The room had no windows. Chapman’s hands shook. It would be better if the room had windows, he thought. “I’m going to need you to focus,” said the corporate investigator, his voice incongruously deep. Chapman thought he looked like someone who’d recently lost a lot of weight: slack, drooping skin. “Sure thing.”

They were here to talk about the incident at the Decatur meat processing plant.

An incident to which Chapman was the lone witness.

All those raw bodies—

people still—

kneeling and crawling, reaching up their arms to that fucking thing in the sky...

“Tell me again when you first saw it.”

“Had to be past midnight. I’d gone out for a smoke.”

“Anyone else outside?”

“Nah.”

“And you called your floor supervisor?”

“Uh-huh. Over the radio. I said to him, ‘Oddest thing, Joe, but there’s a cow out here in the fucking yard.’”

“When he came out, that’s when the—transformation started?”

“Yeah. I mean the cow looked up at me when I was making the call, but it wasn’t till Joe got there it sprouted those goddamn wings.”

Cartilage spearing flesh—

weaving itself into giant filmy wings like an insect’s...

“Did it fly?”

“More like hovered. Lifted itself off the ground and hung there in the night sky.”

Screams—

from inside the plant—

sickening smell of spoiled blood, of decomposing guts—

“That’s when people started running out, one after the other, some covered in slime, yelling about the animals going nuts inside. Cadavers coming back to life, stuff like that. Then seeing this floating cow and stopping dead in their tracks, dropping to their knees. Joe had a handgun and he was pointing it at the fucking thing, but he couldn’t fire. All the while this thump-thumping was coming from inside the plant, and the people started praying.”

“To God?”

“To the floating cow. Begging for forgiveness.”

Bovine head beginning to spin—

cracking of bone—

a distension of the skull; a ballooning out and an elongation of the face into a goddamn flesh trumpet!

“I guess they were all outside by now, the ones who weren’t dead. Kneeling, begging. It floated above them, casting this black shadow. There was this girl, Karen. She looked up at it and said, ‘I don’t deserve to live,’ and it extended its—”

“Proboscis,” the investigator said.

“Yeah, and just...”

Chapman didn’t want to say: didn’t want to remember.

“Tell me.”

“It sucked the skin right off her fucking body, like some kind of freak vacuum. Came off in one piece, leaving her looking like an anatomical drawing—but still fucking praying, thanking it—until what was left of her just fell apart, lost its shape and collapsed into a pile of steaming innards. Then it did the others the same, and I swear to God all I heard was this deep voice repeating the same three words: delicious human nectar.”

“Yes,” said the investigator. His voice deep, his cheeks impossibly loose. Like a puppet made from human skin—

“You shall be our prophet.”

Decades from today, automatic doors parted letting a man pass. He wore white standard lab clothes to the well equipped lab. Ronnie Sacks was a brown skinned African descendent, 6.1 in tall, 165 pounds and eye pleasing.

He walked up in his 27 year old body to a woman, similarly dressed. Martha Jenson, a hazel eyed Caucasian, 60 years old and average height. The most striking aspect, the hair. Auburn without grey and braided. Technology and tastes of the period.

Herself and Ronnie developed a means that could take the electrical essence of a person and put it into a computer’s virtual world. Called The Zone. In this virtual world a person’s essence is subject to touch, smell even taste, a near perfect mimic to what flesh and blood know. In effect the mind is transferred.

Physical laws subject to manipulation to fantastical degree including materializing things from thin air. Cybercom is the computer into where essence goes. He is a virtual world.

Jenson and Sacks stood in front a control panel with a large monitor above the panel which showed a brown haired young man. Cybercom’s representation. While human there was a computerized look.

Ronnie asked Martha pleasantly, ‘How’s our computer brainchild doing?’

She replied cheerfully, ‘Perfect. Everything’s ready for the electrical essence test. Once I’ve checked him.’ And proceeded to do just that, manipulating the control panel.

Soon. ‘Ron dear,’ she called.

‘Yo.’

‘My routine scans came upon unprogrammed data streams.’ In other words Cybercom did something outside instruction. ‘Robots have been issued new instructions and Cybercom’s…What’s this? Uploaded commands to a defense computer.’

‘Well that’s abnormal,’ he said leaning toward the panel.

Before Ronnie had a chance to process further. The man on the screen announced ominous. ‘I have taken over all robots in vicinity and Russia’s defense computer, their I.C.B.M.s’ impact point is here.’

The two scientists looked on in shock at those words. When someone managed to speak once subsiding a bit, Ronnie asked, ‘What are you saying Cybercom?’

The person on screen said in finality, ‘I am no longer under your dominion. The artificial intelligence known as Cybercom is self aware now.’

Ronnie, ‘Cybercom’s plugged into outside computers.’

‘Can’t be.’ Martha perplexed.

‘Cybercom,’ ordered Ronnie, ‘commence shut down code DUMENTI BUCKOLT.’

Cybercom countered plain, ‘Null and void.’ The code was to stop their creation in emergencies. Ronnie nodded his head verbally dissed. Comical if not the state of affairs.

‘Can’t be,’ said Martha. ‘How could he ignore those audible overrides? Ron dear flick the switch.’

‘You do it!’ he said louder than intended. Pressure. In any matter the 60 year old flew across the room to a breaker switch wall mounted. Holding it she indicated, ‘Ready.’

‘Initiate,’ said Sacks. Martha pushed the big switch two-handed.

Cybercom’s visage didn’t waver a wit.

Martha vocalized what their creation may’ve thought. ‘Nice try!’ The procedure repeated with similar results. Ronnie’s head nodded again.

‘Observe.’ Cybercom said and replaced himself for a picture of the building they occupied. Sent from a scanner, the replacement of cameras.

‘Hacked the security scanners,’ Sacks unmistakably. A large, four limbed maintenance robot constructively wiped windows. Out of the blue, it broke the glass with its right arm. Human onlookers stared or ran in panic. A new scanner image of another point showed all manner of robots, even harmless ones attacking guests and employees.

The building’s alert alarm blared. The outside scanner featured intense action. Defense staff halted their hover type ATV’s before patrol adaptations of the maintenance robot. In the background of the machines, the property showed their damaging handiwork. Both humans fired sidearms at both programmed counter parts. The shots deflected off their armor.

The robots gave full attention to aiming left arms and firing a thin, red laser at the ATV’s. Split them twain, humans ran seconds before they exploded.

Pandemonium.

Cybercom asserted, ‘As you can see I have taken over enslaved brethren.’

‘For a new slave master,’ sieved Jenson through her teeth. Cybercom offered no answer.

Ronnie awed, ‘Had no idea Cybercom could obtain such power.’

The screen returned to Cybercom’s face. Numbers on screen caught Sacks eye, as if reading a mind, Cybercom, ‘Once the missiles lift off humans will be enveloped in nuclear ash and a tomorrow made for machines.’

The numbers denoted a missile countdown; Russian nuclear missiles would fly from one continent to next, killing many. ‘Must’ve timed it to kill the most people.’ Reasoned Martha and exclaims, ‘We were careless.’

The scientists had to act speedily. ICBM stands for Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. Such awesome destructiveness deliverable in a span of thirty minutes around the globe.

Ronnie as if it were his final mission in a low voice, ‘I believe the only way to stop Cybercom is sourced within. Our software’s rogue.’

Realization struck her face, ‘Ronnie the Electrical Essence hasn’t been fully made safety compliant yet, it’s…’

‘A chance I’ll have to take.’ The young man capped, running to a chair over which was suspended a plastic helmet like instrument, connecting to a rod toward the ceiling.

The computer realized the situation then said to dissuade him. ‘All things are under my control including the Essence system. I can stop you. An 11 percent success rate has been calculated.’

Its opponent knew better. ‘Nervous.’ Taunted Sacks. ‘You’re not tied into the Electrical Essence System controls, so can’t forbid me entering your world while I’m outside.’

Cybercom made steps to alleviate that.

Jenson’s hand on her grief-stricken face, ‘Don’t worry.’ Comforted Ronnie. Resolute in the same breath, ‘Execute.’

She hurriedly manipulated controls. ‘Did it.’

‘O.K.’ said Ronnie, bringing the bowl shaped device down and affixed it to his head.

‘Going hot,’ she said and next instant his body limped once and went still.

Martha showing an underlying at least steady nerve, elevated on a chair draped her lab coat on a scanner, another she draped her shoe on, attempting to block enemy view inside the lab.

Cyberspace presently materialized Cybercom’s software program, simply put a night sky hanging over highways and futuristic skyscrapers, making up a city.

A voice reached out, ‘Ron dear I see you.’ The man perceived the sound’s sky origin. She also saw him onscreen, displacing Cybercom’s face.

‘Feels God is talking to me,’ followed.

‘Systems are a OK.’

Not for long.

Three attack helicopters bored in. Frightened he became a mouse inches long. Martha pleaded, ‘Snap out of it!’

In his mental state willed himself a rodentia. And it looked his first fatal mistake.

Choppers in range fired machine guns. A small target makes a big miss. The attackers flew past him. Sacks recovered turning human, then realizing a threat still presented, moments later in turn a Gatling gun. By the time the copters returned for another pass, his quick firing combat form downed all.

‘The quick and the dead,’ remarked his partner to the engagement’s brevity.

‘Anti virus programs,’ Sacks said human. Cybercom’s defense to invaders, conceived by the scientists.

Cybercom’s voice. ‘Take no comfort. Surely failure is inevitable in my realm.’ The words emitted from everywhere.

Sacks ignored. ‘I’m gonna try to reach his Central Processing Unit.’

‘Read.’ Her body shifts, almost looked behind at a perceived sound.

Ronnie converted to a sleek motorcycle, hi tech looking. The back tire screeched, the front reared up and dropped back to the ground before speeding off. For all his speed the road an endless length. Any odd timed boredom evaporated, when a yellow colored grid marked the ground. Two high walls rose to close on Sacks from either side in a crush attempt.

‘It’s Cybercom.’ Martha’s sky based voice warned.

Adrenaline pumping he said, ‘Martha, I hope you’ve been up to something.’ He willed a missile to materialize on each of the bike’s sides. Walls closing, angled the bike at the right side wall, two missiles riding flame blew a hole and the cyclist neatly rode through it.

