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Dancing the Styx part 1

The screaming began at around twelve fifteen. I awoke with a cold sweat running down the back of my neck and my head ringing. Muffled cries came from outside, I ran to my window and, wiping aside the thick collection of grime, oil and grease, squinted out. In the distance a thick bank of swirling, green fog, writhed around the constructions of the western district across the river. Their steel support struts gleamed evilly in the unearthly glow and the smoke that billowed from the PSAS' oil supplement vats added to the cloud causing it to ripple and expand.

Somewhat nearer to me the bridge had been raised, the hydraulic pumps were straining and stretching as the cogs wound the chains tight. A technician was tending the boiler which hissed and steamed, forcing the mechanism around. An armed guard stood stiffly to attention making sure no one attempted to sabotage the boiler or in any way try to lower the ridged arms of the bridge. From within the blanketing mass of toxic cloud emanated horrible shrieks and yells that chilled my heart to its core.

The noise was horrifying; it was a chorus of unimaginable torment and pain. I closed my eyes and focused on blocking out the terrible sounds. People began emerging from the houses below and were wrapped in various items of clothing, from dressing gowns to waistcoats. I hurried to my closet and rushed into my own outfit.

This consisted of: my work dungarees, caked in coal dust and various indefinable stains, a grubby shirt I had worn so many times it had almost worn through at the elbows; my standard issue boots, toe capped, black but now with flecks of rust slowly turning them orange and my great brown greatcoat which encased my body in a heavy leather shroud. It wasn't time to be dressed smartly. I tripped down the stairs, still pulling on the coat over my bad shoulder, ignoring the oppressive gloom which coated the stairwell and flung open the door to the street blinking as the gaslight flooded in.

I hurried across the road pushing past neighbors and strangers alike, surrounded by a mass of curious men, woman and children. One man, perhaps a retired military type I thought, carried the SR10 steam rifle. I was familiar with the weapon having worked on repairing a few in my time and knew that the pressured steam cylinder was unreliable, just as likely to cause damage to the owner as to the enemy.

He swept past me with a look of determination set on his broad features and strode away through the milling mass of people. A dog barked from across the river, howling in fear, it got louder and louder until it let out a cry that rang through the city and was cut off. Silenced. A woman turned back with a struggling girl who sobbing into her shoulder and disappeared down the street, her soothing noises easily drowned by the cacophony of sounds from ahead.

I quickened my pace pushing as roughly as I dared through the people and rounded the corner to join a crowd of onlookers mobbing the barricade. It had been cordoned off fifty feet from the bridge and now a number of PSAS guards were bracing themselves against the mass pressing against the other side. I pushed through the surging crowd, stumbling as often as not and making little progress when I finally reached the head I was confronted by the white, pasty face of a private, who visibly shook as he stood to attention. I shouted over the noise, I asked him about the cause of the panic across the city but he could only stutter that he couldn't talk about it.

I groped my way along the barrier towards a sharp faced sergeant who was yelling angrily at his company. "I don't give a damn how many bloody men it takes, seal off the damned city! Do u hear me u goddamn fool?" He slammed his fist down and turned to look at me. "And what can I do for you?" he said sarcastically, expecting the question that was already framed on my lips. I asked anyway.
"What on earth is going on?"

He grimaced as a particularly loud shriek pierced the shouts and calls from the crowd, "Well sir I'm not exactly sure, all I do know is that cloud is a highly toxic malicious entity." he spat the final words with a venom that surprised me. His distaste for what he was saying obvious even to me. "A malicious entity?" I repeated. Even I, a usually strong stomached man, felt sick at the mere thought of this thought. "You mean that that cloud is alive and hurting people intentionally!" I exclaimed loudly, whispers broke out behind me and died away as the word spread back towards the rear of the group.

The sergeant rubbed his bristles and considered. "Yea that's right." The private to the right of him collapsed and threw up, sobbing uncontrollably as the vomit pooled around his knees. The sergeant nodded to two others who carried him away. "Is he alright?" asked a round faced woman from the crowd, grasping her shawl around her plump shoulders. "After what 'e's been through can't be sure." a corporal answered from behind the sergeant, whose considerable bulk had hitherto hidden the man from view. I gave him an inquiring look. "Well," he said not looking at the sergeant, "He was from the barracks on the other side of the river. He got his mask on just in time makin' it across this ere bridge before it were lifted." "He wouldn't talk about it though, scared out of 'is mind but 'e was like a true soldier, refused to abandon is post." The man gave a wry grin, "He's gonna be a damn sight safer than us soon I reckons."

The sergeant glared at the corporal. "Keep your mouth shut." He ordered, "What's the 6th rule of blocking off of civilian areas to the public?" The Corporal stood straight and chanted, "The 6th rule of blocking off of civilian areas to the public is not to install panic and/or engage in gossip that may induce the previous statement." He relaxed as the sergeant nodded his approval. The answer was straight out of the PSAS' Conflict Dispersal Handbook, a volume I had read once while in college in an attempt to write a paper on political control and the workforce.

A splash made everyone turn and stare into the river that was separating us from the cloud. The figure of a man was desperately swimming across, a few lurching silhouettes were outlined in the cloud and reached the edge of the wharf on the opposite side but did not follow. Which I thought was strange, who wouldn't want to escape the horror of the other side. The sergeant picked up a megaphone. "Sir please return to the other side, there is a quarantine in effect and we are authorized to use all necessary force. Turn back sir!" The man paused and screamed across the water. "Not on your bloody life!" he continued on. "Sir this is your final warning." There was no response from the desperate man.

The sergeant shook his head sadly and turned to his men waving his hand dejectedly. Quick as a flash, weapons were raised with a hiss as the cylinders primed themselves, the soldiers aimed and with a sharp crack, let off a stream of bullets in the direction of the man. Water flew up around him he cried out and his body spasmed, the water was churning a murky red. His silent corpse sank into the dingy waters and the stain of oily blood slowly washed downstream and out of sight.

I wasn't the only one left speechless, somewhere behind me a woman went into fits of hysterical shrieking and was dragged off by her white faced husband. Not a word was said, there was nothing to say. An innocent man was dead and the soldiers had to try and let no emotions show, although many lips trembled and still steaming weapons shook in sweating hands. In the distance the wail of a siren was heard and I turned back to the cloud.

Dance the Styx part 2

No sounds came out of the deadened western district now a mournful still had enveloped the city, no dogs were barking, the were no sounds of vehicles clanking along the usually busy streets, no sirens were echoing the call to some distant crime. It was deathly silent. It was the silence of the grave and we all shared in its cold, heartless embrace. As we stared dumbly across the city a tendril of fog tentatively reached over and probed the edge of the waterfront before then whispering out across the river. Darkness fled before its evil luminescence and it advanced, it was the scout of the main assault, when it reached our side it stopped and waited. The wall of hideous mist behind it slid forwards gaining ground and swallowing the landscape.

The crowd backed away slowly at first. At the back people turned and stumbled away. Unsure what to do a few soldiers let off rounds into the erupting wall of mist. All that happened was a displacement of the cloud before it greedily slid back into the gaps. I turned with the rest and fled down the street. The soldiers donned their masks and stood firm, although many were quivering with fear. I did not know why I stopped still and watched, I was rooted to the spot and my fear dulled by a chilly disbelief.

An old beggar sat huddled a doorway a sign around his neck. It said, "Money For Poor Blind Man Pleaze." I stared at the spelling and then I rushed over to him. "Sir, please you must leave, there is...is..." I struggled for a word. "Something coming." I finished. He looked at me with his sightless eyes and smiled. "My boy," he answered stretching out a hand. "There is no fear for me from what I cannot see. Run yourself, I will stay." He leaned back and settled peacefully down and said nothing else.

I retreated from the alcove to find myself alone in the street. I looked around and saw the mist was dissipating slightly and that the soldiers still stood by the bridge, which was now locked down in place. They looked bewildered as if they were only just noticing what was going on and turned to face the bridge. The bridge itself was still shrouded in an impenetrable layer of green, its steel form clad in gaseous armor. The soldier nearest turned to look at the sergeant for orders.

Suddenly a black shadow formed in the fog. An arm slashed out and caught the unsuspecting man by the throat. I caught a glimpse of decayed flesh and bone before the arm whipped back into the mist. There was a terrible scream and then, silence again. No not silence, a whispering of many soft voices, so faint it could almost be missed. The remaining soldiers backed away slightly and aimed their guns at the looming tower of sickly light.

I crept slightly closer, my insatiable curiosity overruling my fear and watched the blanket of fog. I crouched down behind a transport its thick hydraulic legs tucked under its riveted shell giving it the appearance of a sleeping insect. As the mist thinned ever more warped shapes writhed in and out of focus. Blurred edges formed silhouettes and became the outlines of men and woman, slowly stumbling and slipping across the bridge. As they resolved into clear images I let out a gasp of shock and fear. These were not the faces of human beings, at least, not anymore.

It was as if some insane impressionist painter had rearranged the order of reality twisting and maiming the bodies. The lead man limped on a broken leg, his ripped shirt trailing from gruesomely wounded shoulders. His face grinned, his cheeks split from ear to ear, black ooze dripped from his eye sockets. He turned towards the nearest soldier, gurgling deep in his sagging slashed throat. Dog tags glinted on his chest clinking off the exposed ribs, I realized in horror that this was the soldier taken only moments before.

The man that was in his path lifted his gun and blasted, the steam hissed from the cylinder puffing into the air and gave the soldier a strange ethereal halo, the shot caused an arm to tear from the creature's socket and twitch on the ground but still it advanced upon the hapless man. It continued at a slow pace towards the unfortunate soldier, who was now penned in with nowhere to run he fumbled with his gun trying to replace the spent cylinder.

The creature reached him and in desperation the man slammed the butt of his weapon into thing's face. Its head twisted with a nasty crack and its jaw shattered and fell to the ground with a wet squelch, it growled and slavered then turned to face him again. The man pressed against the sandbags looking for a way out, but could find none. The grinning being's tongue lolled from his head grotesquely, blue and swollen, it tasted the air around itself before reaching out with fingers caked in blood. The soldier cried out as the thing pushed its fingers into his eyes. As the soldier writhed, it gripped his head and wrenched it off with horrendous force. Blood gushed from the man's neck and the creature held up the lifeless head with a tremendous grating call of victory, the sound echoed in my head and reverberated around the streets. The thing bent forwards and began to feed of the corpse with a gleeful sound. I turned and ran, not stopping to look behind.

I ran as fast as I could in the direction I had come, houses blurred past as I ignored all things around me and charged headlong. When I slowed I saw at the end of the street a G class transporter striding through the next street, it was over 8 feet tall and its spider like limbs were thumping down upon the cobbles, its funnel was belching a thick steam cloud behind it and the tiny lights from within glinted out of the small welded portholes on the side.

