chest and said New York, he told us to wait right there.  Within minutes he was one the phone an actual lan line, talking to different people telling them he had to “real live New Yorkers” in the store.

Those were our salad days.  The town had been pretty much cut off from the outside world these last weeks.  Our presence was welcomed with gifts and food, they even gave us a place to stay.  I took odd jobs around town repairing what I could.  I purchased a belt and a set of tools.  I remarked how very much this was like the old days when traveling storytellers made their way across the country side entertaining and selling their services.

We had found a new way to live.  You telling stories and me climbing ladders.  That Friday night the whole of town, some 200 people, came out to a stage I helped build and you read from your journal.  You had read stories of adventure and of mystery, scary stories, tales of love, comedies and tragedies. I had never seen you read aloud before.  You took on the roles of your characters.  Everyone had a different voice.

There was a look in your eyes in that time.  We left as friends, and even when I convinced you to leave with me, I had hoped for more than that.  That night we drank our fill and when the town went to sleep we were too excited to join them.  I hadn’t realized you had this power.  This gift of story.

When you told the man at the store you could tell stories I thought to myself, whatever gets us a loaf of bread and some meat for the night.  We were doing good.  We were thriving.  Under the candlelight I kissed you that night.  Our passions met like two lions on the savannah.  We had been together for weeks, but there was an unspoken aloneness too.

The Raisins of Gluttony

(Lately my short stories have begun to take a turn for the … preachy I suppose. This is the start of a little post apocalyptic piece I’m fooling around with. I plan on working on it more today but in the mean time. Enjoy, or take warning. I’m not quite sure just yet.)

Most of us didn’t stand a chance. We couldn’t have. Things got out of control too quick. Everything crashed. Money vanished, food production vanished, and then sanity went right with it. The business savvy brokers and math smart accountants were no longer needed. The time for talking and counting had come to an end.

It was slow at first. Supermarkets ran out of eggs or they didn’t have bread, but the government assured us these “delays” in shipping would right themselves. It was a matter of fixing the system. But there was no way to replace a commodity that we based our lives on. You can’t take the the diary from a cake and hope to think it will rise in the oven, and that was the only plan. It was good enough to distract us while the powers that be made for the high ground.

Our contingency as a society had been that if oil had ever become scarce we would just switch. Like it was that easy. We would just walk over to the wall flip a breaker and the sun would do all the work. Simple as pie. No. That pipe-dream died years ago. It died with our hope that we could thrive as we had, without oil. It died along with 70% of the world. On the bright side poverty was no longer a problem, in a barter system the poor don’t last long.

Five years, it seems like ages ago. Once the markets drained and the Chinese take-out places all closed up, I knew it was time to get moving. The trains still worked then. Most of the infrastructure has fallen to decay now. I convinced you that we should go south. We hated the New York winters, and without much idea of whether or not the heat would still be around the next year south seemed like a solid plan.

Memphis seemed as good a place as any. You liked the idea, we joked about how this was what all those talks of zombie apocalypse and what if’s had boiled down too. Even then your spirits were high. So we packed what we could carry on our backs. I sold my electronics for a pittance. Little use we’ll have of these things once we really get out.

You packed light, a few pairs of jeans two pairs of shoes, couple of short sleeves, couple of long sleeves and one dress. I argued with you about that dress, but you insisted. And one book, Watership Down. I took what I thought would be of use: My hatchet, a pocket knife, jeans, t-shirts everything else I wore. You made me pack my good shirt and slacks, even though I protested. Ultimately though, I caved. You always had that way about you, I was helpless against you. Looking back I was helpless against a lot of things those days.

The train was packed south. This scared me but I knew I had to be strong, I had to keep steady and stern for you. You hadn’t been ready to leave. I promised I’d take care of you. I know what I’m doing i said to you. You trusted me to keep you safe. I grew up that day. I put away my toys and my games and I sought to live by the boy scout motto again. “Be Prepared.” We squeezed into a standing room only car and made our way first west then south.

On the Rewrite and Rules in General

Some times, actually way too often I find I’m pushing through a story and it’s like punishment. Not because I don’t like what I’m writing, but because I know there are inherent flaws in the early parts of my stories. I fight myself on a constant basis but most of the time I try to go back an fix it. This is bad. It’s bad for a couple of reasons.

1. It stops my current thought process and means I have to rehash the story’s beginning.

2. It creates continuity flaws with my current line of work. I have to go back and forth remembering whether some ones’s hair was red or blond what kind of shirt they were wearing etc.