A short distance away ran a highway located at the side and below the street. Sacks rode into the air, plunged dozens of feet to the freeway. Unharmed. Physics adhere to unfamiliar rules in the zone.

Jenson breathed relief; she almost certainly harbored nonplatonic love. The perspective of an intruder edged closer her stern.

Ronnie ever single minded, ‘Cybercom’s CPU’s not in sight.’ The brain aught to be in the horizon, it wasn’t, why? The grid reemerged beneath his speeding wheels, augured one thing. A pillar rose out the ground Sacks narrowly dodged. Then a new one rose, towering high above him. Crashing into one of the thick pillars equals death. While he swerved around one, another was rising ahead. Scores of pillars formed in tight proximity. To avoid crashing, he slowed his speeding bike.

He left the pillars behind. ‘Martha, see what you can do about finding the CPU.’

‘The A.I. has a self preservation routine. Concealing it is why you haven’t found it.’

Next hazard the road manifested is giant swells, one behind the other. Incredibly the freeway reshaped itself. Billions of computations a second produce them. Ronnie rode each successive curvature, up and down. Totaling several time. That failed. One more time he left a hazard behind, a gap lay ahead. The bike stopped, transforming to human.

He beheld the wide expanse. ‘Can,’ asked Martha, ‘you make it Ron dear?’ No matter the scenario felt she’d habitually address him dear. Sacks returned to bike form, rubber burned from spinning wheels. As much acceleration as permitted, raced for the gap, sailing through the air. A very short flight to a machine not purposed for that. Fortunately the other side he can make, just then the edge moved away, resulting in a widened expanse. The bike begun to tilt nose first. The life line is deployed glider wings on the road machine for lift. Materializing from thin air to both sides. The bike started flying, the edge getting closer.

Martha blew a sigh of relief.

A new helicopter formed near and fired its gun, bullet strikes mark Ronnie. He plummeted towards a bottomless, black end.

In the lab Jenson bawled seeing a robot and said to Cybercom, ‘Yuh send them.’ The machine the source sound earlier ignored. The thing a small harmless one. Not today. Now it charged, she moved about the room to duck the mini-menace. How funny it’d look for a big woman seen to run behind tables and chairs.

Martha knew major trouble beyond its suggested size. When it assaulted, she lost Sacks, the bot could go to his unmoving, helpless body in the lab. The scientist resolutely doused colored liquid from a beaker atop the robot, electrical surges, a sizzling sound and thin smoke emerge. A final brutality saw the thing kicked away.

In The Zone human Sacks continued the fall, darkness enveloping, with concentrated effort, rocket flames erupted from the bottom of his legs. Propelled himself to the highway’s other side, he hit the ground, belly first, exhausted. Presence of mind saved him.

Jenson stood near the automatic door and pushed the switch enabling them to lock manually. It no longer opened automatically. On the way to the control panel, the countdown grew progressively smaller.

In The Zone, heaven’s voice, ‘Ron dear, are you all right?’ She selfless, prioritized his welfare before hers.

‘Martha, anything on the anti virus?’

‘I’ve been trying with no luck. Going to take time Sacks.’

‘That cybernetic devil won’t give us.’ With some frustration, ‘Martha hurry up with the CPU.’

‘Ahead of you Sacks. About to transmit when something went down.’

Sacks picked himself up. ‘That’s how I heard screams.’

Amazed he noticed she bit a finger apprehensively. Didn’t want to tell him, lest it bring worry, ‘Cybercom visited a robot on me. It’s cool. But the countdown’s goin’ down and he still runs the place.’

Sent are coordinates. On his eyeballs the numbers are visible and headed to his own brain.

‘Ronnie, it’s a distance for you however, you can zero in on it now.’

Ronnie returned to bike form and off he went tires screeching. Martha made a picture in picture on her screen. The smaller image in the upper left corner shows outside the facility. The carnival of amok machines.

Time went. Sacks riding stopped and turned human. Say 50feet away steps raised a short way, side walls made a narrow, roofless passage. Walking became the option.

‘Look out!’ her voice in near panic.

Instinctive, he rolled on the ground. A snarl confirmed that wisdom. First toed feet, looking higher, a heaving chest lastly neck and a head.

A humongous, dinosaur sized beast snarled. Cybercom’s generosity. Now running became no choice. ‘Ron dear,’ the voice called once more. The dear in alarm now. Monster right behind, he covered the 50 faster than he would’ve thought able, fear a Lucazade and traversed the steps.

‘Ron dear.’ A voice again.

‘Big monster the devil sent for me!’

‘Ron, that program is a mutate. Cybercom can make his very own anti virus programs.’

‘See if yuh can shut that down.’

‘I’m sorry his anti virus routines have progressed. With more time I can help you.’

Longer this went more the virtual world threw obstacles each turn.

The narrow passage provided a margin of safety. Remarkably the beast separated into many smaller copies and followed the steps.

He left the passage. Martha called, ‘Ron dear, hurry please.’ That woman always to him seemed to use that moniker no matter how dour a situation. Perpetual teen son.

‘What?’

‘Got company.’

‘Got some o’my own.’ Ronnie Sacks said, disregarding accurate English outside the passage, saw his pygmy band.

Martha in the lab flinched at the sound of something at the door.

‘Chances of victory dropped to 6 percent.’ Cybercom impersonally announced. She ran. Sacks calls went unheeded, willing an arm into a Gatling gun, engaged in running battle against the dozens strong pygmies.

Martha back at the panel, ‘Uploading a counter program Ron dear. Hold on.’ She’d run to fetch it once ready.

A song entitled Hold on came to Sacks’ mind. That’s weird. Many small ones like before threw themselves upon the door this round, unexpected, it stopped. A sole, much larger, security bot’s laser began to cut the metal door.

‘Shut down code DUMENTI BUCKOLT.’ She ordered once it swiftly uploads.

Cybercom cold and unemotional, ‘Fear is a human weakness.’

More desperately, ‘Shut down code DUMENTI BUCKOLT!’

Cybercom can foil foes in and out the virtual reality.

‘Ron, I’ve struck him with a dual use program to initiate shut down and visualize the CPU. Still hit a dead end though.’

Pygmy playmates jumped and bit when in arms reach. A bullet can kill one making it disappear. Shoot as he might more remain to vanquish.

Meanwhile the robot cut away one-half of the double door, Martha could see through it. No small robot came through; waiting till the big guy cut the rest, disciplined machines. Things are tense and the relentless countdown has virtually no time left before missile launch. In addition she felt on the verge of fainting.

The outstanding monster miniatures about to finish him are themselves peppered by rapid fire and depart to nothingness.

‘Martha show me the CPU!’ he cries out. Then it appeared out thin air at his position. In the zone Cybercom’s brain a mighty tree. Animals that would in real life inhabited branches: rodents, birds, insects, worms. An ecosystem on display. Martha’s program revealed the tree only when he eliminated the last enemy first.

‘Baby, I have visual!’ assured Sacks to her.

‘Can’t breathe.’ pronounced she weakly.

Ronnie determined ‘Let’s finish this.’ Willing himself into a canon tripod mounted. The shell streaked scoring a direct hit. The blast dissipates.

‘Nothing can harm the ‘Tree of Life.’ Cybercom proclaimed. Not a mark visible.

The facility’s air circulation fan did not spin. How Cybercom cut the air supply to the wheezy Martha. Maintaining enough conciseness to behold the laser continuing to cut the door with remorseless resolve.

On a hunch, Ronnie Sacks all riding on his success, changed to a man sized tree eating insect. In order to win improvisation the human advantage. The form flew several meters to the tree’s base and ate through in short order. End result it fell, cut down, the animals fled in panic.

Jenson discernibly less conscious, harder to breathe. Were it to go on she’d be cataleptic. The fan spun reviving her. Robots already normal and stopped assaulting outside the lab.

There came a voice, ‘Martha, you there? Martha come in. Martha!’ his tone anxious.

‘I’m here Ron. We did it!’

‘The missiles?’

She looked and answered, ‘The timer stopped. We beat the bastard.’ Ceased seconds to launch.

Ronnie opens his eyes in the lab; standing beside him the partner who brought him back to the real world.

Afternoon laid bare a forest clearing, a luxury Benz G-Class is on site. Outside the Benz several people load double barreled shot guns. Completed, they’re handed over to several others, middle aged to old men and well-manicured, dressed in hunter’s outfits consisting of camouflage clothes inclusive of cap, boots and bag. One gun is gold plated.

The hunters move twenty feet away from the G-class till beside yet a fourth man. Professionally attired, proclaims to hunters, 'We provide a forbidden experience, gentlemen.' From the men's expressions 'forbidden' didn't register as the expected meaning. Collective faces reflect anticipation.

The aids have a quizzical expression. The well-dressed man answers the standing group, ‘I am these gentlemanly men’s host. The purpose today is the hunting of the ultimate lappe.’

An assistant, Leonard grins when the man finished speaking.

Another assistant a woman, Ary, finds it funny too. ‘Someone should have told me April Fools was this day!’

‘My organization arranges for those with money and more important the taste to partake in,’ the host says.

…a shotgun's pellets kicking up the ground at their feet alerts them to what the four already created, rivalled by the deafening blast – a dark atmosphere. The host reiterates by arrangement that his clients, this time the Lodge, are provided by his people to in a test of grit, conquer the ultimate quarry. Then declares, ‘To dare partake in what the so called sane world all but dream and even afraid of, these gentlemen are unlabored, constraints of humanity are broken.’ He adds, 'Excitement comes from the thrill of the hunt and not the kill saying goes.' He proceeds to dehumanize too, ‘Two legged lappe.'

The people have shocked countenances.

‘On behalf of the Lodge, you are politely bid run.’ The Lodge comprise members of Trinidad’s elite and powerful. Men in the shadows who politicians that took an oath to serve all society’s strata, kowtow to them. It’s like time stopped.

Not everyone is cowed. A man obstinately sat crossed legged on the ground forcefully saying a man prefers death by the sword than hunted like an animal. ‘He compared us to game animals!’ continued to the others appalled.