I reached the door of my apartment and flung it open before crashing up the stairs. I slid to a stop in my kitchen, memories of long forgotten superstitious horrors flitted about in my head. I grabbed a backpack from the cupboard and began thrusting things into it. First a lamp with its small oil canister attached at the bottom, followed by all the edible items I could find that wouldn't rot: two bars of cocoa extract; steam compressed fruit; packets of PSAS nutritional supplements that id bought in a moment of madness; a loaf of bread; assorted other packets. This was closely followed by bandages, gauze and a disinfectant cream. Who knows what help it would do against wounds inflicted by those monsters. Finally packed I grabbed a large knife and made for the door.

Now I was more prepared the panic had diminished, if only slightly and I cautiously made my way down the silent stairs. I peered out into the deserted street the lamps had dimmed and gone out. I noticed that the fog had stopped only a few yards from the entrance to my street. I felt that it was looking a bit thin and pale in comparison to the evil menacing cloud it had been earlier. Perhaps this being could only spread so far, I couldn't help but cross my fingers.

I thought of the oil vats, hoping beyond hope that it did not soak up the smoke and steam that gushed from those furnaces. I turned in the direction of the outskirts and began to run again. From behind me moans and calls perforated the air, choking sounds, horrible gurgles and bloody screams. I had no clue if I would leave here alive I hoped I would make it to the edge of the city and maybe find a transport out of here. Skidding around the corner I slipped on a puddle of lubricant leaking from a damaged transport and was sent crashing down a flight of stone steps into the next street. My brain took in the green mist curling around the bottom of the stairs seeming to grin up at me before I crashed through into the ground below and was enveloped by a calm, black night of my own.

Part One.

Style: Elf-Punk.

The Ghost At Nielsfield Station.

"Hey! Heeeey Rioth!"
"Whaaaat?"
Rioth turned to the voice from staring his half empty tin mug. There sat an overweight bearded man looking back at him with his wild-hair weeding it's way out from his faded green cap in a damp and worn living room, complete with stained sheets on a mattress on the floor and a tiny portable gas stove. "Heeey, man! You've drunk most of my stock maaan!"
"Hah, fuck you, you drunk most of it. I just got drunk off the fumes coming from you!" was what Rioth planned to tell him. What actually came out was probably so slurred, it just sounded like a noise changing in pitch at seemingly random points. Rioth checked the time, the rough clock made from what looks like a wheel hub pointed to the 3 and about three quarters of the way to 9. "Whoah! I've got work in the morning! I should have been in bed a long time ago! I'll see thee later". His friend, Rach, grunted as he took another swig from his cup.

The streets seemed to swing to-and-thro as Rioth stumbled between the large metallic houses, most of them rusted and falling apart, while kicking up a lot of dust with his leather boots. At one point, he even fell over and got dirt on his overalls. Rioth tried to brush off as much of the dust off his clothes, but with little vain. He let out a sigh, knowing he'd have to spend some time before work cleaning the dirt off his overalls or risk being reported ("Clean clothes are a product of a clean mind"). He knew that he had to get home as quickly as possible while not attracted attention, being caught drunk after-hours was enough to get you to visit the Church's "Help Centre" (Rioth smiled, yet cringed at the same time, at the irony of this statement). He took a left at Stalkmans Street to Winterset Road. As he passed the old subway gates, he heard something in the shadows, he was sure of it. It sounded like... "Eighteen". Whispered yet loud enough for Rioth to turn his attention to the rusting bars. The only thing that wasn't bronze was a chain and lock holding the gates together. Assuming it was nothing, Rioth went on his way home. Upon arriving, he had a drink of water, set his alarm clock for 5am, undressed himself to his boxers, tripping over as he tried to remove his trousers, and put his oxygen mask on. He then climbed between the stained sheets and went to sleep.

However, he got an extremely small amount of sleep. The same question ran through his mind over and over again: "Did I hear something back then?". He couldn't shake his mind off asking himself what eighteen meant. Every time he closed his mind, the same voice said the exact same word: "Eighteen..."; over and over again; "Eighteen...Eighteen...Eighteen". When Rioth stirred from his sleep as he heard a monotone buzzing sound next to him, he felt like he hadn't slept at all. He could feel a small tear escaping his left eye as he rose and touched his head with his left hand. He checked to see if the mask was properly connected and if the tank was empty. Satisfied that it wasn't empty and properly connected, he just blamed the tiredness to the home-brew alcohol. A lot of black-market booze, or as his booze dealer put it: Slummer, tend to be mixed with all sorts and sometimes had methanol instead of ethanol which could lead to all sorts including, of course, tiredness.

For the next few nights, Rioth just couldn't sleep much. He even purchased some tranquilisers from Rach, which let him sleep but his couldn't stop seeing, hearing, smelling and tasting the number eighteen. The only thing left he could think of doing was confronting the voice and checking out the abandoned sub-way. He'd go to work the following day, checking through the recycled material for "heathen things" like condoms and cigarette packets, and putting them in fire-bin for disposal. After work, he'd wait until everyone else had gone to bed and it's dark and then go into the subway. Then what? Rioth didn't have the slightest idea.

When the time came, Rioth approached the gates. He put his hand around one of the bars and tried to see into the shadows. He then heard an all too familiar voice: "Eighteen". The pronunciation sounded foreign, eat-teen instead of the local accent ate-teen, and a boy, yet it had a feminine twang to it. It was hard to fully describe it. Rioth wanted to carry on, badly, but for some reason he was over-whelmed with fear and dread. He was about to turn to leave, when the feelings left him. "No, that's not it" Rioth thought, "Washed away". He climbed over the gate, minding himself between the two dull spikes protruding behind and in front of him as part of the gate's design, and jumped down the other side.

As he went down the cold, concrete steps, the light flicked on in the hallway; which blinded him for a few seconds. Just as he removed his arm from in front of his eyes, he heard the voice again "Eighteen". It was a wide but short corridor strangely free of any graffiti decorated with baby-puke green tiles and concrete grey floors and ceiling. The lights also seemed in perfect condition, as though they were newly fitted for him. It was straight with a small rounded sharp bend at the end. Once he got around the bend, he was faced with a metallic booth which oversaw a single gate through with the words "Ticket" written on it. Strangely enough, the booth and gate were not only free of rust but also operational. The ticket sign was lit up by a blue substance that seemed to be a liquid by the bubbles in the light. The booth contained a single chair, about ten buttons on the desk, a large copper tube with a flap-like lid and a button on the side on the left sinking into the floor and a small bronze (but by no means rusted) keypad with three-by-four small buttons with pipes left and right of it on the desk. Rioth tried to open the gate with no luck. He tried the booth door and it opened with ease, no creaking. After looking at the buttons, he found one labelled with tape and a piece of paper "Ticket gate" in a type-writer font (which he had only previously seen in letters sent by The Society Of The Messengers Of God, which often sent important news out to workers). Upon pressing it, he heard a loud gush of air. He jumped and looked towards the source just to see the steam finish making it's way out of the gate's hinges.

Rioth turned his back and was leaving the booth when he heard another gush of steam, this time behind him instead of in front of him. He quickly turned around to see a ticket shoot out of the machine. He crept over, half-expecting a trap to activate, and took the ticket quickly. He darted out of the booth to the back wall and put his back to it. He felt his heart racing and his chest rising and falling at a high rate. Satisfied that there weren't any traps, he looked at the ticket. "Platform 1, Nielsfield to Griffinsdale, Return, 16:43, 3.10.2021". Rioth looked at the ticket in confusion. The current year was 160 RA and he didn't know of any month past the eighth one, Joseph.

Once his heart beat was back to normal, Rioth walked through the open gate. Only to stop suddenly as he heard the same voice, a bit louder, tell whisper to him again "Eighteen". His spine felt like someone had just injected ice-cold water into it. He had to pause to wait for the sensation to pass. Once it had, he looked up at the large iron board above a set of stairs. At the top, in a red arrow to the left, it read "Platform 1", in a blue arrow pointing downwards, in read "Platform 2". At the bottom, in a yellow arrow it read "Platform 3". It still surprised Rioth how bright the colours were, like as though they were freshly painted yesterday. A temptation to put his finger on the yellow arrow to check if it was still wet came over Rioth for a second and quickly went away unanswered. Judging by the ticket, he assumed the best place to start would probably be platform one.

Rioth walked to the far left and started to descend down the steps, one at a time, with the concrete steps echoing under his feet across the entire platform. As he reached the bottom, he noticed the red tiles around the circular roof and on the walls which acted as a semi-circle over the floor. The floor was still dark grey concrete. The only thing around were benches near the wall made from copper. There was also a vending machine that was lit up and sold cigarettes and steam floating out two pipes near the top on the left and right. He walked over near the rails, looking up and down for anything, any sign of life. Rioth then heard the word "Eighteen", but instead of as an echo, it came from right behind him. He turned around sharply to see a small boy there.

He wore a dirt-brown robe and no shoes. His skin appeared to have a small blue tint to it and his face had slight feminine features to it which Rioth couldn't pinpoint what made him think it. The thing that stood out the most to him about the boy (who appeared no older than eleven), was how his ears seemed pointed at it's tips instead of rounded which stuck out among his slightly long hair-cut. The boy's face grew into an innocent smile and he extended his hand to Rioth ; a hand, that the man took.

Suddenly, there was a bright white flash. He was standing at the same station except he was now shorter in height. The place was also a lot busier with men, women and children waiting, chatting and sitting on the bench. He wore a sand-coloured tunic, green trousers and sandals. He had heard about how England was in a major recession and needed help with it. Elves had only started to live above ground twenty years ago. A religious group calling them Messengers Of God blamed the recession on Elves who were taking jobs, using up benefit money and was contributing to a shortage of coal and wood to fuel the steam-fuelled machinery. They were gathering in power and the elections were next month.

He suddenly heard a shout "AN ELF! A HERETIC!". Before he could do anything, a hand grasped on of one of his arms, another hand clutched another. "AN ELF THAT IS STEALING ALL OUR JOBS! IT'S GOING TO END UP KILLING US ALL! LET'S SHOW IT THE SAME THANKS!" the voice shouted out with an underlining tone of sadistic joy. Before Rioth could protest, he was lifted up as the mob shouted and jeered. They punched him, choked him, yelled at him, pulled his hair, pulled off his clothes, scratched him and carried him to the edge of the platform. He then heard the gushing of a steam engine, chugging it's way down the rails. Rioth was suddenly then thrown onto the tracks. He climbed onto his bare feet, cold and naked, looking at the crowd and crying. He wanted his mother and father to protect him and just for a hug. He begun to walk to the platform when he was kicked in the head by one of the jeerers. He fell back onto his bare-back. He got back onto his feet. The train began to sound its horn. Rioth turned to face the train. It then flashed white and then all went black.

Nighteen...Nighteen...Nighteen...