3. I gives me another stopping point. I’m so easily distracted. (One of the reasons I bought an iPad was because it’s like a typewriter that I can email to myself. That is to say I can isolate myself to just my work.) Any change in chapter or character point of view is another reason to celebrate and stop writing.

4. It stops forward motion. I could, no I should be delving into the story’s rising action and worrying about the climax, instead I’m worried that you’re interested in the introduction of the world and the characters I’m creating. (I call this the D&D Player Creator Complex).

So when I get like this I have decided to start writing the fun parts. Get right into the action. Normally I go back because I’ve learned something I want to include about the character that needs to either be explained or included in an earlier part. I’m excited for the reader to get it.

Writing for me is a big parlor scene. That is to say I’m creating this situation you’re involved in that you just have to blindly follow me through. Eventually I’m goign to reveal everything to you, like Sherlock Holmes would to his client. When it’s all over and you’ve seen al the angles I’m hoping that you won’t just learn something, I’m hoping you’ll be astonished, amazed and confused all over again. This takes a bit of planning, several drafts and some trial and error. This is an advice post for myself as well as anyone writing to entertain. Don’t worry about the beginning if you have a clear understanding of the meat of your story. Put on your boots, and trudge on through your mediocre intros and flimsy character design. You can go back to fix them later. Write your genius conflicts and resolutions first if you have to…COMPLETE THE IDEA before you edit.

Mechromancy Pt 2

The doctor’s old jalopy was a poor substitute for the Willy I had driven in the war. The old crank style car was the prize possession of the old man and he had only let me drive it once, the night before I left for the army. I pulled into Cleveland and booked myself a night at the Starlight Hotel in the downtown section. While unpacking the car, I came across a leather bound journal. I first thought it was the property of Mortimer. But when I opened it I noticed much of the tome was written in some Arabic script, with the adjacent pages translated into English.
Assuming it was some type of memoir, he had purchased in one of his auctions I decided my first night of vacation would be spent reading it.

At first glance I had thought that this was some alternate translation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. There were instructions for rites for the deceased and rituals of protection from the “evil natured gods”. I must admit my knowledge on ancient theologies and cultures was quite limited. I knew after getting deeper into the text that the content of the original manuscript had to of been of a much more antediluvian nature. The author’s vast grasp of the written language lead me to believe that he was not of the royal or peasant castes. This El-Hazard must have been a practitioner of mystic arts or possibly a scholar in his time. His account of the world for his time was quite progressive. I have to believe that El-Hazard is a pseudonym for a collection of authors, this has been my theory with several prominent writers of the modern era, Shakespeare and Twain top that list.

As I reached the center of the book, there were instructions for the summoning of spirits, and wards of protection against elemental dangers. The fifth of these called for material components that included but were not limited to human sacrifice. The notes of the author or authors took a dark turn in tone after these chapters and for the rest of the tome it was clear to me that while the handwriting had changed only one author remained to see the libram to it’s fruition. This author was evidently more direct in his instruction.

As I poured over the pages, I had come to the conclusion that the doctor had been dabbling in the black arts. His engineering and medical backgrounds lent with the dark studies well. I should note that the scribe cautioned several times the reader against exposure to fire and lightning. It seems that the incantations and the spirits they involve have a preternatural weakness to elemental force of their opposing sphere. Fire overtaking ice, and earth to air as such.

As the dark bible’s Tartaric text played itself out, I could feel a chill in my body. For a time I could feel a presence in the room, sinister but not wholly malevolent. Seductive powers gripped me that night. Powers whirled through that hotel room I can not now tell you of. My sleep was more fitful than in the last three years. Dreams came and went, with unspeakable tortures that were laid upon my soul. I dreamt lucidly but without control over my environment. These visions were infinite in scope and infinitesimal in time. Pacts were made and contracts were signed. Each advocate warned me of the nature of the next room’s denizen.

I rose in the morning with a renewed sense of duty. Mortimer had been a man of strong will and most assuredly had risen to the pressures of his own spiritual gauntlet. Of this, I have no doubts. Ever pragmatic when dealing with his patients he only had one soft spot: the death of children. This would have been where the spirits would have focused their infernal traps. The good doctor, plagued by the death of the Gilmore boy would have taken great pains to reverse the child’s terminal nature. Such knowledge would have been kept highly guarded by the trickiest of devils. This explains the marked change in the man’s age in such a short amount of time, as well as his reclusiveness of such blighted knowledge.