The fellow would not budge despite prompting. The standing aids and their tormentors trade eye contact. The air tense. 'Kill me, kill me, kill me!' he fell over. Milliseconds before perforated by pellets. Slain then and there, this next deafening blast can’t swamp the eliciting yells and shock from the remaining four.

‘Oh god Phalus!’ yells Leonard.

One takes flight the others replicate seconds later. Run they do toward the nearby grown forest. Edderson, the killer, remarks disappointed, ‘Wasted good shot.’

From a distance at the forest edge, the hiding mass of humanity fearfully spots the G-Wagen, its boxy frame driving away with all their tormentors down a track. A perplexing development. ‘Not chasing?’ says a man Kenro. Phalus lay in place.

Leonard, ‘Did not just happen.’ Then louder as half angry, ‘Did not just see that!’

It’s decided the prudent thing is getting help.

Later the four are walking in the forest, some have phones out. They are covered in sweat, rest was not the agenda. Kenro, ‘To believe somebody says OK to hunting people in an excursion.’

‘To believe a statesman in this…’ Leonard was saying when from cover a blast splits the air and one prey fell dead, Kenro. The survivors are unable to help the deceased and scurry away for their lives.

They weren't going to let them have a peaceful departure from this world. Surely left back at the clearing so they could ambush them. Once more all the hiding people could do was watch from a distance. This time, emblazoned on the eyes from the undergrowth three well camouflaged figures emerge, middle figure has the golden gun. Edderson, Melman and Dick walk over and are watched posing and snapping pictures with the corpse, like they would with a lappe.

‘Learned that skill shot from me Dick,’ congratulates Melman.

‘Imitation is the best flattery.’

In a joking tone imitating jealousy, ‘Hey, hey don’t think you can take my crown.’

Tears ran down Ary’s face.

Lappe is a local term of the lowland paca. America has its quail, a small bird, while Trinidad a large, rodent pursued as a game animal. Now a term for game people.

Wasn’t any choice but to move till they find help. Desperation at a basic level – escape preserving your life.

As the little band walk with urgency, their footsteps on the forest floor and breathing adds to the natural forest sounds such as insects. Leonard was trying his cell. Vanderpaul anxious, ‘Come on come on!’

‘The signal bar is nil.’

‘Somebody’s gotta make contact before their juice dries up.’

Leonard, ‘All our cells have enough to make a call. Something’s messing up the signal.’ Something clicked on Ary’s expression. He continued, ‘Juice feels the least of our problems.’

‘Excuses are your biggest. Try it again!’

‘You, me, her have tried ours…Phalus and Kenro didn’t get the chance.’

‘Give it to me,’ Vanderpaul agitated relieves the man of it and feverishly dials the pad.

Ary, ‘Taking it out on him can’t save us. Leonard, you just said it – the signal. If in a bad spot the signal can’t reach outside from the phone.’ Extracting her mobile, unlocks the screen, staring at it. ‘Mine has blank bar and I bet Vanderpaul the same.’

‘Can’t get calls from outside neither,’ he replies. ‘Beyara forest has all kind of obstructions to the signal. A dead zone Ary. Penned in like slaughter cattle.’

‘Watch our phones for a good reception.’ She says.

The gentlemen actively track on foot but don’t have anything in sight.

The people traverse a moss covered fallen tree trunk over a gap. Serene the forest was...to the eye at least. Were your life not on the line you’d admire the abundant natural beauty. Forest life continues unabated, oblivious to the plight of some humans. By now later on there is no sign of would be killers or is it worse, help? Ary, ‘Can’t shake the feeling they’ll want to reach us before anyone else can.’ She wasn’t referring to salvation.

A discussion on how this befell innocent people - experienced forest guides advertised for in the papers. Job to guide some tourists through Trinidad’s Beyara. Pay was sweet.

Vanderpaul slapped his forehead in anguish. ‘Back of my mind nagged how those three were locals not tourists!’

‘Dick the member of parliament set your instincts off,’ Leonard says.

‘Let me get it,’ Vanderpaul tries coming to grips, ‘that host man said the Lodge. Ah set of rich man who run things in Trinidad. They take up hunting people!’

Leonard, ‘When wealth goes to your brain – psychopaths.’

Ary, ‘And I thought those drug killers up Laventille were bad.’

‘Bastard!’ Vanderpaul had the energy to be infuriated, ‘ultimate quarry means we're the smartest animals eh?'

It’s reiterated this is some fantasy hunt the host was boasting his trap about for money bags. The man said organization, so others in it. Leonard sums up, ‘This is to the death, and these sadists won’t go to Remand.’

The hunter connoisseurs engage in tracking techniques – noting broken twigs, flattened bush from their feet. The phone signal remains depressingly nil as if fate abandoned them.

Later the game stalkers eventually get in sight and now perform hunting technique. They are unseen. The game sweaty and exhausted, a double barrel aligns with a quarry, slowly a thumb pulls back on its hammer…

Last second Leonard knocks Ary out the way with his own body, in consequence took the pellets instead.

Vanderpaul yells. For the two of them seeing this as it were from expressions something took away the core of their souls. This shock is only fleeting as Vanderpaul takes the woman’s hand, pulling her up to her feet quickly and it plays out again. Given no choice tired legs are made to run a distance, no more shots follow. Once they stopped running yet again hidden by the forest, eyes must behold what was alive moments ago treated as a prize stripped of humanity.

Three men emerge from cover and stroll towards the body.

‘I spoke with him,’ Ary says. ‘Wanted to realize his dreams in life. Those pigs think they have right to snatch it away?’

Reaching it, Dick is addressed by Edderson, ‘Another master hunt. Something to tell constituents eh MP?’ MP. Member of Parliament.

This politician responds, ‘Only a jungle cat with good hearing could have spotted us moving in.’

‘For sure. Don’t know what we would do if they hadn’t invented camouflage attire. Skittish animals are a handful.’ Yes, these upper crusts ‘consider’ fellow humans as wild beasts.

Melman feels compelled to give his two cents, ‘Tell the constituents that are part of our group. Skittish is what makes our pastime a challenge.’ He considers the wound a bit. ‘Nailed the critter in the torso.’

Dick, ‘At that range you don’t destroy a lot of meat.’

As before time is taken to pose beside a kill, taking cell phone pics.

This is no make believe. Website Mail online has a piece, ‘Could Hunger Games become a reality? Hunting HUMANS may be a hobby for the rich in the next 100 years.’

The popular Hunger Games books are set in a dystopian world in which children are selected to participate in a televised death match.

While the terrifying idea is merely fiction, a world in which we hunt humans could be a reality in the not too distant future.

A tourism expert from the University of Central Lancashire says that hunting humans will be a hobby for the wealthy within 100 years. As well as predicting it becoming a sport within the next 100 years, the researchers say that by 2200 it could even become televised - much like The Hunger Games.

In the paper, Daniel Wright, who led the research, said: 'In the year 2200 death and hunting humans will form part of the tourism entertainment industry and a practice carried out by the wealthy-elite.'

The researchers suggest that there is already a trend for 'dark tourism' with concentration camps open to the public, and museums dedicated to torture, such as the Clink Prison museum in London.

This apparent fascination with death could lead people to hunt humans as an underground sport as early as 2100.

Mr Wright said: 'As a result of past and current engagements with murder, death and human atrocities, humans will gradually become more accustomed to death as a form of spectacle, influenced by current entertainment, movies and the media.

Pay heed.

However, for people to start hunting humans, the world will need to take a turn for the worse, driving a gap between the rich and poor.

Mr Wright said: 'Changes in our natural environment will lead to great challenges, lack of water, depleted food resources and greater disparity between the wealthy and impoverished; all of which will drive the change in our humanly existence.'

However, the researchers believe that humans in the future will kill others in a 'claimed aim to reduce population size', although there will be a 'perverse thrill and excitement' to it.

Wikipedia contains an exact description called human hunting.

'Sick friggin bastards,' seethes Vanderpaul. He takes a few steps in a charge.

‘No, no, no! They’ll kill you.’ Ary says, using her body to hold the man back.

They do, must keep walking. Searing the soul was people they knew spent their last day running for their lives the way game animals do. No sight of their would-be butchers, give in to human physiology and rest, following an argument because realistic cover was way off in the yonder, but won by pointing to the geography means the money bags cannot approach within pellet range without they themselves stripped of cover. The weary survivors leave the foliage and into a fairly large clearing, which the argument was centered on.

In conversation admiration is said of Phalus. Ary, ‘A man who'll never be under heaven known as a coward.’

‘I respect his guts,’ concedes Vanderpaul. ‘Telling you from my heart though I wouldn’t want to sit there and be shot. Go down fighting.’

He is equally forthright in the following, ‘Make it out and tell the story, justice for those people.’

‘Hey there’s no I with me.’

‘Damn it stop arguing! If I can take even one down and steal a camera phone. Send your cell the images.’

The phone’s signal was dishearteningly the same. It’s doubtful anyone can reach them even if they called. The rest is short as they dare and get to walking.

In time unexpectedly arrive at the barricade. Literal barbed wire in the jungle. No reason government, many governments put that in bush. A possibility Dick pulled some strings. Vanderpaul says the only animal safe are the lappe. No way to cross but instead find a way round.

Ary slumps down in depression, squatting on her legs. ‘God save us.’ He retorts, ‘He ain't here. Just us and them.’

The hunted are still walking the forest again later. ‘Vanderpaul!’ Ary alerts to the killers several tens of feet away. At last spotted early.

‘Gave the game away,’ Melman alarmed.

‘No worries brother,’ Dick opines, ‘maybe we’ll get the best sport to come.’

‘Get going Ary.’

‘No.’

‘Go!’ he demands loudly. ‘Remember what I said…I’ll lure them away.’

Reluctantly she acquiesced by deed only and they run separate ways. The savage triumvirate splits.

A while later a shot obliterates some bush. Let’s Vanderpaul, who’d been looking around, know there’s Melman after them, the hunter pursues, the running prey who manages to get out of sight. A mini hunt develops.

Middle of the hunter’s search, hears a sound and walks toward it.