Cybersteam Part 1

Nickel cadmium arms glistened in the snow, leaving pouches of empty space where their steam jets blew. Straight from battery to steam. He lit his pipe with a disposable lighter, sucking air in. His throat was slippery now; butane tastes like soap. He looked at his girlfriend and exhaled a plume of smoke. Her eyes sparkled like motor oil in the rain, an iridescent kaleidoscope and he wondered what could be more beautiful. Her nose wrinkled in a very feline pose, her whiskers twitching. They weren't whiskers, of course, that would be silly. But they worked the same or even better, picking up sheer data from the air like another sixth sense, each invisible binary sphere landing with a small vibration, a thud at that scale if the vaguest whisper in ours. He took a look down at the charred bud in his pipe, considering how sharp it looked. She turned her head and the sweetest siren song of a servo hummed from beneath, and condensation gathered in the small of her back, like raindrops on a window. That's what it reminded him of, and he laid his face against her now, feeling the cold dampness that brought back lonely childhood days. Back when the easiest way to get out of any trouble was to say "I love you," but you still always meant it. No one believes you when you're grown. He handed her the pipe. She looked at it for a second, eyes pale and reflective, before taking it. Smoke made androids as high as people. He hated that fucking word, but still.

"Chill here, Alice."

"Where are you going?" Her voice echoed from her chest.

"Just to pick up some stuff. I'll be a few hours."

Cars couldn't haul like they used to. Steam gives shitty horsepower, and the DOT decided that they might as well lower the speed limits, nationwide. You still couldn't just throw snow in the engine, though. It'd get all gunked up and wouldn't run anymore. Distilled water only. Gas stations just kept filtered fire hoses with special little nozzles on the end. Traffic was bumper to bumper on this road, not that it wasn't always. As I looked up absently I noticed some large black bird, or maybe a bat. I'd seen things like it before, but only on lots of dimehydrinate. Suddenly it fell from the sky, swooping at top speed and landing with a crash into the windshield of the Toyota next to me. A few flecks of the glass landed on my hood, such was the force. I stared at this thing, which I noticed had leathery wings spanning at least five feet, and at the face of the driver. I couldn't quite make out his reaction through the fog on his window. Was it real? I couldn't be scared the way I thought I should be. The thoughts racing through my head were more of a lifetime in asylums than global apocalypse. Maybe that's how I knew I was too sober to be hallucinating. Another of the bat-things fell on my windshield now, and a shard of glass cut my cheek as it whizzed by. I got out of my car, not even taking the keys or putting it in park, and I ran down the street as a bat-thing fell on every windshield with increasing speed, the cacophony of shattering glass blurring into loud static. I jumped onto the sidewalk like an action hero jumps from a huge explosion at the end of a blockbuster.

"Are you okay?" An elderly woman was looking down at me, her face deeply creased from a lifetime of expressing disgust. I looked back at the cars. The bats dissolved, and my brain quickly rationalized that the steam had melted them. I felt cold. Looking down, I noticed my knees were soaked from the snow, and I might've scraped them on the sidewalk. It was too cold to tell.

"I'm fine," I said. She waited too long for that response, and was walking away before I finished saying it. Thanks anyway, bitch. I climbed to my feet, turned to look at the gridlock once more, and stopped to think about what the fuck I was driving for in the first place. Oh yeah, I guess I was visiting my other girl. I felt like a dick about it, but every now and then you need something real. I found my car again and turned on the player, trying to forget that little incident.

"Who is it?" I saw Kat's face, rendered by floating spheres of light, high resolution open air plasma.

"It's Barris. Chuck Barris."

The plasma flickered purple, a filter spazzing out temporarily. It distracted me from her reaction.

"Come on in, Charlie."

We didn't make much small talk before we fucked. What would the point be, anyway? Afterwards I laid back wondering if I was doing the right thing, or really, if it was worth doing the wrong thing. I looked up at the pale orange ceiling, lit by a floating mass of incandescence, set at half dim. She always kept her bedroom stocked with plenty of candles, and soul or funk played from the walls in the cleanest of quadrophonic sound. This relationship with Kat was purely sexual, or so I liked to convince myself. Alice could do a lot of things, but there was always a little voice in the back of my mind, maybe my old dead father or God or someone, saying I'm wrong but not giving me much more than that. I looked over. Kat was asleep. This kind of selective narcolepsy might've had something to do with our purely physical predicament. I gave one last look to my surroundings, appreciating the richness I might never have, and the effort invested to make one room like a brothel. "Fuck it," I said, and I left. Her snores covered the sounds of my exit.

------------------
Continued after the jump.

Cybersteam Part 2

When I got back to that front gate, I saw Alice. She was standing there in the cold, eyes staring through me.

"Hey. I was just stopping to talk to an old friend."

She walked up to me, looking me in the eye, as lovingly as ever, and took my hands in hers. Then I heard a dry snap.

"Ah shit!" I looked down to see her picking off my ring finger like it was a daisy. I shuddered. Steam rose from the bloody mess of splintered bone and tattered flesh. She drew in very close to me, looking directly in my eyes with her own soulless stones.

"Next time," she said in the sweetest tone discrete steam-powered circuitry can produce, "it's your dick."

I was still trembling from shock, both medical and emotional, and I picked up some snow to pad my half-finger with. I couldn't focus much, so I just followed her mindlessly, hoping she was walking toward a hospital, but not really giving it that kind of thought. I stared down at my hand, starting to wonder if it was real. Wondering if I was denying reality or just seeing things again. Either way, I knew I'd seriously fucked up somewhere along the line. I looked up, and Alice was still walking in front of me. I was still shuddering. There was still a cold, sharp bone poking out of my hand. There was enough left to wiggle it feebly. The pain all ran together, like magma in Siberia. I felt ice beneath my eye making it tougher to blink. Alice suddenly stopped. I walked up to her, still trembling a little, still clutching my hand.

"What's wrong?" I asked stupidly. Her eyes looked the same as they ever do, yet I gathered that she was wistful. Maybe she felt remorse, or maybe she was hurt. Her posture was perfectly erect. Stiff as steel. She did not respond, so I waved my hand in front of her face, the whole one. "Alice?" Beads of ice were on her back. I pressed my face against it, listening. I heard nothing. No steam hiss, no servo hum. "Alice?" Her whiskers were just as frozen. "Alice?!" Shit! Why did they have to make robots run on steam? But then I thought about it. Every car on the road had to use a steam engine, and they didn't freeze. Why did she? My head hurt. I felt the veins throbbing, and it didn't seem safe. I wouldn't have much blood left. I was so fucking confused. The loss of blood must've caught up with me. I fainted.

When I woke up I was nowhere familiar. I saw Alice. Her hand, that I knew better than my own.

"Oh, you're awake," a voice said. I looked up. It was a nurse. I said nothing. "It seems you'll be making a full recovery." I frowned. These things were so generic. Happy user-friendly interface, but no personality to speak of.

"What happened?"

"When you were found, you had lost quite a bit of blood--"

"Yeah, I know that."

"Frostbite was the only thing that kept you alive, oddly enough. We found you next to this android, and since we were out of prostheses, the doctor used it for scrap parts."

"Ah," I said, crushed by the despair of my greatest girlfriend dead and scavenged for parts. "Ah!" I exclaimed, as the realization hit me and I looked down to see her arm at the end of my shoulder, with that all too familiar condensation. The nurse left. Well, I thought to myself, at least I have something to remember you by. In a sense I guess we can still be together. And then that voice in the back of my mind came back, some pissed off authority figure calling me a freak. Later I'd go home, toss back a box of Dramamine and half a fifth of Crown, and forget this whole thing. By which I mean have horrific hallucinations of death and guilt.

--------------------------------------
Sorry if the posts seem a bit short, but it was only slightly over the character limit, and I can't write much more.

Story Title: Scent of Iron (couldn't think of a better name), Part 1

Style: Steampunk
Words: 4845
Authors Note: This is a Steampunk-Horror story... though not strictly speaking there are fantasy elements and it starts off as a mystery. I just finished it and I was planning on getting some one to proof read my story but I don't have a lot of time for that so I did it myself. Hope that doesn't cost me.
---------------------------

On a train, a massacre occurred. A horrible sight that is beyond imagination as Jonathon, a young investigator boards the passenger car of the steam powered train. Jonathon couldn't believe what he saw when he boarded the train, an endless thought ran through his head 'Dear God, what a bloody mess.' The brutal sight that Jonathon saw before him was more than a bloody mess, it was an atrocity. Blood, guts and various ligaments scattered all over the passenger car; several dead bodies, which have yet to be cleared of the crime scene lay on the ground and the gut wrenching sight of a melted face on the walls of the car.

Jonathon was about to leave the train to vomit at the sight, when he was approached by a large mustachioed man wearing some sort of armor.

'Ah, you must be the detective in charge of this gruesome affair? I'd recognize a detective anywhere, what with that long coat and fancy hat.' said the man proudly.
Jonathon shook hands with this man and said to him: 'Nice to meet you, I am Jonathon Martin and by the looks of it, you're one of the Queen's men. What's your name sir?'
'Oh where are my manners, I am Captain Pratchett of Her Majesty's Royal Armored Guard.' he answered 'I have been instructed by my commanding officer; by orders of the Queen to assist the detective of this case. That detective being you ofcourse Mr. Martin.'
'No reason to be so formal' Jonathon said, 'please, call me Jonathon, Captain Pratchett.
'And if I may ask, what makes this investigation so important that her majesty has sent one of her men to assist me?'
Pratchett answered: 'You mean you don't know? All these victims have connections to the royal family; the Queen has the entire Royal Armored Guard patrolling London searching for this man.
'Ofcourse, if you saw the sight in that car, you wouldn't be able to tell that they were aristocrats.'

Jonathon was suddenly reminded of the gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach.

'Excuse me Pratchett' he said with a pale look on his face, 'I need to go vomit.'

Once Jonathon was finished expelling all of his vomit he returned to the passenger car of the train.

'You alright Jonathon?' said Pratchett with a worrisome tone of voice.
Jonathon answered: 'Yes I am, I am just not a fan of dead bodies and massive amounts of blood and guts.
'I am ready to start my investigation, so do you have more information for me Pratchett?'
Pratchett answered: 'Unfortunately, the only information I know is the fact that there were 12 passengers on this car and somehow, they were all brutally massacred and that they are all connected to the Queen.'
'Are there still bodies in that passenger car?' asked Jonathon
Pratchett answered: 'As far as I know, the coroner moved the last bodies off the train.'

Jonathon walked towards the passenger car, looked into it and saw that Pratchett was correct, the bodies were no longer in the vicinity, though he still felt queasy from the massive amounts of blood; he tried to ignore it.

'Damn' Jonathon said aloud, 'I forgot my forensic equipment at the office. I suppose I have to do this the old fashioned way.'

Jonathon pulled out his magnifying glass from his coat and began to look for clues. As Jonathon looked around for the smallest details; a finger print, a hair fiber or anything that could lead to him finding the person who massacred 12 people. But the sight and the smell of blood was making him feel ill and he couldn't find any sort of clue or decisive evidence whatsoever.