Several times during my chthonic quest my assailant offered me reprieve for just a short time in my mortal form. Instead I took my lashings or endured my sanction with knowledge that I could not be controlled or manipulated only abused. With each room I grew stronger as my foil grew weaker. I suppose the doctor, bereaved of his recent failure, had made many concessions for his knowledge, which now compared to the celestial might I wielded, were mere parlor tricks and glimpses at a power most baleful but not completely forgotten to chaos.

That night I made my way back to Akron certain I had the element of surprise on my side. When I paid the clerk for my stay the charge was quadruple the nightly rate. I questioned him of my extra fee and he informed me that I had in fact took to the room for four nights and that we had discussed such arrangements earlier in the week. I paid the gentleman in dismay and he told me that I should get some rest and the week’s business trip must have taken a huge toll on me. I looked at my reflection in the glass and my face was not the one I recognized. It was surely my own visage but I had aged just as the doctor had. A decade or more had been added to my years in a mere four days.

Mortimer’s fiend had to of been responsible for it! I rushed back to Akron that night. My plan was to confront his oppressor on some psychic level and free him from its clutches. Mortimer’s consciousness must be under some house arrest, let out during the day like some hobbled Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde caricature. My mind set, his salvation was my crusade!

I arrived under cover of night at 3am. Rain beat down into the Akron mud as I pulled up to the woods behind the office. Mortimer’s abode was lit up from front to back. There was movement apparent throughout the house. Avian shadows agitated the light emanating the rooms.

I had taken Jacob’s old service pistol from its hiding place under the passenger’s seat. The M1911’s seven round clip seemed hardly enough to deal with those mechanical bogies. I steeled myself and snuck into the brush on the side of the house. From there I could see only a hunched human form and a cyclone of those damned mechanized birds. A plan quickly formed in my head. I lit a bush on fire, broke a window and threw it into the house. Several birds escaped through the window and flew off. The house was filled quickly with smoke and then the sprinkler system I had pressured Mortimer to purchase before I left for the army went into action. The bipedal form lurched into the office before the smoke cleared. I fired four shots toward him. None made their mark.

Secure in the fact that the threat of the feathered robots was no longer a concern, I kicked open the front door and made my way toward the operating room. I was sure that Mortimer’s devil would be making his last stand within that room. I kicked at the base of the door and it didn’t give. Those locks held the door squarely in place. So I made my efforts on the glass window above the door. I placed a chair under the door and smashed the window with the butt of the pistol.

“Roger No! I’m not ready!” I heard inside my head. The ringing blasted my senses and every fiber of the universe demanded that I turn the gun at my own temple. Lightning crashed not feet from the house. The very hand of divine justice fought to pull the trigger, right then. I promise you that was the last thing I saw, as I pulled the next two shots. And fell back from my perch as I fired the 7th and final bullet from the pistol.

The scene I woke to was beyond nightmarish. The oak outside of his house was split in two, half standing the other half tearing the operating room’s roof asunder. Mortimer’s service pistol was empty of bullets. Six shots in the wall around the room, the Bobo slung over Mortimer’s mutilated corpse wires and tubes protruding from his body. I made plans to bury his body before any one could see what had become of him.

When I pulled the ape from it’s spot, I saw the 7th shot had pierced it’s heart. My relief was short lived though. It’s face bore an evil smile that I will never cleanse from memory. Not a smile of defeat but of victory. It’s features where that of something that was neither simian nor sapien in appearance. I dug a hole in the earth that very moment to put that demonic abomination out of my sight.

It is when I came back that I changed my half-cocked plan to bury the doctor and the ape. Everything in the lab was as I left it. Only that Jacob’s body had moved a full 180 degrees from its spot. I did not start then. I made no strange movements; instead I began to mix a simple solution I had learned during my captivity in France. An English captain I shared my bunk with had taught me of the mixing of two very common chemicals for a drastic effect. As I completed my concoction a buzzing began in my ears. It rose to a crescendo as I smashed the vial upon the monkey’s body. Flames exploded in the room. The thing’s psionic attack subsided as it jumped and screeched about the room cursing in a tongue I could not understand. I thanked the God I knew existed for my time in that camp and for all the horrors I faced in war that it saved my mortal soul and that of my dear departed friend.