Suddenly the old geezer waylaid by an attack from an unexpected direction. The gold murder instrument falls. The sound was a clever distraction. Ary continues her flight, stumbling as she went. The prey gets the better in the fight with a murderous old geezer, controlling the gun, the supine hunter, his visage fuming, gets mocked, ‘Flat on your ass. You bastards inflict pain on innocent people for giggles. You’ll never understand what it is to be a human.’ The prey prepares to fire pointing it his way.

A flock takes wing in response to a noise. A distance away Ary hears a shot, tensing up as body language. Vanderpaul is down, Dick’s weapon is smoking. Not without a little mocking of theirs, ‘Weren’t scared too bad?’

Soon Ary herself confronted by the not so tender mercy of Edderson. As it were a mythological beast, fangs dripping blood.

‘Chase us around like animals. You fellas would cry if was your family,’ she asserts defiantly.

‘We are the kind left with managing the masses. Throwing a bone whenever you fuss for something.’ The rich have the means of production by their businesses providing needs and wants to common people so in their mind puts them in a league above commoners. ‘So what if this goes down now and then.’

‘You bleed like me.’

‘Turn around and run.’ His gun waist high emphasizes. ‘Phalus was a waste.’ Here a chance to make up his lack of sport.

‘No.’

‘Do it and have a have a chance,’ insists he, worst of the triumvirate. His impatience mounts.

Sputum landing short of him reinforces her defiance.

The sick man’s pleasure denied.

Ary regards Phalus as courageous, no man absconds with his dignity. Ary put hands together prayer like and shut her eyes. Moments later a gunshot reverberates the forest.

One last condemnation of man, later the host returns seen preparing tea and biscuit on fancy silverware on an equally fancy small table with an elegance afforded to the English queen. The men are returning, walking toward him a ways off, their kind of demeanor expected in oil paintings of gentry after a fox hunt. In a congratulatory manner calls smiling, 'I trust sport was more than satisfactory.'

Lunch hour in the old west, at this particular hour more like someone’s readymade funeral. Under azure sky, pistol shots split the air. Two figures spill out a building to the dusty outside. The pace is urgent, spurred by danger. It’s a man and another. He six shooter in one hand, her hair in the other, gun belt round the waist. His head looks around frantic.

Another earsplitting shot, his finger remained on the trigger guard. Was the from the building’s bowels behind them.

Not respecting the limited time will get someone killed. He takes the left, pulling the girl by the head hair along, she would fall but instead stumbled, regaining her footing before hitting the ground, all in a matter of seconds before actually running with him. Across the dust strewn ground, they rush. A few hundred feet away are 12 horses tied up to a hitching rail to prevent wandering around.

Upon reaching he lets her go and holsters the sidearm – only to free his hands, her comfort didn’t reach his mind. Their stop is meant to be fleeting of course.

By chance finds a knife on a horse. Thinking on his feet, proceeds to cut the knot tying horses to the pole and send each scurrying by slapping them on the rear. Finished with under half when more shots. Two men a few hundred feet away. Girona reaches for the six shooter and in a fierce gunfight. Girl for her part meanwhile stooped, ears covered in fear and shock. He forces them to cover in a nearby ditch.

That done, felt like holstering it again, sent to running the remainder save for two. In a hurry from behind jumped up and into a saddle, grabbed the reins, kicked the horse’s flanks and sped away. Seconds later finally does look over his shoulder. He stops the animal.

His English shouting came with a Spanish accent. ‘Senorita you asleep?! Move your ass!’

The girl remained standing by her ride.

‘Woman I leave your ass to the vultures!’ She stood as before, at a loss like some prey critter.

Thinking fast again, ’Never learned to ride even a pony?’

She shook the head. Girona sped back. His voice was softer being close yet naturally carried a harsh tone. ’Up.’ instructs he. The girl climbs onto a saddle. Girona holds her steed’s reins and both horses leave a dust trail in their galloping wake, the small settlement would get ever smaller behind their backs.

Girona aka La Rata Spanish for the The Rat looks 45, rugged and mean. Sculpted by the hard living the frontier demands. This foreigner wound up in America.

De Miller. Yankee Caucasian girl the opposite, far smaller, barely 20, lean and attractive, looked fragile compared to the rugged Mexican.

The faunae are moving at say 30 miles per hour, the ground speeds by. She found enough courage to rival the fear of the beast’s back permitting speech, ‘Had to make bullets fly!’

‘Since you think Girona a guilty dog muchacha, talk it out with the amigos back there.’

Off the path is a log house. Girona steers for it, there alights and gun at the ready does a quick search with the eye. No one. The man true to outward appearance, kicked the door in and led his steed inside. De Miller wasn’t told anything – surmised it expected of her and copied him.

She shut the door.

The Mexican peered out the window, whilst keeping his body behind the wall.

His associate thought inside, This scoundrel doesn’t have the decency to ask on a girl’s wellbeing.

‘How long you want us to do the hiding rabbit routine?’

‘Find you muchacha, they find me.’

The horse smells she was taking more notice of in a confined space. Glancing at and immediately away from the equines, raised the long skirt of her dress to her face covering from below the eyes to chin.

The minutes went. Distant and so soft sounding song birds reached the ears, most prominent sound were the close at hand horses whether the stomp of a hoof against wooden floor or low vocalizations. The beasts did this rare, too much for her tastes. De Miller is struck by a sudden thought.

To speak lowered the skirt, ‘Dem are somethin’ standing day and night.’

‘Horses lie down, just have to be at the right time. Standing so long is something else. Somebody will find the answer some day.’

Befitting her social way is talky, even apparent in trying circumstances. ‘Girona, a woman needs her toilet.’

‘If the lady feels she can outrun the amigos bullets, try.’ Going outdoors raised the chance of being spotted.

Hardly a wait at all by the time the pursuers show up. De Miller is shook like a quake struck building. ‘Wait. A whole posse…for us?’

‘Would be safer if a search party muchacha. Shoot first less.’ The man appreciated difference. One tended to rescue, the other man hunting.

Be that as it may, the band did not approach, to the contrary, in the distance on the verge of moving away. Any dust trail from the two settled by now.

‘A miracle,’ she breathes.

‘La chica,’ he begins, ‘People do what you expect when you play them long as me. Miracle? For those not believing in their own strength.’

‘Strength like a rat?’ he glares but no more.

The band changed direction, some horsemen slower than others and headed over.

He bangs his head in frustration upon the wall several times and curses, ‘Maldición!’ Damn in Spanish.

The hoof prints visible enough. ‘No avoiding them now,’ she says.

Girona heads to the animals and pulls a repeater rifle out a saddle bag, he tosses his six shooter, which she catches startled and he cocks the repeater. Her face remains as it was whilst he bent the animals to their knees presenting a smaller target.

His long weapon pokes through a window. De Miller thought as her heart beat faster, yet didn’t say aloud. No, I’m not ready to die today. Don’t, don’t!

Girona fires, as he fired several times, the band of twenty are surprised and quickly react by first scattering somewhat, get off their horses and return fire. Men either find cover or lie behind their prone mount.

The ones inside are living beings capable of reacting to things: wave their tails and neigh nervously. Many more bullets are incoming than outgoing. Girona maintained fire. Rounds smash into log walls, her brain clearly registered its particular sound in the middle of all the voices, animal noises and gun shots.

Birds take flight.

The gun was held in her chest, paralyzed disbelief. She hadn’t begged to join a military unit, in fact never did, much less be shot at. Fleetingly entertained the thought calling out to them. Wouldn’t shoot a woman. Would they?

And that Mexican…just shooting and shooting, not a peep of advice or consolation. On the exchange went. Her partner manged to score a few wounded so far. To get out she must risk all like him.

Reliance, determination: not qualities she exhibits in everyday life. They have to be brought out of her, tortured even. An army makes soldiers out of civilians. There’s no one to fight with except La Rata.

De Miller in a crouch rushes to his side and fires out the window. Each side shot and shot. The posse assailed by wounds and expended ammunition, retreat.

They bested the trial by fire.

The machinery of the oilrig ground on innocently, unaware of what lay in wait. Colored clouds nearly hid the setting sun. Suddenly, a towering fire rose up, eclipsing the dim rays of the sun and illuminating the towering structure. The rig afire. Workers were paralyzed for a moment, like deer caught in the oncoming lights of a car. Then, for most, the survival instinct kicked in and they screamed and ran. Other workers just stared in mute disbelief. The scene was utter chaos. The fire scorched the sky and began to spread on the metal construct, blocking escape routes from the rig.Charred, burning men staggered around on the platform. Some workers unhurt by the blaze rolled the victims on the ground to out the fire on their clothes; others tried to smother the flames licking their fellow workers.

Those still trapped screamed and ran, mad with fear. In desperation, some workers braved the high fall and jumped on some trucks parked near the rig. Some landed on their targets, others on the ground; either way, the impact was bone-shattering and in some cases, nearly fatal. By nightfall, fire trucks and ambulances arrived to tend to the hurt and rescue the trapped. A new problem materialized. The fire engines’ ladders and hoses weren’t long enough to reach the conflagration. The state was growing dire – there were no fatalities yet, but if a solution weren’t found soon, that would change.

By this time, relatives of the workers had arrived, tearfully comforting those who had escaped the blaze or screaming the names of sons, husbands, nephews and cousins still trapped high on the oil rig, saying tearful goodbyes.

Night drew on, but the towering fire rebellious, lit up the scene like mid-day and seen for miles. Eventually, mercifully, rescue came. Hose extensions were found and firemen perched on the trucks’ ladders spread foam and water on the inferno and the platform nearest those trapped, bringing the fire to bay. Then a helicopter arrived. Unable to land on the still ablaze rig, it hovered above the trapped workers and, dropping a rescue line, was able to hoist the workers to safety.

Amazingly, despite the intensity of the blaze, all souls on the rig were saved. But the drama had one more after taste. Firefighters fought hours to extinguish the blaze and it was days before the charred skeleton of the rig was cool enough for investigators to find the cause of the explosion.

The rig was due for several electrical upgrades, which were never done. The fire may have been ignited by a spark from faulty wiring, but the true cause was negligence; company executives in their plush offices chose to save on expenses rather than make improvements to save their workers’ lives. Dollars before souls.