'Is there a problem Jonathon?' asked Pratchett from afar.
Jonathon answered: 'Yes Pratchett, I could use some help finding clues. Damn me for forgetting my forensic tools.'
'Tools?' said Pratchett
'Yeah tools' replied Jonathon, 'Specifically the one I use to check for hidden marks, the cloud generator. I'd have to go to the office to get it.'
'No need' said Pratchett 'I think I know what you need.'

Pratchett turned a couple of knobs on his armor as Jonathon, still unsuccessfully tries to search for clues. A cloud of steam floods the passenger car of the train; Jonathon is confused by this.

'Where the hell did this steam come from?' he said and turned towards Pratchett and noticed that his massive gauntlets are on the floor. Jonathon was incredibly confused by all this.

'Pratchett, what is the reason that those enormous gauntlets of your are on the floor? This is a crime scene.' Jonathon said angrily as the steam started to clear.

'Hmm, you needed a "cloud" and I provided you with one; look at the floor, for heavens sake.' Said Pratchett.

Jonathon looked at the floor and was aghast; footprints appeared before him, bloody footprints hat lead out of the passenger car. Jonathon followed those prints as Pratchett began to ramble.

'You see, my armor is powered by steam, and is built with a system of gears. Your cloud generator is the same way, just more convenient and it only releases steam.
'Hey were are you going, this is important.'
'Don't care' quipped Jonathon.
'Don't care? You're the one who wanted to know why my gauntlets were on the floor?' Pratchett replied.
'And right now I want to know who the murder is. Let's go, where ever the murderer got off it wasn't at this station.' Jonathon said as he stormed off, Pratchett following behind.

Jonathon was at the ticket counter, demanding that they reopen the station immediately.

'A murder has been committed!' exclaimed Jonathon profoundly to the ticket holder.
The ticket holder informed Jonathon that: 'The train stations are closed because of the ongoing investigation.'
'But I'm the investigator!' Jonathon exclaimed, 'you mean to tell me that not even the investigator of a major crime can not board a train?'
'Yes' said the ticket holder 'I couldn't even allow the Queen to board a train.'

Jonathon left the ticket counter as Pratchett approached him.

'Jonathon, it was worth a shot, but we don't need a train to find this bastard.' he said to him.
'Know of a better way to find him?' Jonathon asked.
Pratchett answered: 'Airship.
'As a Captain of the Royal Armored Guard, it is my duty to serve Her Majesty and the United Kingdom at all costs and by many, many ways.
'And one of these ways is by Airship.'
'Where is the Airship?' asked Jonathon.
Pratchett replied: 'Close by, follow me.'

Story Title: Scent of Iron, part 2

-------------------------------------

Jonathon and Pratchett made their way to the airship, finding it docked in the harbour near the train station. They both rushed to the ship and were met by a young man outside.

'Who are you?' asked Jonathon
'Sir, Petty Officer Johns of Her Majesty's Royal Armored Guard.' Answered the young man, 'You and Captain Pratchett may board the airship of the Royal Armored Guard known as the Highwind.'
'Well, I can't run this airship by myself now can I Jonathon.' said Pratchett.
Pratchett boarded the airship Highwind, followed by Petty Officer Johns. Jonathon looked at the airship, and couldn't believe the size of it.
'May this airship be the key to finding the murderer.' said Jonathon to himself as he made his way on the Highwind.

The Highwind was as massive inside as it was outside. Many Royal Guards stationed to their respected posts as Pratchett made his way up a flight of stairs. Jonathon followed him, but was blocked by Petty Officer Johns.

'Sorry, only the official crew are allowed on the bridge.' he said to Jonathon.
Jonathon pushed him aside and replied: ' Sorry, but this is business I need to know where we're going.'
'You can't do that!' said Johns, 'Please wait, the Captain will inform you when we land.'
'I don't have time for that!' yelled Jonathon as the Highwind began moving. Jonathon went up stairs and arrived on the bridge; Pratchett was steering the Highwind.
'Ah, Jonathon welcome to the bridge, I figured you'd be too stubborn to wait below. Hope you didn't upset Petty Officer Johns.' Pratchett said.
Jonathon replied: 'He's fine, just get this airship to the previous stations. I want this guy caught.'
'You're pushing yourself too hard? Are you always like this?' Pratchett asked
'Is there a problem with me wanting to catch this sicko quick?' replied Jonathon, acting rather guarded and insecure. Pratchett said nothing else, he was concentrating on steering the Highwind when something on the corner of his eye caught his attention.

'Hmm a carrier pigeon. It's heading toward the Highwind.' Pratchett said.

The pigeon landed by Pratchett, and it had a note attached to it's leg. Pratchett took the note from the carrier pigeon and read it.

'What does it say?' Asked Jonathon.
Pratchett answered: 'I am sorry Jonathon, but we can't go chasing the killer. We're going to the Floating Castle.'

'The Floating Castle?' said Jonathon, 'We're going there? For what reason could going there be more important then finding the person who killed 12 people?'
Pratchett replied: 'Orders of the Queen herself. Don't worry, the train stations will still be investigated, I'll send word to one of the other Royal Guards to look around. it's the best I could do, this is urgent.'

Jonathon fell quiet, his expression was one of disappointment and deep down he felt like a failure.

'Look, Jonathon, I can tell you want justice for that son of a bitch.' Pratchett said. 'But there is no reason to act so apathetic; the Royal Armored Guard will tie up the loose ends, catching this guy is still yours.'
Jonathon smiled and said: 'Thanks. I really appreciate the confidence boost.'

The Highwind was in direct sight of the Floating Castle, heading gracefully towards it.

'Almost there Jonathon, why don't you go down stairs and relax?' Pratchett said.
'I'm fine up here.' replied Jonathon and asked: 'So, what makes the castle "float" exactly?'
'Same reason this airship "flies" Jonathon.' answered Pratchett, 'Anyway we're getting ready to dock so sit tight.

The Highwind entered the docking station of the enormous castle; slowing down and proceeding to stop and sit itself in place. The docking station was essentially a large corridor: airships enter from one end and exit the other. Once the airship was fully at rest Jonathon and Pratchett and the crew of the Highwind departed from the airship hold and made their way to the throne room. There was a large door, and Jonathon and Pratchett were greeted by a older gentleman with a large beard.

'Pratchett, how are you this evening?' he said
Pratchett replied: 'I am fine Commander Moore, Detective Jonathon Martin and I have been pursuing murderous scum.'
'Is that so?' said Commander Moore, 'Well Detective Martin, thank you for your cooperation with the Royal Armored Guard. Pratchett and I have important business to discuss with Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth Tycoon.'

Commander Moore and Pratchett entered the large doors behind them.

Petty Officer Johns approached Jonathon and told him: ' Captain Pratchett and Commander Moore will be in there for a while, how about I show you around the floating castle?'

Jonathon followed the young petty officer around the castle, seeing a bunch of random faces throughout the tour. This bored Jonathon, he was more concerned with solving his mystery and kept asking Johns whether the Royal Armored Guard was checking the train stations throughout London. Johns assured him that the investigation is still being carried out and that he'd be the first to know of anything.

As they explored the castle, Jonathon noticed a lot of faces running around and performing menial tasks around the floating castle.

'Who are all these people Johns?' asked Jonathon
Johns replied: 'Heh, you're either slow or very curious. They're workers, they perform whatever duties they need to on this castle.'

Jonathon said nothing else and kept examining the environment he was in as well as the people around him. He notice men carrying equipment, swords and armor things of that nature. Jonathon noticed a man with long black hair wearing gauntlets who smiled at him; but he barely paid any attention to this man because an exuberant young face appeared before him.

Story Title: Scent of Iron, Part 3

------------------------------

'Hi' said the voice of a girl. 'I am bored, what are you gentleman up to? Can I tag along?'
The girl was wearing a beautiful outfit, adorned with a crown.

Petty Officer Johns bowed before this girl and said: 'Ahh, Princess Natalie I was just showing this gentleman around the castle; he's a detective.'
Natalie responded: 'Oh cool, can I follow him around I just love mysteries.'
'Sorry, but I am not a baby sitter; besides you don't want to get involved. There have been enough casualties already.' said Jonathon sorrowfully.
'Jonathon, I think you should lighten up, what's the harm with spending time with her? After all, she is royalty.' Johns said.
'That's correct, I am indeed royalty.' explained Natalie 'Plus, I can handle a mystery. I'm 17, after all.'

Jonathon didn't like this at all, he was still too concerned with the case. He wanted to know when Pratchett would finish his meeting and get him back investigating. All Jonathon wanted to know was what was going with his case. Petty Officer Johns brought Jonathon to a room.

'What's this place?' asked Jonathon.
Petty Officer Johns replied: 'Your room, you need rest.'
'No I don't!' exclaimed Jonathon stubbornly, 'I just need to focus and wait for Pratchett. As far as I know, he's the only one who can get me off this floating castle.'
'Then do whatever you have to do then.' Johns said, 'There are plenty of books to read here and you are free to roam around the castle of course but I think you could benefit from a good meal and some rest.'
Jonathon replied: 'I guess you're right.
'By the way were did the kid run off to?'
'Behind you!' exclaimed an exuberant Natalie who appeared seemingly from nowhere. This startled Jonathon and Petty Officer Johns laughed at this sight.
'Ha ha, scared of a little girl Detective?' he said still laughing
Jonathon answered: 'I am not, I just want to know how the hell this brat appeared behind me?'
'Hehe, wouldn't be much of a castle if it didn't have secret corridors.' Said Natalie. 'Plus it's unwise to call me a brat, I could have your head.
'So Detective, still not interested in "baby-sitting" me?'
Jonathon responded: 'Fine, I'll entertain you. Just don't annoy me.'
'Well then, I have a lot of work to do right now; we should be receiving news from the Guards at the train stations shortly.' Johns said, 'Enjoy your time. And Princess... Um... I... hope you and our guest get along.' Johns left with a red face, and Jonathon knew why and thought: 'Cute, a crush on the Princess.'

Jonathon looked at the bookshelf in his room. He had not heard word about his case since he left the train station. He was getting impatient and was trying to find a way to distract himself, however the books he saw were incredibly boring to him.
'Tell me a story Jonathon.' said Natalie, 'I want to hear about your work as a detective.'
Jonathon replied: 'You don't want to hear my stories, they're rather anticlimactic. Just sit quietly as I find a book to read.'
'All those books are boring.' Natalie said, 'I highly doubt that any story of yours will be more boring than any of THOSE stories.'

Jonathon thought about it, looked back at the bookshelf and saw that Natalie was correct there was very little reading material that interested him at first glance. He decided that if it entertains Natalie and helps to kill time telling one of his stories couldn't hurt.