As the mechanical horror went into it’s deaththrows. I witnessed my single worst nightmare. Mortimer’s body shot up! He exclaimed, “Roger No I’m not ready!” my skull almost snapped with pain. I sprang upon his body and ripped the tubes and wires from his body. Oil and blood covered the room. I poured the rest of that mixture over the corpse and I could see the good doctors home burning three miles away as I made my way southwest. I left everything in that house as it burned. Save the clothes on my back the service pistol and a sack. I confess I could not bring myself to destroy the infernal book in which I have laid down my story.

Mechromancy pt1

(Author’s Note:  This is  part one of a two part story.  I’ll post the next part next week.  This was my first attempt at writing in the horror genre. Enjoy)

A driven man and a brilliant practitioner of medicine, during the Great War, Dr. Mortimer had invested his money well. And when the economy settled down Jacob Mortimer started up a private practice just outside of Cleveland, Ohio. His practice as a family sawbones kept him in the black even during the depression of the thirties. “Everyone gets sick, everyone breaks bones, Roger my young friend, it’s only a matter of time until you’ve met and mended everyone in town.” He said often. True to his word, I soon knew everyone in town, He took me on as his apprentice and was preparing me to take over his practice when World War II broke out.

I chose the high road and decided that, like my benefactor, I would service my country. I spent my first year of the war in France and faced the horrors of war daily on the front lines. Many men died while under my knife. Many more were saved, though. My platoon was captured in late ’44. I spent the next year in a Nazi prison camp tending to the sick and wounded allies. In my youth I had always wanted to travel to France. When I entered the war and received my assignment I even looked forward to seeing the French countryside. After 5 Months in the trenches and a year in the prison camp, I swear to you I’ll never dream those gay memories again. Europe had lost its luster for me. When I reached New York after the war I promised myself I’d never leave America’s shores again.

Eager to get back to my friend and mentor, I took a train to Cleveland the very next day. I arrived to ticker tape parades with several other vets. Though my heart swelled with pride for both my comrades and my country, I made my way to Akron to Mortimer’s ancestral home.

In the two years I had been away, much had changed for Mortimer. First was his noticeable increase in age. It seemed as though I’d been gone for a decade. His hair had been a salt and pepper grey it was now fully white and thinning. His posture crooked now. He had stood tall and liked so full of life the last time I had seen him. He smiled when I showed up on his doorstep just the same. “Roger, my boy, Welcome back to the land of the living!” He had said that everyday when I cropped up at the office.

The practice took a turn for the worse after I had left for the War, it seems. Mortimer struggled to keep up with a growing demand for Akron’s medical needs. In my absence he overextended himself and his business suffered in kind. After loosing the Gilmore boy during a routine surgery, the town had turned on him. Business had dwindled to a halt. The Gilmores had seen to that personally. They blamed him for the death of their 9 year old boy and slandered his name across the state as a quack.

Jacob took the child’s death harshly and after his parent’s had fingered him for the death of their son. Only Mortimer’s vast savings had kept the man above water. His appearance disturbed me but the most alarming thing about him was his change in demeanor. He imparted the story of the Gilmore boy to me almost impassionedly, as though he was explaining something that had happened to an acquaintance. He had confessed that the last few months had become obsessed with death. More over he had told me that he had uncovered the secrets as to how to extend the life of the recently deceased. When I asked how he came across such knowledge, he became defensive. Ever the skeptic, but very concerned for my friend and his mental well being, I assured him that his secret would be safe with me.

He quickly changed the subject and took me into his operating room. Previously, Mortimer’s estate remained unlocked and anyone was welcome to walk in at anytime. Now he pulled a chain of keys from his apron and fidgeted with no less than four locks on the door. He cautioned me once more to keep what I saw beyond this door to myself. I conceded that I would on my honor as a soldier and doctor. Now I had become curious as to what could possibly be so incredible to raise Jacob Mortimer to a level of security that most quartermasters during my captivity would have balked at.

He opened the door to a totally shrouded room. No light emanated from the outside. He had told me that the windows had to be covered by day else he would have been found out. He flipped on the light switch and fluorescent bulbs flickered on. The room was full of bird cages covered in black cloth. I grew apprehensive as he put his finger to his lips and forbade me to make any noise. He pointed to the counter with a wink and I handed him the lamp he had motioned for.

“This one is special.” He whispered to me. He reached his hand into a cage and pulled out something I couldn’t make out exactly, it looked like some device, which he promptly placed under a cloth and moved into the waiting room. He put the lamp and the item from the cage down on a table then ran back to the door securing each of the four locks and then came back into the room now with a large grin on his face.