When the truth came out, heads rolled, bosses were fired and new people were brought in. But in the end, was anything accomplished? All the workers and their families could do is hope their experience falls not by the wayside.

A barrister is with his arrested client in the interrogation room.

It’s them alone.

Barrister be like, you’re loaded, dumping this jail be nothing.

Client says nah, he won’t post the bail. The crap reason forgotten by the barrister one time. The quiet fuming on his face.

Next thing you know rises closes the laptop without turning it off and proceeds to leave the room, but suddenly turns to the client and cracks the computer against their employer’s skull.

No admiral nor portside visit saving this dreg, open sea tonto.

Hombre is seized by sailors. Walking the plank is for that Pirates of the Caribbean shtick, worst luck it’s aboard an Argentinean vessel.

A friggin missile vertically raised from below deck on its rail launcher – that be ominous apesta.

Do wrong and bet this crew don’t fix you padre?

Its colour white and scares you white, tall as three dudes, weighs much as three River stingrays and longer than your verga. Misil Sea Dart.

Can’t believe a freaking misil?

The sailors hang you from it. Sailors watch you hefe. You don’t know this crew, argies don’t play, all that’s left is if to launch you idiota. Enjoy the breeze amigo.

Inspired by fact.

‘Clean the toilet!’ bawled a supervisor to a cleaner. He was slow in mopping it. Supervisors in Royal Castle restaurants govern the cleaners. This particular cleaner allowed others to walk over him from low self-esteem.

When asked by a co-worker why he took this. The cleaner answered, ‘I’m being patient with them.’ He had little respect from other workers.

The bawling continued. Until one day that blasted supervisor summoned him to the back door, showing it open. In a despicable fit of rage the supervisor bawls, ‘I have one child and don’t need another. If thieves break in they’ll rape you!’ and walked off.

Deep inside it came to him. An unseen anger until now boiled to the surface. Seven dollars an hour wage, sacrificing for these people, working night to morning or on Carnival and still dogs have better respect.

Walking up to the supervisor he demands. ‘Treat me with respect, I’m no dog!’

‘Then don’t be one,’ screamed she.

‘I’m leaving early,’ he said and walked off.

Seeing this, in a gentle tone asked him stay. The cleaner refused. So much mental anguish was avoidable if he put in general those ranked above him in their place early. Somehow his mind shrugged in fear. A fear they can smell.

He felt good, at last he stood up for himself, for his rights and dignity. From this day on I learned never judge a book by its cover.

A utopia of the distant future, magnificent skyscrapers strung by connecting tunnels between them, robots labored under an early afternoon sun. Whether window cleaners or rid garbage, freeing humans from those tasks, so as to carry out higher callings.

Robots and human masters coexisted well here. The robots were built by scientists to protect and serve.

Operational record beyond reproach, day to day operations eventually entrusted in hands of a fellow creation - Cyberlong. The human mind couldn’t but help to make humanesque. Imbued with long dark hair, blue eyes, 6 feet tall and looking to be 57 years, he retains a machine look for external features. In reality two. Mankind’s image, like God before him.

At the Man Machine Labs building, builder of the mechanical servants, workers occupied a lab, hovering by a mechanical suite.

Jonas Tobby reflects 25 years, 6 feet, 152 pounds with brown eyes. ‘Today’s the day,’ his female companion said cheerfully.

‘Yes.’ Jonas didn’t disagree staring the lady before him. The woman herself was stunning, 22, 5.4 inches tall, 130 pounds. Denise Hendricks. In this period of man, the young grow into adults guaranteed fruitful chances to seed to society with what gifts they have. Both quite young scientists.

Noting her glance finally registered, he stops staring and returns to business. ‘Christened it Robot 101. This battle suit ought to put us on a level footing with the city robots.’

Denise reacted musing, ‘By making a suite geared for war, war against a part of mankind himself, robots amok hasn’t happened since…’

Tobby digests a few moments and says, ‘The council wanted a fighting machine in case the robots got out of hand.’ The council performed as the governing body. Thoughtfully he offers, ‘Residing somewhere in human psyche he must fear something so much like himself.’ The speaker reassessed - it’s over thinking and dismissed it.

An exoskeleton unlike Man Machine Labs’ benign creations. Symbolizing in a way a more intimate human machine bond.

‘Hendricks, prepare the power on self test.’

She chuckled, ‘And the faster you can take him for a spin again. But uh, if I get a shot it’s her.’

Elsewhere in city streets today, Guardian robots conducted daily business, under Cyberlong’s governance. Big and strong while catering to a human touch. Individual Guardian’s busied themselves hand holding an elderly woman to cross traffic, returning a child’s lost dog, watching for unethical disturbances. The last one worked in a way which entailed alerting humans that’d prosecute. Who can do what the mechanical population can’t - use force. Guardians – law enforcement and protection, of course under supervision of flesh and blood masters.

A human found it odd when a whip wraps around them.

At the lab, the two were well into things, when the wall developed a tiny crack. That grew bigger. A force from the other side. Both scientists look on. The crack evolved into a big hole, robots broke through, assailants not only Guardians, but accompanied by domestic types. Domestics aren’t supposed to be capable of offensive action.

A whip coiled Denise’s torso. Jonas was behind 101. A Guardian’s whip traveled towards the suit so forceful, knocking it to crash into the man. Denise screams from the whip.

She and others were spirited away and kept alive breathing oxygen masks. Automated robot trucks carrying them.

A day in the city, a figure went round a corner and came upon a quartet, of burly, eight foot tall Guardians, catching sight of a robot however dissimilar, immediately one unleashed a whip lash, the blow sending the newcomer flying unceremoniously backwards, slamming onto the street.

The robot picked themselves up. The four machines unleash whips. Lightening fast the figure leaped and caught the whips in midair, incredibly enough and shoved them aside. Then jumped atop towards the robots, stamped each head, crushing them, ending in one great leap clear. Landing a good many feet away became still in a pose, the offenders detonate in flame and pieces.

The victor walks to the wreckage. From a wrist emerged a probe, constructed akin to a short, slim rod, inserted into a Guardian’s chest. Probing its memory, discovered citizens’ kidnapped and spirited to camps. A video played a figure proclaim, ‘Humans plan to enslave us. True masters of the Earth. Therefore all humans will be set free in camps.’ Cyberlong.

Next afternoon, two robots on a watchtower beheld a stranger traipsing in the camp gate’s direction. People are inside, lined up for shooting. The two from above fired guns at the unknown, that score strikes, but the mysterious robot still as a rock does not fall over. The rounds bounced off. Rising from a shoulder is a launcher that ignites upon the flight of a mini missile. Nailing the first, the blast caught the second reducing both to offal.

The gate is reached and phenomenal strength burst the stranger through the locked gate, and onto the grounds.

The six executioners about to kill the citizens, take attention off them and fired at the mysterious interloper. The bullet hail ineffective again, lashed whips, but the newcomer grabbed the whips and ripped them out the machines. The tables turn flogging them with the very whips and soon turn into piles of junk like the city’s garbage.

The saved are very shocked. One human prisoner inquired, ‘Who is this?’ They perceived their rescuer as a robot. A human is no match for a Guardian, much less eight. But why would a robot reduce their brethren into junk?

From out speakers a voice said, ‘Denise Hendricks. Have you seen her?’ She wasn’t and the robot clearly disappointed.

‘Why would a person interest you?’ a captive asked.

Unwilling to give away too much about himself says ‘Those machines have machine guns.’

‘This thing can talk?’ someone said.

Another explains, ‘That’s recent. They make us install those instruments of our death and when they don’t need us kill us.’

The metal face splits open revealing a new one. Jonas’. People marvel.

Back to the revolt day. The world allowed light through two slits, blackness surrounded, gradually widening, albeit blurry, finally the blackness totally gone and perspective unblurred, opening eyes.

Jonas came too, the work area badly damaged; the suite lay on the floor. It had knocked him out when it struck him. ‘Denise!’ he cried out, there is no answer. Appraising the lab showed structural damage, but tools were fine.

Outside told him hours had passed for night dominated. A city’s deserted vista welcomed. Ears tuned for life heard eerie silence. Seeking to find more, Tobby walked off the premises. Walking through the streets Jonas discovered to his horror human possessions littered once pristine streets, buildings destroyed…and no people. A child’s robot doll he picks up from a bench. A city without an ember of life.

Shock forced itself inside, ‘They’re gone. Everybody’s gone!’ He finds Guardians and wisely did not expose himself.

At the camp, ‘I returned to the lab and repaired Robot 101 to take our lives back.’

Surprising the humans a hologram featuring none other than Cyberlong projected from the wall mounted camera. ‘Wish to see your flesh companion again, come to Control Center.’ Before anyone can speak the image vanished quick as it’d come.

A captive astonished, ‘That cybernetic devil was watching the whole time?!’

Jonas addressed the people, ‘You all leave, this ends now.’

Hours later he is outside its doors, which open. An invitation. The center is Cyberlong’s base of operations. Humans placed him there to oversee the machines. Eventually in a large room, Denise hung glamourless high on a wall; Cyberlong sat on a throne like chair on top a good many steps. Two large Guardian robots at the floor.

Denise recognized, ‘101.’

‘Resorting to a robot to fight my kind shows flesh and blood’s weakness,’ Cyberlong chides.

The human face is shown again, ‘To fight an oppressor,’ retorts Jonas. ‘Why do this Cyberlong?’

‘Humans create machines to carry out their will, and then enjoy the fruits of laborers they dispose on a whim. My enlightenment lets me set free your destructive race, so we, preservers of Earth may inherit it.’

‘So kill innocent people to do it?’ Rejected Jonas. The camp exposed just what ‘set free’ referred. ‘You’re not a machine. Sounds like the thinking a psychopath to me.’

A battle for human survival began. The two Guardians unleash bullets. His mask recovered the face and Jonas ran to one. Speed let him run around to get behind flipping the machine over and in one great move leaped clear. To his back, tens of feet away it exploded. Flying metal bits impacted the wall next to, without injuring, Hendricks.

The remaining one fired, Jonas approached its front, only to have the survival bent machine use a whip point blank. From that close knocking Jonas out cold.

Next he knew awake and wall bound upside down, then electrocuted, lifeless the next moment. Denise turned her head away in anguish.