'Alright Your Highness.' Jonathon said sarcastically. 'I've got a story and I expect you to listen attentively.'
'With pleasure' spoke Natalie who attentively followed Jonathon as he started to tell his story.
Jonathon told his story, and told it well to the delight of Princess Natalie. He did get distracted because he often heard the door squeak. But nonetheless he kept Natalie interested. The story was rather short and Jonathon ended it by saying: 'And that was my first case.'
'Amazing how you solved it.' Natalie said. She looked poised to ask a question, but the door swung open and Petty Officer Johns was there.

'Jonathon, word about your current case has just came.' Johns said, 'The Royal Armored Guard has found foot prints outside the Park Station.
'Though they don't lead us to the location of the menace, we can say for certain he is in that vicinity.'
Jonathon responded and asked: 'Excellent! Is the Royal Armored Guard examining the area? I would myself but I am stuck here.'
'For now you are.' replied Johns, 'and yes they are doing the investigating for you. Captain Pratchett instructed them to do so. So, you can relax and get some rest.'
'Thank you very much' said Jonathon, 'I think I shall do that now.'
Johns said: 'Well, I hope that the Princess had a good time.'
'I did!' exclaimed Natalie, 'Detective Jonathon is a very good story teller.'
'Is that so?' asked Johns, 'Well Jonathon thank you for looking after the Princess. It wont be until dark before we're able to take you back to the surface. So, might aswell rest up now.'
Jonathon replied: 'You're doing your best. I owe you my thanks.
'Natalie I enjoyed your company, but it's best that I do get some rest.'
'You're welcome.' Johns and Natalie both said as they left Jonathon alone in his room.

The door closed and Jonathon crawled into his bed to slip into slumber. His eyes grew heavy and afterwards... Jonathon feel asleep.

Story Title: Scent of Iron, Part 4

-----------------------------

A loud blast woke Jonathon from his sleep. Jonathon wondered what was happening and begun to investigate the situation, though he was in a bit of a haze having just being woken up. The first thing Jonathon immediately noticed that it was night meaning that he was asleep for atleast 4 hours. The second thing he noticed was that his door cracked a jar and that a sort of mist flooded his entire room. And finally, as he made his way to the hallway outside his room he saw blood splatter on the walls. Jonathon looked away, and pretended that is wasn't there, the mist started to clear and Jonathon noticed 3 dead bodies of Royal Armored Guards.

'Jesus Christ!' he yelled. 'What in gods name is going on?'
In the distance , Jonathon heard a familiar voice say: 'Jonathon, you're alive!'
It was Pratchett, and Jonathon was relieved to see his mustached face again. Only Pratchett was wearing more armored this time.

'Pratchett, good to see your face but what the hell happened?' asked Jonathon
Pratchett replied: 'Someone attacked us, using weaponry similar to ours and just started laying waste to us as soon as our meeting ended. The Commander is seriously injured. Many civilians here have been torn to shreds. We have to get you out of here.'
Jonathon was awestruck by this and the thought of one man attacking the Royal Armored Guard all by himself was ridiculous to him.

'I can't go.' said Jonathon, 'We have to catch this man and prevent more harm from coming.'
Pratchett asked: 'Why do you need to do such a thing?'
'I have a good reason' Jonathon answered 'I think this man maybe the same person who massacred those people on the train. I can think of no one else but that monster who could take on the Royal Armored Guard.'

A loud shriek was uttered as Pratchett and Jonathon were talking. Jonathon recognized whose voice it was.

'Pratchett, did you hear that?' He asked 'I think that was Natalie. Princess Natalie is in danger.'
Pratchett responded: ' No time to waste, if that is the princess, we must protect her. Let's split up to find her. And for God's sake don't get yourself killed.'

Jonathon and Pratchett rushed in opposite directions looking for the Princess. Jonathon followed the cries of Natalie that echoed throughout the Floating Castle. He could hear the distinct cries of 'help me!' and Jonathon yelled back: 'I'm coming Natalie.'

Jonathon turned a corner and saw Natalie in the arms of a skinny man with pitch black hair wearing gauntlets. Who was wearing a small chainsaw on his right hand instead of two gauntlets. Jonathon had recognized this man from earlier. Jonathon was starting in the eyes of a mad man who killed a dozen people on a train and killed even more in the floating castle.
'Pratchett isn't here, this isn't good' Jonathon thought, and he knew he stood no chance against the psychotic man he saw before him.
A cry of 'Natalie!' was spoken from behind the black haired by Petty Officer Johns.
'By order of the Royal Armored Guard, you are under arrest. You shall unhand the princess right now.'

Johns pressed a button on his armor and a mighty burst of steam erupted and sent his right gauntlet towards the black haired man. However, his attempt proved futile as the black haired man deflected it using the chainsaw. Johns ran towards this man which caused Jonathon to yell: 'Johns don't!' But Johns didn't get the warning in time and his life was ended gruesomely by a sick man and his chainsaw. His armor was useless against this kind of monster and was torn to shreds trying to save a person he cared for. Natalie's eyes were fully shut, she looked terrified and wanted to scream her heart out.
'You... monster.' Jonathon stuttered out, noticing the sick smile on that black haired man's face.

Jonathon noticed something warm on his face and he went to touch it and saw that it was red. The smell of iron flooded his nostrils and a terrible sensation filled his stomach. Jonathon realized was it was and what it wasn't.
It wasn't his blood.

He grew woozy and the last words he uttered were: 'That's right... keep those eyes shut.. Princess' as he fell to the ground noticing the smile of the black haired man and the cries of 'Jonathon' from Pratchett last.

Jonathon regained consciousness to the sound of rusty gears. It wasn't a pleasant sound or a feeling. He did not recognize the environment he was in or how long he'd been out for. There was a small lantern near him and it was lit. It was the only noticeable light he saw and he took advantage of it. Jonathon was in a room and couldn't make out why. Jonathon checked the room and noticed something scribbled on the walls.

'Come and find me.' Jonathon said aloud, 'what does that mean? Does that monster want me to chase him? I'm surprised I'm not dead.'

Jonathon looked for a way out and saw a door at the end of the room and opened the door. Jonathon noticed more words scribbled on the walls: "Can you save her? I bet you can't"

'Natalie is still alive?' Jonathon spoke and began to look for the correct route. He went right and he ran and kept running. The sound of rusted gears grew louder and bursts of steam were coming out broken pipes. Jonathon kept running and was unexpectedly scolded by one of these bursts of steam.

'God dammit!' he yelled angrily. Jonathon was on the floor from this shock and was badly injured, he noticed some more writing on the walls that read: "Failing again? Some detective you are. Ha ha ha."

Jonathon, despite suffering from first degree burns got up and persisted.

'I'm gonna get this bastard no matter what.' Jonathon said. 'I will not make let more people die.'

Jonathon followed the words on the walls, hoping they would lead to the man with long black hair, the murderer he was chasing. Jonathon was arrogant, his pride tarnished and an unsettling fear set in. Tears flowed from his eyes relentlessly and he felt the atmosphere around him close in. the sound of rusted gears was torture to him. He wanted to give up, his mind was caving in. Jonathon was sweating profusely, the steam had made the environment he was in humid. Jonathon turned left at a corner he notice more writing, but this time it was red. It said:
"This is her blood. When will you learn to stop pretending to be a hero? You're no good at it."

Jonathon cried, and wondered why he was being tormented.

'Maybe I am failing again.' He had thought to himself and pressed on. Jonathon noticed a door at the end of the hallway that was cracked ajar. Above the door it read:
"Abandon all hope, you're entering Hell."

Story Title: Scent of Iron, Part 5

------------------------

The room was pitch dark, Jonathon could only see himself with the lantern he had. Jonathon heard a whimper and walked towards it. He saw a person in a chair, who was tied up he knew it could only be one person.

'Natalie... I'm glad you're alive.' Jonathon said.

He walked towards Natalie, but at that moment Jonathon was approached from behind and had both of his knee caps crushed by the black haired man. Jonathon screamed in agony.

'So this is it... you're going to kill me then kill her?' Jonathon said, 'Why? What for?'

The man with black hair shook his head. He walked towards Natalie and started to make cuts in her flesh.

Natalie spoke: 'Jonathon... you've come to save me. Thank you.'
'Natalie, do you have any idea what's going on?' Jonathon asked.
Natalie answered: 'A bit. You remember the story you told me? You said you found the victims right?'
'I did...' Jonathon said, 'But they were dead. I kept promising their families that I would save them. 'But I couldn't keep it. I had underestimated the suspect. I didn't think he would kill all those people.
'But why does that have to do with all this?'
'I think' Natalie said. 'I think that this man overheard you tell the story... but how would he know that you lied to me?'

Jonathon answered: 'Maybe he figured it out. Maybe he noticed something that seemed fishy to him. But the point is, he knows and he wants me to suffer... I figured it out.
'He has no motive, he's just sick and wants me to become as sick and torment as him. He knows I am self-righteous and that I blame myself for letting those people die.'

The black haired man cackled at this.

'He knows I'm right.' Jonathon said. 'Natalie... I can't save you. My knees are broken and if they weren't I would still die. This monster wants me to watch you die... for me to know that there are no heroes.'

At almost divine timing, one of the walls of the room was smashed in. Light came flooding in to sweep away the darkness as Jonathon noticed what looked to be a vast ship. It was the Highwind, Pratchett had come.

Pratchett rushed from the broken airship to the aide of Jonathon.
'Jonathon. We were terrified.' Pratchett said.
Jonathon asked: 'How did you find us?'
'It doesn't matter right now.' Pratchett said, 'I have to uphold my duty as a member of Her Majesty's Royal Armored Guard.'

The black haired man rushed towards Pratchett with an insane look on his eyes. Pratchett just stood still, unshaken by the mad man rushing to kill him. Pratchett, at the right moment grabbed the black haired man and threw him to the ground. Pratchett pinned the black haired man down and began to beat him senseless, all the while the man man laughs and laughs.

'Alright you monster' Pratchett said, 'time to get these gauntlets off.'
Pratchett pulled but couldn't remove them. He pulled harder and harder and the black haired man started to scream in agony. Pratchett pull hard enough that one of the gauntlets came off. The black haired man was bleeding from a stump from his right arm.
'Those aren't gauntlets.' Jonathon said, 'They're mechanized arms... he's a cyborg.'

Pratchett was caught off guard by this, and the black haired man raised his remaining arm, raised it against Pratchett's face and scolded him with a direct burst of pressurized steam. Pratchett was in agony.

The black haired man walked towards Natalie and Jonathon.
'He tired his best' said Jonathon 'But, we're still dead.'

Natalie said noticed and kept her eyes closed, streams of tears ran down her cheeks.
The black haired man creped closer and closer.... Then collapsed. The loss of blood from his right arm had made the black haired man faint with out warning.

Jonathon was shocked... then relieved. Natalie and himself were still alive, and were sure that they were safe. The blood of the black haired man had rushed past Jonathon. But he was fine, there was no queasy sensation. Jonathon knew what happened.

Jonathon was glad to see the blood.

--------------

End, I hope you guys will enjoy my story this time around.