He plugged in the lamp put his hand under the cloth and it sounded like he was winding a mechanical toy. “This is the least of my achievements in your absence, Roger. I have several other things to show you. But for now feast your eyes, on this!” And with that, he flipped on the light.

For a second nothing happened, and I almost laughed after hearing his overly cheesy speech. I took heart in the fact that my old friend was quite back to his old energetic self in bearing, if not in body. Just as I was about to snort a laugh though, I heard a chirp and saw some movement. I lost my breath as I choked a cough out. “Too much light and they panic. The cloth is there to get them used to being … well I suppose it gets used to them being again.” He took the cloth from the thing. And there under it was a robin red crest, hopping and chirping.

That’s what I saw at first glance. What sat there staring out with its black soulless eyes was an amalgam of a living creature and a machine. Feathers and bone coupled with gear and wire. From a distance you would never know, but a close inspection or observation of it’s movements quickly betrayed the things artificial nature.

“Amazing!” I muttered under my breath. As the creature jumped to Mortimer’s finger. “Does… it fly? I mean can it?” I had so many questions. My imagination swirled with possibility. “How does it work? Why does it not decompose?”

Mortimer laughed, “No, this one can’t fly it was my first success, I hadn’t mastered the processes of bird’s anatomy until just recently. As I said this fellow here is the least of my feats. I will show you more in the morning for now I must get some rest, it’s near midnight and there is much work to be complete come day break. It’s good to have you back in Akron. I’ll make up your old room. Breakfast is at 8 sharp, get your rest, tomorrow you’ll be back to earning your room and board.” And with that he moved to the guest room.

That night I had trouble sleeping. My first night back at home was comforting but the war was still quite fresh in my mind. I woke with a start several times during the night. Initially disoriented, and then realizing I was back home I nodded off again. Still for it’s part the only difference about the sleep home and the sleep abroad was that I now dreamt of Europe instead of home.

Morning broke and I laid in my bed awake for about an hour. Sleep plagued me during my internment the last year and a half. Dreams of freedom had become dreams of torture and captivity. They had become a dark mirror of my reality. Even today I still have trouble sleeping without starting up in the night from phantom detonations. The hour gave me pause to wonder about the nature of Mortimer’s experiments since I had left. What morbid truths had he uncovered? How long had he spent trying to defy death? What cost would such black arts reap on his immortal soul?

These questions washed from my mind, with my night terrors, when I heard that old familiar voice, “If you don’t get up now for breakfast, Sergeant Davis, I shall be forced to eat yours and you’ll spend the next 5 hours learning the answers to your questions on an empty stomach.” I had no doubt the man would keep his word. He was never one to cuddle is employees or his patients. But what he lacked in bedside manner he made up for in results. When I left, the town had been vibrant and few of the locals remained sick for very long under his care.

I mustered myself up and made my way to the kitchen. Jacob had been a busy cook indeed. Ham and eggs, home fries orange juice and even a bowl of oats. “My God man,” I said, “If I eat all this I’ll burst. You’ll have a Hell of a time cleaning me up, then won’t you?”

He shot me a serious look, and shouted, “I’d thank you to not bring your religious blasphemes into my home. I spent my time in the service of this nation as well. But remember to hold your tongue of such atrocity while in my presence, boy!” There was something in his voice that I’d never heard before, something like a ringing in my ears. I was instantly sorry for my indiscretion and I told him so. “No worries, lad. You know how I feel about such barbarous language; I didn’t mean to yell my temper gets the better of me these days. But forget it, my friend, eat up and meet me in the OR when your finished.” I did as he asked. The eggs and oats were enough to sate my hunger I barely touched the ham, it tasted a little funny, I thought to myself. After guzzling down my orange juice I showered, shaved and joined the good doctor in his makeshift laboratory.

There was a menagerie of mechanized birds in their cages. From the robin he showed me last night to larger ravens and even a pair hunting raptors, falcons I surmised. Lying on the table were the corpses of a raccoon and a simian of an orange hue. The raccoon looked like it had been hit by a vehicle or perhaps fallen to its dead from a height, But I paid it almost no mind. Raccoons were normal for this time of year in northern Ohio. Orange apes were slightly more rarely seen. I had never seen one that wasn’t locked away in a zoo, or on show at the traveling circus.