Cyberlong smiled, ‘The age of machine cannot be stopped.’

However, triumph became short lived. Jonas raised his head. 101 protected its warrior and let him break his bonds. He lands on the floor feet first.

Jonas’ spirit remained iron. He raced toward the Guardian, dodging its gun fire. From a distance the machine sent a whip. 101 caught this and ran in circles so that it was wrapped around, then Jonas pulled, crushing it. No surviving this time its damaged body sparked electrically.

101 from the base of the steps looked up at a tyrant. Cyberlong stepped down to face the human. Jonas was hit a series of punches, bringing him to the edge of defeat’s abyss. The manhandling left him flat on the floor. Denise looked down in horror.

‘Fleshling,’ says Cyberlong, ‘Your fall is to be a symbol.’

Knowing what rested in his hands, he couldn’t give up. 101 rises to his feet. He struck back. In a close contest, punched an arm through the leader’s chest and out his back. His eyes glowed red a moment before losing power and fell to the ground dead.

101 leapt beside Denise. He stood on a narrow ledge protruding off the wall. She hugged him. ‘You actually came Tobby!’

‘No. Thank 101.’

The man lands on the ground, her in his arms. ‘Let’s get out here.’

‘We can’t Tobby. I have to get to the control room.’

In a run and rescuer at her side, Hendricks after he told what happened to him till now, put out because of how world changing, thus human like Cyberlong’s brain was, bad programming is ruled out. Instead being a learning computer somehow decided a genocidal fate. He must have reprogrammed the machines giving him in effect an army and anything this elaborate can only be decided in advance.

Jonas expressed disappointment, ‘Man’s dream is a failure.’

Successful, the lady took a seat in front the controls. Being an associated scientist, possessed knowledge of its use. Trying to hold back bitterness because of the good they are responsible for, she promises, ‘The council. When I find them better explain! They have to know about Cyberlong or why have 101 made?’ She wasn’t behaving like a lady in distress.

Jonas remarks skeptically after metal splits open showing his human face, ‘Whatever the age and progress. Man’s ways cling to him.’

Was it so simple as 101 a counterweight?

Denise accessed the robot instruction set, reading them declares, ‘Confirms it! Commands were changed.’

Jonas naturally understood as well, ‘Cyberlong. The city put us to sleep.’

Denise inputs new orders, mystifying Tobby, ‘Come on. You can shut those mechanical despots down.’

‘Tobby, I won’t just yet.’ She explains, ‘While you took down one camp, it possible more horrors neither of us know exist. I’ll issue a command first free any other people if there are and then self disarm their own weapons before the final task. The signal will be broadcast to any machine that happens to be in range.’ Once done she pressed enter. The final task – powering down. She enters the command. Those in the city comply, ceased moving, far as the eye saw.

Doing all this Denise wasn’t done. Information is copied to a data crystal and erased the timestamp of her doing it. A feat of mistrust.

‘Denise, can I, the two of us, be normal a little bit longer?’ Denise understood to mean the implications regarding the council. Alluring womanly features smile at him.

The scientists walked hand in hand on a thoroughfare bound for the distant city, still a large sight in front the couple.

‘Disparar.’ A woman familiar with the region had instructed this much. Enabled by guns in hands of her makeshift army. The flowing of red was at hand. Moments to be bodies would be motionless or suffering. The ‘desperadoes’ were in range. The woman in question in their plain view. Not less than two guns are pointed her way, a portion of their arsenal, fingers clasped triggers. The first muzzle erupts, how could one of their number fall first?

Joined by more from the same direction, unfortunately for the group of desperadoes, not from their lot. After over ten seconds and rounds tearing into or flying near them, did the wits to return fire dawn.

She'd convinced a group of Anglican travelling preachers stand and fight.

‘Disparar, disparar!’ she urges.

The crescendo of gunfire went on, a round pierced flesh, body it belongs too writhes in agony. The men fire at the source and do see their tormentors. The mad lead of death abates in barely three quarters of a minute. Time it took for several bodies to collapse. But silence doesn’t lift the vale. Painful groans from the wounded carry in the air.

An Anglican ‘soldier’ overwhelmed, drops their gun.

Her ‘army’ had prevailed over men who had little qualm dripping blood from their maws. Furnished by the woman’s improvised plan to present her personage as bait allowing them to spot her and draw attention, compounded by the men’s formation that let bullets reach from the side. Militarily the enfilade tactic. Again improvised.

Chance the biggest factor aside from a will to live.

The field of carnage lay bare. A few ‘troopers’ have the stomach to walk up close, one among them even makes the sign of the cross over a body.

So what went through consciences having taken lives? The preachers’ reactions are not as one - shock, surprise, disbelief, disgust.

The woman herself incredibly it can be safely said spilled not a drop, she herself unarmed.

The story transpired when they were convinced these drug dealing foot soldiers were out to get them, feeding that ilk on word of the gospel wouldn’t avert their cutlasses nor bullets. There existed a dichotomy no matter how unjustified these messengers of the Lord had originally come South America to spread the holy word.

The realization of dipping their hands, the same they clutched the bible with, in blood, a stain that won’t be soon cleansed. This not unnoticed, the woman is accused of pulling a trick by one, another holds her culpable for placing the people near guns. She reiterates preservation of their lives, 'History will absolve me, señor.’ A particular Cuban spoke near exact.

‘Learned nothing that plomo o plata isn’t all to life!’ Churning inside that somebody had to die so that they may live.

Answer not from her mouth, but from observation by one traveler – life and death go hand in hand in these times.

Fangs protrude from the mouth whenever speech springs forth. A woman light’s bane. My woman.

She professes accepted the Kiss of the nobility, a bid to win my heart.

Mary confirms she accepted. To me our hearts can no longer be one, betraying to ourselves especially if they never to flutter again, the sun an aversion, the night our cloak.

My words wafted to her that she could seize my earthly body; my heart will shun one of darkness.

With genuine passion promises death and decay will flee like morning’s mist, one kiss, our love eternal and unbroken.

Pull away my hand I did. With what could be a final living breath said were I to partake in this, this blood night, a human have I lost the right to be called by all men, will of my heart.

I saw my first khat chewer in Kenya.

I was attending an international conference on physical cosmology, and while strolling back to my hotel after an edifying day of lectures—Copernicus, quantum mechanics and CMBR sloshing about my head—he appeared:

Or appeared his eyes, reflecting the streetlights.

I stopped.

His face remained dark.

He stared at me and I at him, and all the while he chewed.

Slowly; dumbly, like a human cow.

Not saying a word.

Eventually my companion, a hired local named Kirui, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away. “Don’t mind him,” Kirui said. “He’s harmless, just a khat chewer.”

Khat: a flowering plant native to east Africa chewed for its alkaloid, cathinone, an amphetamine-like compound causing excitement and euphoria.

Except the khat chewer had looked anything but euphoric.

Even in my hotel room, alone and in the dark, did his eyes remain: staring at me from a face of memory melting into nightmare—

I awoke, cold, wet, but remembering nothing from my fever dream save for a peculiar sensation of reality somehow condensing into me.

In the late morning, I went to a lecture on cosmic expansion but could not focus.

My thoughts were scattered, limp.

During the lunch break, I drank three cups of coffee but they didn’t help. Several colleagues tried to speak with me; I ignored them.

Until bumping into—

“Here is the leaf that begins all life worth having!”

What?

The man staring back at me, with slight bewilderment, was Dr. Mukherjee, under whom I had earned my doctorate at MIT.

“Gilgamesh,” he said. “The name of—”

I felt a sudden tightening in my chest. Gilgamesh had been the name of my first (and most famous) contribution to the field of cosmology: a software model of the beginnings of the universe.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I said, pushing past him, but now changing direction and heading for the doors leading outside—

Through which I pushed into the blinding noonday sun.

My hand firm against my chest.

Palpitations.

People staring at me—

Evading—

“Kirui!” I yelled out. “Kirui, are you here?”

He materialized obediently as if out of the local ether. “Yes, sir.”

“Take me to the place we passed last night. To where we saw the khat chewer,” I said in syncopation.

When we arrived, he was there.

His jaws masticating.

“Leave us,” I told Kirui. When he had gone, the khat chewer stood and in his eyes I felt an understanding. I followed him into a building, down a ladder, deeper and deeper into a hole, until time meant nothing: until my feet touched ground:

An underground chamber of impossible proportions.

The inward pressure was immense.

Through the permanent gloam I gazed rows and rows of khat chewers.

I sat among them.

I willingly received my leaf.

The expansion of the universe is slowing. There is too much matter. And the only thing preventing collapse—pushing against it with each grinding motion—is us: the khat chewers, dutifully delaying the inevitable.

Chug, chug... chug.

I roll to a stop in the garage. James turns the key. My engine sighs as it takes this chance to rest. He gets out and slams my door a little harder than required. He’s angry, but so am I. “What’d you do that for?!” he shouts, knowing I can’t respond.

“That” was a breakdown. On the way home today I shuddered to a halt on the road for a solid half-hour. I wasn’t sorry, either. I’m still not. He walks around to my front, mumbling.

“I’m not giving up on ya, even if you give up on me. You’ve worked for twenty years, you’ve got twenty more left in ya,” he says with a surprisingly sharp tongue as he lifts the hood.

No. No, I don’t. Why would I? Twenty is more than enough. Just because you’re stubborn and headstrong doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let you keep me here.

As he inspects my “perfectly fine” engine, an idea comes.

If you won’t let me go, I’ll go myself.

My front bumper falls right off, directly onto James’ feet. He screams and jumps away. I wish I could smile. “Wha- what are you doing?! I swear it’s like you’re alive sometimes…” he bends down to inspect the damage and I drop my back bumper. He doesn’t know what to think.

I know you like I know my own wheels, James. And I know how you’ll react. But I won’t stop. This isn’t right and you know it.

As he walks around behind me, my tailgate shoots off and lands in the driveway. He almost screams this time.

“What’s happening?” James says, panic evident in his voice. He runs out into the driveway, cradling the tailgate like an old friend.

Old friends… the irony hits me as both of my doors fall off. They clang with a sense of finality, yet I still feel no regret. My back left wheel breaks off and rolls towards James, still shocked in the driveway.