Boy & Bike
by iiftgames
Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Randal skidded through the shadowed streets of the outer city. Left, right, right again and left back up the main road, the brakes on his bike squeaking on the hard turns.

He flew down the broad street, following the waxing moon. He passed the small darkened shop buildings, little lifeless piles of stone on either side of him, and flew into the Wind Tunnel. Tall factory buildings stood back to back against each other here, along the main road, and it seemed like all the wind in the world passed between them.

The wind was with Randal now. Even though the road wound slightly uphill, the wind pushing on his back urged him quickly past the cement cubes, up to the top of the now open hill and into the night's sticky still air.

Randal slowed himself to a stop, deciding to stand a while by the on-ramp of the old bridge, one built years ago to connect the east and west sides of the city. This bridge had slowly worn down with all the use, and a final earthquake had broken its feeble spine in the middle. New, stronger, bridges were built north of the old one allowing people to reach the inner city faster.

Randal looked out over the river. He watched as the oily tide slowly dragged its daily burden out toward the sea. Then his gaze turned up to the muddy sky, where the moon shown just barely through the smog.

Randal smiled. The moon was a rare sight; he enjoyed its natural glow.

Many people never had the chance to see the moon; for most it was: get up, go to work, come home and sleep. Work in the city was long and hard. None lingered long outside during the day, the sun heated smog was bad for their health. But after the factories shut down for the day and the sun set, the river air would take away some of the sickly chemicals and the city would become a new place. This was the city Randal knew. In the city where by law all machines were powered by gasoline, Randal and his bike were outcasts. They were not the only ones, but some of the few to roam the east side of the river. For bikers, this side of the water was a paradise of twists and turns, open spaces and long downhill runs. But the cops here, who allegedly hated "Unlawful's," itched at the chance to break some legs.

Randal's ears had grown sharp throughout the years of his nighttime wanderings, though. He had learned to distinguish the revs, pops and hums of cop machines and never missed one.

He was thankful of this fact now. Though lost in the sight of the moon, Randal's ears had stayed in the real world and quickly warned him. A cop motorcart was coming close, up through the Wind Tunnel. Randal put foot to peddle and took flight to the east, past the Tunnel, to loop around the warehouses.

He swung around the corner to glide down the looping hill, cubes on its left, the water on its right a small branch of the river cutting through the land.

Randal did not enjoy the ride long.

As he was approaching the end of the slope two cop trucks swooped out from the shadowed buildings, blocking his way through. Randal turned sharply to the left and slid behind one of the clunking machines. Angry shouts from behind followed him down the street.

In front of him a cop motorbike turned into the road to come at him straight on.

Randal swerved to the right this time. At the next right turn the streets would become narrow and hard for the cops navigate.

Randal and his bike were fast. Very fast. Not fast enough.

Randal saw something shine as he swerved past the motorbike, then felt the cold bite of the cop's steel-spiked chain grapple as it hooked around his leg.

He screamed out into the night. Pain and fear gripped him as hard as the grapple.

The motorbiker cop jerked down on the chain.

Randal felt flesh tear as the grapple yanked on his leg, ripping foot from peddle. Instinct made him grip hard on the handlebars and turn in the direction he was being pulled. As he swung around toward the left corner, Randal leaned down and took hold of the bloody chain. His jaw clenched tight as he pried the spikes from his flesh and jeans. He ignored the new wounds it made in his hand.
After the turn, Randal hauled his injured leg back to the bike and made it work at pumping the peddles.

The cops were still behind him; to his right he could hear more coming. Memories of rumors flitted through his mind. Rumors that the cops were forming an Anti-ManPoweredMachine force. To Randal the idea was ludicrous. All cops on the east side were lazy and selfish. He couldn't imagine them being organized enough, or willing, to do such a thing. More cops coming from all directions proved his thoughts wrong.

The cops were closing in, coming from every street. Randal knew he wouldn't get far with his leg torn so badly. He raced up the street looking for a sanctuary but found none. As his hope started to sink he saw his last chance. Up to the left was the opening of the Wind Tunnel. A clunking motorcart was coming out but he could swing around it.

Randal flew past the shouting motorcart and met the wind. The wind was with him again, pushing him on, helping him go twice as fast as he would have gone on his own.

All the cops were following now. They knew he was headed to a dead end.

Half way up Randal went through an oily puddle. His tires swerved from side to side, he had to work hard to keep himself from crashing. The cops were right behind him now. He could feel the rumble of their motors coursing up the ground to get to him. Up ahead more cops were coming. They weren't going to let him escape.

Randal wouldn't let himself think of what they would do to him when they caught up.

Randal reached the top of the hill for the second time that night. This time, with nowhere left to turn, he pushed himself up the ramp onto the old bridge.

All the cop motors were slowing down now, stopping to watch their trapped pray. Randal knew they had him, but he wouldn't let himself be taken.

He looked back once to see the gang of cops surrounding the ramp. Then he looked up to watch the moon. Pushing down on his peddles Randal let the moon guide him along the darkened bridge, towards the bridge's broken belly, the dark river below, and finally, to his escape.

Confinement

Month six, day unknown

A towering steel structure which nothing can escape. Surrounded by the all-consuming dark waters. The sky above is always dark grey, black clouds floating in it. The powerful waves slam against the structure repeatedly. There's nothing else in its surroundings other than those things guarding its gates... at least that's what they say... no one has seen them... no one has escaped, that's why. It's a dead place. A place where no one can hear you scream. Its insides are a series of dark passages flanked by cubic cells. One of them is my home.
I'm not the only one trapped here. There's dozens of them. No one knows how they got there or why they're here - I am no exception. I think this is some kind of 'punishment', but there are things I don't understand.
When I remember life before captivity... it's weird, it's like I'm in a dream... when I wake up every morning I'm reminded it's not a bad dream but my new life. It's the worst thing I've ever felt, worse than any kind of physical pain I've ever been put through. I know there's no way out, and even if there was I would end up in the middle of nowhere.
It's been six months. I think about it almost all the time. I fell asleep in my bed and I woke up in this very dark humid cell, clad in this grey jumpsuit. The cells are made of glass... we have no privacy. It's always cold in here, so the glass walls tarnish often. We scribble on the glass and that's how we communicate. My peers are as disturbing as this whole thing... most of them are deeply disturbed... they bang their heads against the glass, they utter incoherent things, some of them shadowbox, others talk to themselves... I must be the only sane person in this cell block, and I know it won't last... it's just a matter of time before I become like them. Well... there's this girl whose cell is in front of mine... she sits in the center of the cell, her head leant on her knees, staring at the floor, and that's what she does all day. Maybe she isn't demented just yet, but she isn't normal either, I've tried to communicate with her scribbling things in the glass for her to read, but she ignores my efforts. The only ones who scribble things for others to read either have already told all they remember or scribble incoherent things (sentences that make no sense, numbers, words that don't even exist...).
I barely sleep. I spend most of my time thinking. We never know if it's daytime or night time in here. When almost everyone is sleeping the place is even more silent... except for the weak sound of the waves and the wind... which reminds me what's out there. I want to leave but I'm scared... I can't swim. I've always been afraid of the sea, and I know being drowned is the worst way to die... ironically the possibility of escaping is the only thing I have to live for...

Month six, five-seven days have passed

The guy with spiky hair had finally stopped whining. The place was silent. Except for the voices in my head telling me I had to make a decision, and make it quick. The idea of remaining here makes me feel in the brink of insanity, but the idea of what's out there is much worse... there are very few things worse than having to face what you fear the most. Fear breaks you. I exhaled deeply and began to doodle on the glass. It couldn't distract me from my concern, but it helped. And then it hit me. I learned this long time ago... when you have an unhealthy obsession with something the only way you can get over it is thinking about it all the time, trying to find out why you can't get it out of your head. I lay on the floor and closed my eyes... and in a few minutes there I was, floating... the water was cold... I felt a huge wave approaching... it wasn't very long before I opened my eyes. The simple idea of being underwater still gave me chills. I heard footsteps, it was one of the warders, the female one. They look like us, human-ish, but they move like mannequins. Their heads are shaved and they wear black sleeveless jumpsuits, similar to the ones we wear. They don't carry weapons. This one is rather slender, with a little girl face. She has some sort of tentacles in her head, metallic, shaped like spikes, which quiver as if they were alive. Her arms are mechanical and they have more 'tentacles', much longer than the ones on her head, hanging from them. Her hands are small, and her fingers are blades. Her eyes are empty sockets that glow blue. I pretended to be asleep and watched her march past the cells. I hadn't noticed this until then... she also has spikes in her feet, one in each heel. She stopped at the other end of the passage and everything was silent again except for that familiar screeching sound. She was sharpening her fingers.

Month six, it's been fifteen-twenty days

A narrow slot in the ceiling opened and a small rectangular container fell through. Feeding time. All we eat is this sort of mini waffles, greyish, sour and salty. The block was silent except for the screeching. I listened carefully and I counted four warders. Only one of them entered the passage. It was her. The tentacles in her head made a whiplash sound when they quivered. Being able to fall asleep is becoming more and more difficult each time I attempt to. I can't stop thinking about it. It's not necessarily a bad thing. I spend the hours of sleepless anxiety scheming. I've learnt a few useful things. I know exactly when the warders patrol and how long they do so. I've noticed they take turns, and I know how many of them patrol this block. I don't know what the structure of the building is, but I have a theory. There's a small window in every cell, covered by a metallic grill. That's how I found out where the sound of waves came from. I also found out my cell is in the upper levels. Sixteen warders... I still don't know how I will pass undetected. The tentacles... I also have a theory about that... when you move you move the air around you; the tentacles detect that movement...
Even if they don't see me or hear me they will know I'm there. All sixteen of them.

Month seven, day unknown

My warder walked past my cell, I guess she noticed my eyes following her, because the tentacles in the right side of her head point in my direction. She thinks I don't notice when she does that... actually I'm not sure if they can think for themselves... it's odd, their expressionless faces and rigid movements make me think they may be robots... but they act instinctively - an animal trait.
Lately I've spent most of my time trying to find a way to exit my cell. Strange. There isn't any. What surprises me most is that in a short time (two-three days) some of my captivity companions have disappeared, which is unexplainable. Obviously they didn't get out by themselves. Why would 'they' want to take them out? How did they open the cells? There are still so many things I don't know. It's good that all this scheming distracts me even if it's only for a while. The dark waters are with me as soon as I close my eyes...

(continued)

Month seven, five-ten days have passed

This 'therapy' I've been following lately hasn't turned out as planned. I guess I'm not as strong as I thought I was. I thought I would help, but I'm as spooked as I was the first day. My adrenaline is killing me, I hate how it feels... Sleep deprivation has made it worse. Any insignificant noise gets me on my nerves... the screeching... I hear it at all times, even when those freaks aren't sharpening their fingers. I don't know how I have managed to stay sane this long. It's unexplainable.
I hate eating these waffles, but I have to do it. When I was finished I threw the container at one of the cell corners, and it slowly disappeared as if the floor 'swallowed' it (this is how we dispose of waste). The block is especially silent today, I decided to take a look. I whish I hadn't. Most of the cells in the same row as my cell are empty, and the ones in front of those are also empty... Cells 1-10 are empty. Mine is the eleventh. I don't know what they do to them after they take them out, but it can't be good.
I realize I've been delaying the inevitable... but now all I have to do is sit down and wait...