“Ah, yes that is Bobo he belonged to Cincinnati Zoo!” Mortimer said, seeing my jaw drop to the floor at the sight of the beast. “He died of heart failure a bout a week ago. Getting him up here without causing a stir was almost as expensive as getting a person to dig him up!” He laughed for a second, not an awkward chuckle but a full belly laugh that made me fear he had gone utterly mad.”

“You paid a grave robber to dig up this monkey?“ I asked. Initially appalled at the idea. What sort of man would dig up a monkey for money? More importantly what sort of man would would pay for the body of a monkey?

As my mind reeled with disgust and confusion, Mortimer began speaking calmly, “He died of natural causes, it’s not as if this ape has a soul, no one will miss him and defiling his corpse will not upset his afterlife. The zoo buried him, had a service and even put him in a graveyard for human beings. I merely took his body to experiment farther. My friend, and I use the term quite loosely, finds me larger mammals that have been recently dead and offers them to me for study. He only knows that I dissect them to learn of their anatomy. His silence is assured as I offer him a healthy stipend for his service. “ Once again my ears rang. I decided that it was for the greater good and since it was not a human we were not truly doing anything wrong.

In the following days he and I worked on Bobo. Cutting out veins and inserting wire and gears. Soldering irons replacing scalpels and the doctor’s mechanical knowledge taking over where my medical expertise left off. I romanticized the entire undertaking, if I may use such a word without irony, as a rekindling of lost time and we were like a modern day Frankenstein and Igor. I suppose my hubris fell in the realm of ignorance of the dangerous powers we played with then, but curiosity blinded me to those jeopardies.

The birds in the room hopped around singing their entertaining little dirges, and flitting about the room. I couldn’t help but think how perfect they would be as city pets. No cleaning bird cages, very little upkeep a little oil hear or there to keep them from rusting but they needed no power source. When I asked Mortimer why that was, he told me he’d show me as we completed Bobo. I couldn’t begin to imagine the affect these devices would reap on the scientific world and the world itself when we published to the journals. The doctor took very scant notes though and forbade me to write while in the OR. The only notes I have were written in my room before sleep and had been only small memories of what I had seen and could remember.

The ringing had become almost ever present. Fearing for my well being, I told Mortimer about it he took a look for me and gave me a physical. The result was as expected. He declared that it was a symptom of hearing all those blasts during the war and I was over exhausted. He told me to take a vacation from our work and that I should go to Cleveland for a couple of days. I objected, of course, with Bobo being so near to completion I wanted to be there when he was finished. He promised me Bobo could wait until I came back and that there were some supplies he needed in the time I’d be away and that I could still make myself useful in Cleveland. I wanted to stay I told him and, the ringing came back so strong I almost passed out. Mortimer would have no arguments after that; I would need some time away. So that night I packed for a weekend’s stay in the city.

Future Man Part 1

I can’t believe I used to sit and wonder what it would have been like if ancient cultures had come forward in time and read our literature. I would sit in delight in thinking how utterly lost they’d be if they had to read our books now, and some how make sense of it all. Of course they wouldn’t understand a word of it! How could they? The past 2000 years had changed the world they new so drastically everything would be alien to them. They couldn’t know our frame of reference. The crumbling of empires, rebuilding of cities, nuances of romance would all be lost on them. What could those scholars of yore derive from our world when they only had theirs to make allusions from? The very thought of their frustration had me smiling like a child opening birthday presents.

What a happy little thought that had been! Now such thinking had become my hubris. My latest experiment had pushed me 2000 years into the future. Stranded in the future I came quickly to see that my amusing daydreams were a cruel reminder that I, now, was a stranger in a strange land.

My first several days were spent wandering the shadows of an impossibly cyclopean city. The only living things I saw were terrible looking feral things that looked as though their legs were mangled. Though they moved about with a haste that betrayed their physical deformity. I took great pains to avoid their attention. The streets, if you could call them streets, mostly just ripped up concrete and sand, were marked with signs in English text but with words I had never seen. On the fourth day I came across a bunker with food. Several hundred cans of a meat and hash ration.

Shortly after I uncovered a book depository in one of the more stable looking buildings. I couldn’t find anything I recognized. No Moby Dick, or Count of Monte Cristo, only books written in the same language as the street signs. Some words I knew, but I had no context to understand them. Many books referenced events I’d never been around to see or hear about. The thought of living out my days eating this hash and living in ignorance of my new world plagued me. I was determined to understand this language. After all there was time now.