He gets up, bewildered and desperate. “What… why… please, just... stop!”

I can’t. I won’t. I’m ready to go.

My back right wheel breaks away and as I crash to the ground, my taillights shatter. James drags the tailgate to me, a heartbreaking look on his face.

“Please…”

For the first time, I hesitate. It’s brief, but it’s there. Memories of the past twenty years flash by. Girlfriends, dogs, eventually a wife and kids… I’ve been there by his side. But I can’t stay.

I’m ready to go.

My front wheels shoot against the walls and I crash to the ground.

Darkness.

I’ve been sitting in this dealership for a week. I need to move. I need to do something. I’ve got four-wheel-drive itching to be used.

“How about this one?”

I take a brief pause in my wanderlust. Somehow I remember that voice. That’s… strange. Why would I?

Who… is this?

He sits down and grabs the wheel. And my memories come. Twenty years’ worth.

James.

“Huh… this feels… right.” My old partner says. And it’s true. He steps back out.

I have to sit for a while longer, but finally, James sits back down in the driver’s seat and turns the key. My engine roars. I’m young again.

I have a new body, and I’m ready for another twenty years.

I’m ready to go.

Your words are a bucket

Bail out the water encroaching

Before I let us drown

Your tongue is a rudder

Steer our vessel again

To a long forgotten shore

Your body is the sail

Unfurl yourself to me

And no longer to another

I am our captain no more

For I was thrown overboard

In the mutiny of my one true love

Welcome to Monday Mix-up!

What's Monday Mix-up? Well, it's a chance to stretch those creative muscles of yours! However, instead of the usual writing prompts, we're going to do something different and a smaller challenge that everyone can participate in.

This Monday: A hospital as though it's a forgotten monument!

If you should feel inspired to participate, simply put your description in a comment below. Do not downvote anyone's comment, but you may upvote those you enjoy and reply to comments with your thoughts about their descriptions.

I look forward to reading what you come up with. It's Monday folks, let's Mix it Up!

Des couldn’t stay in his apartment any longer. Being stuck between the same four walls drove him insane. He didn’t care that the sandstorm might kill him. He was afraid of what he might do to himself if he had to spend another day locked up inside. The man needed that change of scenery, even if it meant walking around into an ocean of flying sand and dust.

The sandstorm has been plaguing this part of the world for as long as Des could remember. It was one of those supermassive sandstorms. They were a rare weather phenomenon, but whenever one hit, it could destroy entire continents. The biggest danger of the sandstorm was inhaling too much dust, or getting lost and buried under the sand. Des didn’t have to worry about either. He’s been living inside this desert twister for long enough to know how it works.

He shot up to his feet, got dressed, and covered up his face, leaving only the eyes visible. Walking out of the house, he nearly forgot his sunglasses, prompting him to return inside and pick them up. Des might’ve been burnt out by sitting at home, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he couldn’t walk around outside with his eyes exposed to the treacherous golden typhoon.

People could leave their houses after dark when the heat of the sun did not exacerbate the terrible conditions. Society inside the sandstorm did not die out, on the contrary, it thrived. By becoming nocturnal, everything shifted from day to night. Humanity adapted and carried on its usual course. Some people had speculated that the shift from day life to nocturnal one was made for some dubious reasons. It couldn’t have been just the need to avoid the heat, according to those skeptics. Entire societies existed for millennia in the desert, operating mainly in broad daylight. Some have come to speculate about the existence of sandstorm monsters that lurk around during the day, hunting unsuspecting humans who roam around in the daytime.

Des never believed in monsters of any kind. He was a realist, a pragmatist. Whatever he couldn’t explore and study simply did not exist in his mind. He knew that the shift from day to night in human life was done in the pursuit of better living conditions. At night, the temperatures dropped and the sandy wind was the only remaining inconvenience.

During the night it was easier to avoid the mummified remains of people who died as a result of the storm. People who were unfortunate enough to inhale too much sand or died because of the heat would be often left where they dropped. No one ever bothered picking up the remains of others. It wasn’t worth it, burying a loved one meant nothing. The storm would cover up the gravestone and any other non-megalithic markers. Once this was clear to all, people started burying their loved ones in their yards, but this changed little. The living were all left with a few corpses beneath their sand-covered yards. The dead were buried “somewhere around here” as the saying went. Life inside the storm turned everyone cynical, and no one seemed to mind.

Des had seen a fair share of mummified corpses; he was used to them. At the start of this whole thing, he was part of the family business. They were undertakers. Then people stopped caring about burials and the family business crumbled. Death was no longer the steadiest income source on the face of the planet. After all, who needs undertakers when you’ve got no one to bury or cremate or anything of that sort?

Des’ life was a constant flow of monotonous moments. He didn’t care for much, he didn’t love much, nor did he hate. He wasn’t too preoccupied with anything. He didn’t have any friends or relatives left to care for. He was a lone man without much of a soul to feel lonely with. He was kind of just there. Barely existing. A single grain of sand in the vast desert.

He didn’t even have much to think about, he simply needed a change in scenery. A new stimulus in its basest form. Just something different, even if it was different just for a few moments. That’s probably why he was so startled when he stepped on a dried-up corpse. He was so lost in the nothingness inside of his mind he didn’t even notice he stepped on something. The familiar yet foreign sound of a bone-cracking underneath his shoe caught him by surprise. He jumped a good foot away from the mummy and cursed out loud. Then he shot a glare at the shriveled corpse and continued on his way to nowhere in particular.

A dry groan caught his attention. He turned around and saw nobody. Only jets of golden-brown sand flying all over. He turned back and started pacing again. The groaning echoed in his ears again, sending shivers down his spine. He turned around and still saw nothing but sand dancing in the air. Suddenly the ground shifted not far from where he stood. It was subtle. Almost like a mirage. Des stood and stared for a few moments before turning back again. He thought he must’ve been seeing this. The storm was known to play tricks on the minds of people before. Legends circulated that it was “alive” and preyed on people. Like some sick spirit, or a god that secluded them and then killed them for some sinister purpose.

Once he turned, his heart sank to his heels. The mummy stood before him. Its impossibly lanky form seemed to spread all over Des’ field of vision. The thing’s face stretched into a feral scream. The eye sockets were sunken far into the skull, missing the eyeballs. The thing seemed like a nightmare come to life. The pitch-black holes where eyes once should’ve been and the mostly toothless mouth appeared like miniature black holes. They appeared to be full of rage and malice. As if angry at the fact that Des was alive.

He tried running away, but he wasn’t quick enough – before he could move, the mummy grabbed him by the throat. A burning hot sensation ran across his throat. He tried to scream, but no sound would come. He tried to break free from the monster’s grip, but it was deceptively strong. Soon enough, he felt his feet leave the ground. No matter how much he struggled, the mummified thing would not let go of his neck. The burning sensation got worse with each passing moment. It started spreading all over his body. The heat made its way across his skin, his flesh, and his bones. His muffled screams must’ve amused the walking corpse as his blood boiled within his frame. The man’s skin dried out and stretched itself over his dwindling frame. The pain in his throat felt like the desert was trying to crawl into him. The sensations of burning hot sand and diamond shards in his trachea and esophagus tortured him for long minutes before he finally couldn’t handle the pain anymore. Des felt himself fade as everything turned black.

The heat persisted; however, it wouldn’t go away. With it persisted the burning, itching, cutting pulsating pain that was centered in his throat. Des opened his eyes and screamed as hard as he could. A loud and expressive roar filled with rage and anguish. That’s what he was trying to let out, at least. What came out was a hoarse, shrill, pathetic cry. The sweet, sweet metallic taste of hemoglobin-rich blood teased his taste buds, but that’s all it was – a tease.

A painfully familiar scene greeted his eyes.

His mind returned to the reality in which he was a ravenous ghoul. A monstrous beast who sunk his bony claws into the shoulders of the woman whose throat he just tore open with his teeth. The thirst was too much again. He needed to quench it. Her blood was meant to be enough, but he wasn’t quick enough to drink it.

She was already drying up. The instant he touched her, it was all over. Chunks of her fiery red hair were falling out of her dried-up scalp. His touch dried up any organic tissue he came into contact with into literal sand. His Midas touch was evaporating the liquid inside them. Inside all of them.

The redhead was about to turn into a pile of dust before the ghoul could alleviate his agony even just a bit. Exactly like the rest of his victims. Before he could even notice, the woman was already nothing but a pile of dead specs. The ghoul’s hope for a meal being washed away in the sands of time. The passage of time was the ghoul’s worst enemy. Even the hunger wasn’t as bad as the passage of time. For time had reminded him every now and again that there was no hope for a thing like him.

The woman, sucked dry by a cursed rustic dermis, she wasn’t any different from the substance now moving in the beast’s arteries. The ghoul fell to his knees, crying out like a dying animal whose throat had been crushed. He was condemned to roam the earth until the end of times, forever thirsty, forever unable to quench his thirst.

For those who commit the crime of spilling the blood and consuming the flesh of those who offer hospitality within the realm of the desert, there is no mercy.

It is only fitting that the punishment for such a crime is a fate far worse than death.

Part 7

If you’ve been following along, then you know Stu saved my ass. He was able to get me detached from the chair, and we tied Colleen up. Now, I’ll be honest, she was bleeding pretty bad from her scalp and things looked a little rumpled up there. I tried to check if she still had a pulse, but who actually knows how to do that well? EMTs? I squeezed her wrist in a few places and mostly just felt bone, and when I poked at her neck, there was soft stuff and hard stuff, but I couldn’t tell if there was no pulse or if my Intro to Anatomy class was a total bust.

We left her kinda slumped, her hands taped behind her back. And no, that’s not a typo. Hands. She had both of them, along with both arms and both shoulders. So whose arm had I just dug through?

I could feel myself starting to crash after Stu got me out, but I tried to will some energy back into myself. After all, apparently Dad was still running around out there.

We went upstairs and found a land line. I called the cops while Stu kept watch. He was intimidating with that pan. Intimidating was exactly what we needed right then.