I'm lying down, my back facing the front glass wall. Everyone else in the block is asleep. My plan is working. I hear their footsteps approaching... and then fading... I don't know how long I've been waiting, but after a while I hear footsteps again. These are different, they're not as heavy. I keep one of my eyes closed and the other one half opened. Two men. With shaved heads and dark blue jumpsuits. They're standing in front of my cell. One of them is carrying a small artefact. It's silvery, rectangular, with a button in one of its ends.
He pushes it and the front wall of my cell starts to slide upwards, slowly... then one of them grabs me by the jumpsuit collar and drags me out of the cell. He drags me down the hallway by the ankles, leading the way. The other one follows.
Each time we stop in front of a door he uses that artefact, and the doors hiss open.
I keep my eyes closed all the time, but I listen... I swear I can hear the screeching...
Suddenly my body hits something hard and cold, and I no longer feel two hands grabbing my ankles. I hear the men's footsteps fading. I can't see a thing, this place is darker than my cell. It takes a while until my eyes get used to the darkness. I'm lying on a steel table. There's some weird machinery in the wall behind my table... there is another table next to mine. I take a closer look... there is a man lying on it. Well... he isn't a man anymore... the top of his head is missing... a bunch of thin, almost invisible filaments are embedded into the grooves of his brain, attaching three pairs of 'tentacles' to it. His forearms have been amputated, and replaced with mechanical ones. His belly has been ripped open... and emptied. There are more tables lined up next to it. I know what I will see if I take a look and that's why I choose not to. I hear clanging, hammering... it seems to come from a corridor, which leads to a similar room.
When I step in I understand why the man's bowels had been removed. The people in this room are being put through the same 'treatment'. A circular saw cuts them open, then another piece of machinery empties them... the bowels are placed in a conveyor... another piece of machinery compresses them... until they look like the waffles we eat. I get out as quickly as I can, and I can't help it, all of a sudden I puke on the floor. Saliva and gastric juice, with some pieces of indigested waffles. I catch my breath again, when I notice something. I'm not alone. The sound comes from my left. I wait. I lunge in that direction... to stumble upon my warder, her fingers ready. She's fast, but I'm faster, I dodge and kick her in the gut - with no effect. A walking skeleton like me can't be a match for one of those things, but I had to try.
She slams me against the wall, as her hand clenches around my throat, her glowing eyes locked in mine. I can feel the cutting edges and how sharp they are. If she clenches her hand harder she can easily cut my head off. Instead of doing that she raises her free hand. Now I can see them clearly, her fingers have the same shape as human fingers, but they have cutting edges and spiky nails. She jabs them in my shoulder, breaking the scapula in tiny pieces. I don't know how, but I manage not to scream - I don't want to alert any other warders. She tries to enlarge the holes her fingers have left. A bad idea. With great effort I jab both knees in her chest, knocking her off me. She tries to jab her bloodstained fingers, but I'm faster and dodge it. I feel one of her arm tentacles looping around my right wrist, then tugging... and my hand is gone. What it feels like... it can't be described. I grit my teeth and let out a pathetic gasp. Then I run. When I'm safe I stop and remain still, not making a sound. I hear that whiplash sound... then nothing. Then a similar sound, more high pitched... then footsteps heading in my direction. A wall separates us and I'm not moving... then I realize I'm leaving a bloody trail... I smear some blood on the wall and wait. As soon as she shows up I get hold of her hand and jab her own fingers in her other arm, where the upper arm joins the trunk... cutting it off. It's damn heavy, but it will come handy. I notice she has the same problem as the man lying on that table. The top of her brain is exposed. Too bad for her. I jab the sharp fingers in her exposed brains, and the twist them around and around, tearing off one of the tentacles. I'm not sure it will kill her, but I feel much better now. Even if it does, there are still fifteen warders remaining, even if they don't see or hear anything they know I'm here... and they can also smell my blood. I have to get out of here. Looks like I'm lucky today, I didn't expect to find my way to the lift this soon. I get in and push the 'zero' button. It seems to take forever, but eventually the lift stops and its doors open. My eyes scan the room. There are two windows. No glass, just a grill covers them. I knew the mechanical arm would be handy. Its fingers cut through the metallic grill really easily. I get out through the opening easily. I'm standing on a metallic platform high above the sea. It's night time, and thick white mist covers everything. It's raining heavily.

I knew this moment would arrive...I take a few deep breaths and look down... The smallest waves are three times as tall as I am... I jump into the water... all this time making up my mind has been totally useless. It's a lot colder than I thought... as soon as I make contact with the water the anxiety returns, and I'm unable to float. Somehow, after swallowing a lot of water, I manage to come up for air, and then I manage to let out all the water I've swallowed. I can see that the building is supported on four metallic pillars which reach as far under the surface as the eye can see. As I try to collect myself I notice there's something underwater at my right... then it disappears under the blood stain spreading across the surface. I turn in that direction... and then it emerges... here I am face to face with this thing. It has nostrils and a huge mouth. I count five rows of teeth in each jaw, and they're not normal teeth, they're metallic, they're blades. This feeling of impending doom, the same I felt when I had the warder's fingers around my throat starts to take over me again... and just then a huge wave drags me forward. Shortly after that the fish emerges again... it looks like a shark, slightly smaller, with blades instead of teeth... and it can flip like a dolphin. It flips in front of me, blocking my way. I club it with the mechanical arm, keeping it off me. Then I notice there's more of them approaching... there's about five of them. I swim (if you can call it that...) forward, but they are really fast... after a while I notice they're not following me anymore. I look down and I can see why. Underwater there are three rows of pillars with huge spinning helixes at their ends. They create whirlpools. I move forward. Now I have three things to look out for, the helixes, the monster waves, and those things with five rows of teeth. They're flipping between the helixes trying to reach me. One of them flips very close to me, and that's when I realize their caudal fins are blades. I manage to make it past the helix area, with great effort, but two of them are ahead of me, waiting their chance. Luckily I still have my weapon. When I'm about to club one of them, here comes a huge wave, dragging me forward. As I come up for air once again I feel the teeth digging in my flesh, taking my good arm and some more meat with them. I'm bleeding to death and I've lost my only weapon, but I keep moving. There's an area where the water seems to be darker... as soon as I begin to make my way through it I realize the water is sucking me down. Well, that in this area is not water, whatever it is it's a lot darker, so dark you can't see the seabed, and it's sticky... If I still carried my weapon with me it would be slowing me down right now. I begin to make my way though... each time I'm sucked down I try fight back harder... if any of those things have followed me it will suck them down easier... I think this sticky thing is draining my blood... I can't believe it, I'm out! I thought I wouldn't make it. However I don't feel relief. Unexplainably one of those things has made it past the sticky fluid - I move away as fast as I can, my little heart racing... I hear the water splash as it flips trying to reach me... I can't believe it, I can't believe I just outran it... I try to catch my breath...
There's something ahead, to my left. It's not my imagination, it's a boat! As I wave my remaining arm I wonder how the fuck I have gotten so luck-

Number65's head appendixes quivered repeatedly. "There's something ahead, on the right" she said. J.D. reached for his night vision eyepieces. "What is it?". "Looks like our little friends have caught something... the whole pack is feasting on something..." He adjusted the eyepieces and zoomed in. "It's a human head". When the boat arrived in the exact spot they could see it clearly. "Damn, they were really hungry. They caught her by surprise, that's why her eyes are wide opened" J.D. said "Look at her, her face looks like she's still screaming". "How could this happen?" Number65 said as she sharpened the edges of her fingers. "I don't know. No one has ever made it past the helix area - let alone past the 'vacuum' area... We'll have to increase the security measures... possibly enlarge the vacuum area, buy more enhanced animal guardians, rays maybe... We'll collect the head as evidence of what happened".

THE END

Word Count: 3,916
Genre: Garbage Punk
Title: A Ravenous Mind

<Part 1>

Eric pulled off his gas mask and looked at the progress he and his team had made. Not too bad, he thought to himself as he scanned the garbage lines. This year's Stash the Trash Day was bound to at least get some garbage off the streets. But even then, it wouldn't be enough. Eric and his team of five workers had managed to clear a pathway one fourth of the way down the town's main road. With piles of garbage lining the street, this was no easy feat. Eric looked out behind him at the work they had accomplished in the last six hours. He raised his eyes to the horizon line in the distance. For miles on end, all that could be seen were mountainous piles of trash. How long had it been since Eric had seen a green hill covered with flowers? It had certainly been much too long. Eric shook his head and brought himself back to reality. The hill right in front of him was piled high with broken glass bottles, torn papers from books, candy wrappers, moldy pieces of bread, a dark plastic bottle with a Gatorade label partly torn off, and rotten apple cores with tiny worms crawling through what was once a crisp and sweet fruit. As he scanned the pile higher, he almost retreated from the overwhelming task that loomed before him. Eric took a deep breath, gagged, and put his gas mask back on. It wasn't safe to keep it off for long. Not here, not now.

Amy Hanover stepped out from the tunnel onto the newly cleared pathway on Main St. It was so wonderful to see the blackened concrete even though the pathway was barely wide enough to hold two people across. "Amy," called Eric. "Off to see Zach in the hospital?"

"Hello Eric! Great job clearing the path. It is so nice to see the street again." Eric stood a little straighter, his eyes swelling with pride. He had always had a bit of a crush on Amy. Her dark brown shoulder length hair was always neat and shiny, yet never seeming to fall quite into place. It amazed Eric that even in this disgusting world, she remained beautiful and untouched by its horrors. Most of all, he loved the sparkle of her olive eyes when she smiled. Amy walked closer to Eric and for a moment he believed he could smell her cherry vanilla perfume. But the reality of the gas mask hit him first. "Yeah, Zach is not doing any better so I am off to see him in the hospital today." Eric had always been a little jealous of Amy's relationship with her husband. Even years ago when he was much younger, she wouldn't have gone for his rugged look. Now, he was an ungainly shell of the man he once was. Love it seemed had passed him by. Still, in his mind, he imagined that Amy and Zach shared food, talked about books, and tasted rare vintages of wine together--all the things he dreamed of doing with Amy himself. Amy walked along the stretch of clear path and climbed the makeshift stairs made of plastic bottles bonded together with wads of used gum. She turned back one last time to look at Eric and smiled. Eric could see the sparkle he loved through the clear plastic of the gas mask.. He watched as Amy turned around and crawled away through the tunnels. Not far beneath where they had been standing, a steady drip from a corroded pipe was increasing in frequency.