It looked as though the landscape had been razed by some plow, as though the earth itself had been repurposed. Sand, obsidian and bits of concrete littered the areas in between the structures. There was an eerie silence about the place. No sound aside from the wind and the howl of those ominous creatures that stalked the city’s outer walls.

With the issue of sustenance no longer a concern I made my way around the city to see if I could at least see what fate had made of my descendants in the future. I was my father’s only son and my father had been an only child as well. It pained me to think that my ancestral line had departed from existence as I left the time stream. But still my brotherhood of humanity had to have continued long after my dislocation.

There were no signs of war, at least not the normal signs. I had never been to war. So the only signs I really knew to look for were the collateral damage of buildings or streets littered with corpses. I found neither. The streets were a mess and in some cases ruined completely but the buildings were in pristine condition all things considered. The ruin of age had touched a few, but neglect and ordinance left two drastically different marks on a place.

The nights were dark and I had never seen the sky so clearly in my life. I marveled at all the stars, I had never seen so many. It was no wonder early man had looked up there to find his gods looking down on him. On the fourth night I saw a shooting star. It just strafed across the sky and vanished. Chewed up by the Earth’s atmosphere, I guessed. If I ever got back to my time I’d have to remember to write down how beautiful those first few nights were. The solitude had gotten to me a little, but my stomach was full and I was relatively safe for the time being.

After a couple of weeks, I went back to the book depository. There had to be some clues as to the whereabouts of mankind now. Five days into my studying, I had come across a book I could, for the most part, understand. It was heavily illustrated and what I couldn’t pick up from the text the pictures gave more than a hint of. The book was entitled Revenant Recollections and despite its morbid title it told a story that betrayed it’s gruesome moniker. I read the book in wonderment and the more I read the more quickly I realized that the story was a bit of an updated version of Peter Pan. The point of view of the narrator had changed. The main character was the younger brother of the “Wendy” character. Instead of flying though, happy thoughts produced power. And the happier the characters became the more power they produced.

The story progressed to the part where “Peter Pan” asks Wendy to stay in Neverneverland. Wendy declines his offer, and after that the next few chapters got very dark. Max and Sam wanted to stay but Wendy wanted to leave. Peter gave her brothers everything they wanted but because Wendy had spurned him she was sent to her death. Of course her brothers had no idea and they were left to believe that she had gone home to live as she pleased. Peter continued to keep Max and Sam, the brothers, doped up on candy and toys and used their happy thoughts as power to light up the world of Neverneverland. They eventually wanted to see their sister and Peter killed them as well, then the story started over with a new family and the cycle repeated itself again, as the story ended “Forever and Ever”.

It was an interesting take on the Peter Pan story, if not a bit twisted. That was the only story I’d found that I could read well enough to understand. Using those context clues though would become important for me to understand other books. I kept that book with me hoping some of the ideas and words from other books would collide and make some sense.

Then came the night of the first full moon. The howling creatures out side of the walls made noises that sounded like a mixture of crying babies and nails on a chalkboard, sounds that unnerved me in a terrible way. Since seeing them I had feared the day when the two of us would cross paths and now that fear was only magnified. I fashioned a spear out of a standing indoor lamp and a kitchen knife, that I carried all those weeks in case I did find the need to protect myself.

I read stories of men losing their minds in the solitude of space and without the company of others to share. After these long weeks I had maintained well enough. I even congratulated myself for being made of sterner stuff than those characters of my youth. Of course I missed home and my friends a bit, but I had been a bit of a misanthrope then and this lifestyle seemed to coalesce me for my hardship. This world suited those hermetic urges I so often nurtured in the present.

Three weeks passed without much commotion. But something had been building inside within my inner mind. The store of food was running low and without the safety of the walls, I knew I’d have to face one of those deviant creatures soon. It began to echo in my every thought. Some times I wondered if I really was made stronger by this life of withdrawal. I became more reckless and worried less and less about being seen by whatever else was out there and began moving outside in the daylight. I started verbal arguments with myself regularly.

It was the night before the second full moon that I had the nightmare. I had been one of Wendy’s brothers in the book, being given everything material that I wanted but only wanting to see my sister again. When Peter went to kill me he transformed into one of those beasts beyond the wall. I tried to fight him off but in the end I was over powered by it’s weight. Before it’s maw clamped down I woke in a hard sweat.