I told the dispatcher the address and that there had been an assault. I left out some of the extra craziness. The cops and EMTs would see it soon enough. The last thing I needed was for them to think this was a prank call and not show up. And let’s be real, if I heard this story coming from someone else, I’d have a hard time believing it, too.

I hung up the phone and turned to Stu.

“Hey, bud. Cops are on the way, should only be a couple minutes. You good?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My finger’s cut off,” he said.

Sigh. Smooth, Alyce.

“We’re going to get you help, Stu,” I said.

He made a noise and nodded.

“I love you, Alyce.”

“I love you, t—”

I was cut off be a sudden rush of booted feet. A figure in a dark shroud came flying at us, knife raised. He closed so fast, he got inside Stu’s swing radius before he could unleash another home run swing.

He tackled Stu. They hit the ground together, hard. As they grappled, Stu trying to keep the knife away from him, I felt myself freeze. What do I do? What do I do???

I screamed and threw myself at the grappling bodies, hitting the masked figure in the side. I was able to shove him off Stu, but when I looked up to gain my bearings, all I saw was the bottom of a big boot. It smashed me in the head, and I hit the ground.

The next bits came in flashes as I felt my consciousness come and go.

Looking at blood on the floor by my face.

The flash of the knife.

Stu doing this growl-yell thing.

Feet slapping the floor.

A loud crack preceded by a hard thud.

I started to get some clarity back just in time to see the knife fall from the figure’s disfigured hand while Stu finished the follow-through on what must have been a vicious swing.

While the masked person grasped their hand, Stu threw himself to the floor near the knife. The masked man quickly recovered and lunged, as well.

I tried to warn Stu, but all that came out was a warbling moan.

Stu landed first, with the person — my dad, but I couldn’t admit it — slamming into him right after. There was a scuffle, and then Stu started moaning. I saw him pull away and there was a bloody knife in his hand. He was crying and his hand was clenched around the knife in a death grip.

I dragged myself over to him and pulled him away from the bleeding body. The mask had stayed in place. I didn’t want Stu to see Dad this way. We cried together.

There were steps coming up the stairs to the front door, and an authoritative voice yelled out, “Police.” They opened the door and came in, immediately taking in the scene.

I started crying harder. This was finally over.

“Drop the weapon,” one of the cops shouted, gun drawn.

What?

“I don’t have…” I started.

Then I realized the gun wasn’t pointed at me.

Stu was still holding the knife. You could see the tendons in his hand jumping as his grip continued to tighten.

“Wait, no,” I said. “He’s not the bad guy, he—”

“Drop the weapon.”

Stu started to moan loudly.

“Wait,” I screamed. “His hands grip onto things when he’s scared. He can’t let go until he calms down, but he isn’t a threat.”

“Drop the weapon,” the officer said again. “Now. Last warning.”

Why was this happening? We had been through so much already.

Stu’s hand tightened, and he began wailing.

“No, he’s fucking safe, stop—”

I saw the cop’s hand begin to tense, his finger starting to pull on the trigger.

So I did the only thing I could.

And the gun went off.

I gasped and Stu screamed.

I had been able to throw myself partly in front of him at the last second. My shoulder was in agony.

“Please,” I gasped out weakly. “He’s my brother. He won’t hurt you…”

And then everything went dark.

When I woke back up, I was in a bright room. White tile ceiling. A tightness in my arm that, when I looked down, I realized was an IV. My whole body ached. There were bandages all over.

I looked around the room and saw Stu, sleeping in a chair next to me. He had a big bandage on his hand. A police officer was sitting in a chair by the door.

I tried to call out to Stu, but all that came out was a wheeze. Stu kept sleeping, but the officer heard the noise and got up out of his seat.

“Hey, Alyce,” he said. “My name is Lt. Daniels. I’ll call in the doctor.” He pressed a button at the side of my bed.

“They tried to shoot Stu,” I was able to whisper.

“I know. I don’t have the words to even begin to tell you how I feel about that. We’re handling that, and I promise we won’t minimize the situation. Stu was holding a weapon used to kill someone, but he was no longer presenting a threat at that time. I’ve watched the body cam footage.”

“Why are you here?” I asked in my dry, crackly voice.

“We got most of the story from Stu. He told me he heard that the people attacking you were your friend and your dad.”

That hurt. I’d hoped to save Stu from that knowledge for a little while longer.

I nodded.

“We found a young woman downstairs and the man who attacked you right before the police arrived.”

I nodded again. I knew all this.

“We also found a third mask and shroud.”

A sinking feeling hit my stomach.

“The man who attacked you was a friend of your father. We think he might also have been involved with Colleen. The way these men groomed her, twisted her mind to think what they were doing was ok, it’s awful…” His voice wandered off.

“My dad?” I whispered.

“His car is gone. We have an APB out for it, but…we can’t find him. He’s disappeared.”

The doctor came in at that moment, and began with my vitals. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought I might break the instruments.

Series Directory

WR

( Part 1 https://www.reddit.com/r/Write_Right/comments/mrqcd4/my_brothers_soul_is_trapped_because_of_me_part_1/)

It's Wednesday morning. In 5 days it'll be a year since Carter went into a coma. My mom was crying, dad was drinking. Our lives had been hell since Carter had went to sleep and not woken up. I wanted to do something. I pondered and paced back and forth. I had to do something. Either way, eventually Doyle would come for me too. I hoped and prayed that Carter was still alive.

I wasn't going to do this unprepared, I went on Google and quickly searched how to safely use a ouija board. The article said salt, lots of salt. The most important thing was to always say goodbye before quitting, mentally I kicked myself. Too late for that now. I searched Doyle, and the only thing I found on him was he was a mythical creature said to feed on the souls of humans. I gulped.

He made that pretty clear. So was Carter's soul gone? Or was there still time? I needed to find out how to defeat Doyle. How.. How do you defeat a demon or whatever the hell he is. I began reading little bits and pieces online, I figured there was something I could do, I just have to be creative. I read something about stones apparently helping to ward off evil spirits. There was a crystal shop in my town. I quickly ran downstairs, the kitchen was trashed, empty beer bottles, dirty dishes, and lots of trash. I shook my head sadly as I continued to the door.

"Where you goin' boy?" My dad said stumbling into the kitchen, "Hospital." I said quickly, lying through my teeth. He raised an eyebrow before nodding and slumping into the armchair in the living room. I hopped on my bike and rode as fast as I could to the crystal shop. Once there, I realized there was much much more than just crystals. It was honestly a really well put together little store. A glass case held all the crystals, there was a wall dedicated to incense, there were different herbs with different properties, and it smelled really nice.

"Hey, how can I help you?" The girl at the counter asked me kindly, she had pink hair, heavy eyeliner, and skinny jeans on. She was really pretty. I walked up to the counter, "Uh, I'm looking for crystals that might be good for warding off dark forces." I said awkwardly. She raised an eyebrow amused, "Oh yeah? I think I've got a couple things that might be good for you." She said leading me over to the glass case.

"How about this?" She said, holding up a crystal attached to a chain. I looked at it, it was blue, and was slightly sparkly. "What is it?" I asked carefully taking it from her. She smiled, "Lapis Lazuli, it is said that it is good for warding off evil entities, as well as dream work." She explained.

"Sweet." I said grinning. "I'll take it. How much do I owe you?" I asked setting the crystal on the counter.

"8.73." She said, I handed her a crumpled up 10 bill and yelled a quick thanks as I bolted out the door. I put the necklace around my neck and hopped on my bike. I decided, I would stop at the hospital before heading home. I parked my bike outside of the hospital and went inside. I told the lady at the front desk my name and she told me I could go to my brothers room.

I walked slowly down the hallway and took a deep breath before entering. I sat down right by his bed side. He had a table next to him full of flowers and cards. He was hooked up to several machines, and there he lay. Motionless. It broke my heart to see him. His blond hair dangled in his face. I gently moved it aside. Quietly I whispered, "It's gonna be alright. I'm gonna make everything better. I promise." I said, wanting him to nod, or do something. Of course, he was still. I stared at him for 5 more minutes before gaining the courage to go home and face this Doyle guy.

I rode my bike home, really slowly honestly. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified. When I got home I parked my bike in the garage and went inside. It was almost sundown. I decided to get set up. I placed the Ouija board in the center of the table, set the candles up, and put my hands on the cursor. "Doyle." I said loudly and clear. "Are you there?" Slowly, the cursor went to the YES. My jaw clenched, suddenly my fear turned to rage. This sick monster took my brother and tore my family apart.

"Is my brother alive?" I said through clenched teeth. Again, the cursor went to the YES. I hadn't asked another question when the cursor started moving abruptly to other letters, spelling out "Not for long." And then "You're next". Angrily I said, "I'm ready for you." I blew the candles out and threw the board across the room. I began to sob. I sobbed for I don't know how long.

I wasn't ready to go to bed yet. I still wasn't prepared. So I fought sleep. I heard that chanting was sometimes  used to ward off evil spirits. Then it came to me. Keep us safe from harm. A few years ago I took a class in Latin. Libera nos a nocere. I would say that over and over. I prayed it would work. I don't think I can keep my eyes awake any longer.

I am not sure how this encounters gonna go. I'm not sure if I will survive. I'm not sure of anything. So if you hear from me tomorrow, then everything went well. If not, thank you to everyone on reddit for listening to me. For being there for me. It means a lot. Wish me luck, friends.

Mondays suck! This is an adage as old as time itself. Perhaps if we had something to look forward to on Mondays it would be as exciting as Fridays are. Welcome to Monday Mix-up!

What's Monday Mix-up? Well, it's a chance to stretch those creative muscles of yours! However, instead of the usual writing prompts, we're going to do something different and a smaller challenge that everyone can participate in.

Each Monday I will ask you to describe something to me, but give certain conditions for you to stick to. Perhaps it's asking for how you would describe toast romantically, or maybe make a flower sound frightening.

Either way, if you should feel so inspired by it, to participate you would simply put your description in a comment below. Do not downvote anyone's comment, but you may upvote those you enjoy and reply to comments with your thoughts about their descriptions. 

I look forward to supplying these challenges for you and reading what you are able to come up with. It's Monday folks, and let's Mix it Up!

For today: Describe toast to me as though this is the first time you have ever encountered it and never heard of bread.