I laughed at myself for fearing machinations of my own genesis, and decided that I would need to end this nonsense. Food was scarce and the only source of food was those gibbous twisted things. I would hunt them by night for they seemed to sleep then too. My first night in the wasteland beyond the wall was spent watching, seeing how they lived and if they kept patrols. The creatures moved in a horrible locomotion that defied what I knew about the physical qualities of mammals. It looked painful to watch them move and as such I tried not to watch their hindquarters.

Every so often one of the creatures would break from the rest of the pack to search the area for water or possibly relieve itself. I decided I would stalk the next one to segregate itself. If I could come to understand the creatures better, if I could observe one on it’s own terms then I could unlock the fears of my dreams and be free of them. I sat on the wall waiting for my chance to move. My breath stank of that hash, so much so that I could smell it myself. For a second I wondered if those things had olfactory senses comparable to dogs, but the thought washed from my mind when I thought about how long I’d been in the city without running into them. Surely if they could smell me they would have searched me out like… like a pack of rabid dogs.

After a couple of hours one of them walked out away from the pack. Into the waste, I tailed it at a safe distance. My vision had gotten used to the darkness and even without lights, the night sky was illuminated by the full moon and the stars. I was surprised how well I could see, and by how far. I followed it for what seemed a mile, keeping always downwind of it just in case. Then it just stopped and sat by a tree and looked up toward the stars and the full moon. I moved in close but took care not to startle the creature. I looked down at my makeshift weapon and gripped it surreptitiously. The kitchen knife I had fashioned into a spearhead gleamed in the moonlight. That was when I caught it striding toward me.

Something in my head snapped and moments later the creature laid in front of me, lifeless. I couldn’t remember making a move on the thing. But there it was plain as day bleeding before me, my spear broken and the kitchen knife in my hand, which was covered in blood to my elbow. More than a little confused I panicked, but when I checked myself there were no cuts bites or scrapes. I hadn’t been touched. I recalled stories of people going into killing frenzies in moments of mortal danger. The last thing I could remember was the sickening, lumbering motion of it and it’s tongue glazing my face in saliva.

The next day I put it onto a spit and cooked it. I was shocked to find that it tasted quite good. I couldn’t be totally sure but I thought that it was the same meat used in that canned hash. I would try to hunt another one, I thought, but this time I would plan on being ready to kill it. I would not act in defense. This time I would be the predator.

The days seemed to last for longer than normal and I was anxious to test myself in the night again. For the first time in weeks, I had something to do. I didn’t have to think about the books or the strange words or what happened to the people who lived in the city. There was only the hunt. I had fixed my “spear” and this time I decided to also carry a knife on my side. I spent most of the week making a sheath for it. And I bathed too. That must have alerted my last meal to my presence. So I bathed and then I covered myself in mud just to be on the safe side.

Night came and I sat on the wall again. Once more one trailed off from the rest. This time I moved in front of it. All the way back to the tree, I remained unseen and made sure the creature was still moving toward it. I confirmed it’s path and moved. Letting it pass to my side more than a few times. When it reached the tree I was focused on the beast. I circled waiting for its attention to divert from my visual range.

Then I burst forward. Spear pointed at it’s neck in a full charge. A blow from the side knocked the spear from my grasp. Utterly caught off guard, confused and without my spear I looked around and fixed my gaze. Three of the things now circled me. Horrible noises came from their throats worse than the high-pitched cries I was used to hearing them make. One lunged in and I drove my second knife down into it’s head making care to pull it free as another ripped into my left arm with it’s maw. Flesh torn from my bone, I swung my body around in pain and it let go crashing to the ground. I wouldn’t look at my arm for fear it would ruin my resolve. Warm blood flowed from the wound. I could feel its pulse as my heart pounded. I threw the knife at the third and the blade found its home in its neck.

I dove for the spear as the second one moved with celerity in between the weapon and I. I tumbled back away quickly as it snapped at him. It jumped and I landed a kick to its muzzle. The shear speed of the thing knocked me to the ground. The kick stunned it, but did not stop it. I felt blood rush again and in that second, almost fell unconscious. I forced myself to remain awake. I gathered at all of my hate, If I must die, then I will take this thing with me.

Before I brained the creature with a rock, I thought to myself how funny a thing to think that was. Like I was in some adventure serial from my childhood. It would have been my last thought as I drifted toward death. That would have been a preferable way to go. I turned, and before the blackness swallowed me, I watched the second abomination get up and become a woman with a scar across her chest. The last thing I heard was her say, “Get up you two, he’s dead now.” In a perfect English accent.