Zach's hospital room was as clean as could be conceived of in a world where garbage fueled day-to-day living. A generator outside the building converted some of the trash into fuel which powered the breathing machines, allowed oxygen to be pumped into the building, and provided light and electricity to flow into the patient rooms. The hospital was the only place in the area with its own generator. All the other houses and buildings had to share the city's common generator. Workers were always being sent out to collect the trash and bring it back to the main generator so that the city could have power. Amy brushed off the top of a partially broken plastic cart and turned it over so she could sit on top of it. Zach's breathing was slow and steady and Amy wondered how it had gotten this bad. Zach was part of a water conservation volunteer team that was working to clean up the town's water supply. They had successfully cleaned and blocked off Water Way 1. The water in that part of town was now deemed drinkable. Two weeks later, Zach started complaining of an upset stomach and extreme exhaustion. Amy, desperate to help her husband in any way she could, had taken him to the doctor to see what they could do.

Doctor Gordon stepped into the room and placed his tablet on the patient's bed. "Dr. Gordon, how is he doing?" Amy asked impatiently. "Do we know what it is yet?"

"Amy, I am afraid that I don't know what it is. The truth of the matter is that the hospital can no longer afford to hold him here and we need the beds for others. There is nothing we can do."

"But Doctor, he is dying. You have to do something." Amy was pleading with the doctor. She did not want to see her husband, her love taken from her.

"My suggestion Amy is to take him home and spend whatever time he has left in your presence. Let him know the comforts of your own home." With that, Doctor Gordon picked up his tablet and left the room. Amy stood by Zach's bed still in shock from what she had just heard. She collapsed back onto the crate and buried her head in her hands. She finally wept the tears she had long held back. Outside in the hallway, a voice called out to Dr. Gordon about a patient that had begun to eat his own fingers. There was a sound of scurrying as nurses and doctors ran to the patient's room to determine what was occurring. Amy perked up when she heard the phrase Water Way 1. Maybe it was another member of the volunteer water team. Amy turned her attention back to Zach upon hearing him call her name.

"Amy?" Zach's meek voice called to her from the bed. "Amy, take me home. A man should die in his own bed." Amy nodded and called for the orderly to help her husband into the rolling chair so that she could take him home.

<Part 2>

Home for Zach and Amy was located in the housing part of town. Here, shacks made out of cardboard, wood, and scraps of metal, were piled on top of one another in an overlapping style. Thus, one had to crawl over other's houses in order to get to his own house. Even if his house was at the bottom of the stack, he still had to travel up a small portion of the garbage mount on top of which was his house. Amy brought the rolling chair to the bottom of the mountain and located their shack midway up the hill. It was quite a climb and Amy sensed that Zach would be relying on her even more than he already was. Amy seeing no other way of getting her husband up the hill, took him out and supported him all the way up. Zach was able to put weight on his feet and seemed to gain some strength back. Amy wrote it off as merely being excited that he was coming home. By the time they had reached the top of the hill, it was past dinnertime. Amy pulled off their gas masks, set them on the hook near the door, and then flipped the switch so that the filter system would kick in. Outside gas masks were needed but inside, they would be okay thanks to the town's shared generator. Amy sat Zach down on the old garbage can they now used as a chair and pulled over the table made of wooden crates glued together. She lit the fire in the orange basin that she and Zach used for cooking and she pulled the rat out of the food box. She picked up the spike from the corner of the room and struck the pointed end in between the rat's eyes. The rat squealed as the spike drove through its body and out its back side. Blood dripped to the floor creating a small pool of red liquid. Amy ignored the blood and placed the rat over the fire turning the spike so that the rat would cook evenly. When the rat was done cooking, she placed it on the boxes and turned to get their supply of salt from the food box. By the time Amy turned to sit down at the table, Zach had already eaten two thirds of the rat. He smiled shyly. "Sorry Amy. I was hungry. Maybe next time we can make it a little more rare though." Amy's eyes widened and her mouth slowly opened as she struggled to find the words to describe her shock.

"That's fine dear. I am glad you are feeling better. I guess I'm just surprised that you are feeling better so suddenly." Zach pondered his wife's last comment. He did feel a lot better but there was still something that had yet to be satiated. There was some desire, some hunger that did not feel like himself. He looked down at the rat's blood on the floor. For a moment, Zach wanted to lick up the blood. But then he shuddered and turned back towards his wife.

"It must just be being at home that made me feel better." He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. She looked so beautiful. Even when she was confused or shocked, she exuded radiance. Amy sat down at the table next to her husband and picked up the last part of the rat that he had not eaten. The blood had dried now but there was still a line of red between the eyes on its head where she had originally driven in the spike. "Can I cut your rat for you?" Zach asked. Amy smiled and nodded glad that she had her husband back by her side. He picked up the rat and began to carefully carve its head into slivers so that Amy could eat. As he was cutting the last sliver, the knife slipped and cut a portion of his thumb. Zach put his thumb in his mouth to stop the bleeding just as Amy got up to get a bandage for Zach's thumb. While Amy was searching for the bandage, Zach discovered that a portion of the flesh had come off on the knife. He picked up the knife and sniffed his dying skin. Amy's back was still turned so he lifted the knife to his mouth and licked the piece of thumb. Satisfied with the taste, he drew the knife temporarily away but then brought it back up to his mouth and ate the piece of flesh that had been stuck on the knife. A grin grew on his face. Zach looked down and saw that his thumb was still bleeding and since he had needed to take it out to eat the piece on the knife, it had become red with blood. He put his thumb back into his mouth and savored the taste of his own blood. Wanting more, Zach bit down on his own finger and let out a moan in pain. Amy came back with the towel to stop the blood. Zach pulled the thumb out of his mouth and placed his hand in his wife's so that she could administer the bandage. Amy nearly retched. A rat's blood did not bother her, but to see her husbands cut thumb with a portion of the bone protruding out of the leftover skin, which was still spouting blood, was almost too much for her. Still, right now she had to be here for her husband. She had to help him. Amy placed the bandage on his thumb and then went back in the tiny back room to throw away the scraps. This usually meant throwing them out the window and landing them on someone else's house. Then it was someone else's problem.

Zach sat on the floor next to the table and wondered what was going on. It seemed odd to him that he should want to bite his own thumb. Yet, the taste and the desire to eat raw flesh could not be denied. He looked down at a piece of dried skin on the bottom of his foot and wondered if he would like that too. Zach peeled a piece of dried foot skin off of his heel and took a small piece of it in his mouth. He decided that it tasted alright but raw flesh was much tastier. Zach looked at his own body and felt a surge of energy rush through him. He wanted skin and blood and bones. He wanted to taste everything. Mostly, he wanted to taste her. In his mind he had this idea that she would taste even better than he did. Amy came back into the room and saw her husband now standing next to the table. He had a wild look about him that she had not seen since they had been married six years ago. She flashed him a sly smile and walked over to his side. Zach looked at his wife wondering if she could guess what was actually going through his head. Whether she knew what he wanted. He pulled her by the wrist and ran with her down the hill to the side of Water Way 1.

<Part 3>

Zach pushed Amy down onto the pile of dirty newspapers on the side of the garbage mountain. "Won't we need our gas mask?" she breathlessly asked. Zach just shook his head. He wanted her and this was not a time to worry about the toxins in the air. This was the last time he would ever take her. His ravenous eyes scanned her delectable body up and down. He pulled at her shirt and tore the buttons exposing her black lacy bra beneath. Zach's hands hungrily grabbed at her breasts and her naked skin beneath him. He could almost taste the joy and anticipation. He took her ring finger in his mouth and sucked on the skin. He watched as she shivered pulling him closer to her. Amy moaned as she felt his mouth moving along her fingers and up her arm. It seemed like Zach wanted to taste every part of her body. His mouth moved over her body like it was the last time he would ever have her. Zach pulled up her denim skirt and removed the black lacy underwear she had been wearing. He groaned as he placed himself inside her. Their motions together were perfect and Zach couldn't help but think that this was how he wanted it to end. Zach placed his lips near her neck and licked the skin just below her ear. Amy shivered in anticipation and pulled him closer to her. His mouth moved up to her ear and he put the lobe of her ear in his mouth and nibbled at the skin. Her nervous laughter fueled his sex drive even more. Zach's smile was villainous. This time he bit down harder and tore a bloody piece of her ear entirely off. Thick, red, velvet blood flowed from the side of her head. Amy's screams and hysterical crying annoyed him. He remembered hearing about an artery in the neck that when severed caused the person to lose consciousness. Although Zach did not know exactly where this artery was located, he decided it would be better than hearing her screams. He leaned down and bit at Amy's silken white neck and watched as her head fell back to her shoulder. Now, Zach could enjoy his food in peace and quiet. He picked up the piece of ear cartilage from the ground eyed his treat. He chewed that portion of her ear and then went back for the piece that was still hanging from the side of her head. Zach was so turned on by the site of her skin falling off her body, that he reached his orgasm even before he took the second bite of Amy's skin. Zach pulled himself off of his wife and eyed her delicious and smooth looking skin. It was so white and pure against the contrasting piles of trash beneath her body. He lifted up the arm that was still holding onto the ear and again sucked on her finger. When he bit down this time, he did not taste the chewy sensation of the cartilage but rather the crunchy taste of bones. It was like each part of her had a different taste and a different consistency. Zach glanced down at her half naked body. Amy's bra had been thrown away and was now lying on top of a half eaten bag of moldy pretzels and next to a wrapped twinkie. Zach looked hungrily at her breasts and brought his mouth down upon her luscious flesh. The fatty consistency was undoubtedly his favorite. Blood covered the ground around him and stained his lips bright red. Her chest was now a flat wasteland of blood and bone. The more Zach tasted of her, the more he needed, the more he craved.

Eric was just about to call it a night and send his team home, when he heard a distant scream. He recognized Amy's voice and went running to help her. Eric desperately looked around trying to locate where her voice was coming from. He heard another scream and then silence. Eric feared he was already too late. He continued to run as he followed where the voice had been coming from. As Eric ran, his foot stepped on something squishy. Eric convinced it was a piece of garbage, continued on without much notice. It was not until he realized that the squishy object was attached to his shoe that he stopped and lifted his foot. It appeared to be a round slimy ball. In his quick look, Eric noticed a familiar glint of green. He walked over to it and picked up the ball. Immediately he realized how he knew the glint of green. He pictured her smile and the sparkle of her olive eyes. By the time Eric arrived on the scene, his eyes grew in shock and terror. What had once been a beautiful human being was now a sight that made him want to throw up. Amy's body was in three distinct locations with various parts scattered in between. It seemed the main part of her body was against the mountain of newspapers on the far side of the water way. Her arm and part of her leg were about one hundred feet away down the hill. The rest of her parts were half bitten and had chew marks in them to the other side of her body. Zach was crouched over what might have been a leg and was ripping chunks of flesh off of it before going back for more. Eric walked towards Zach with a thunderous rage building up inside him. His steps were slow but purposeful as he approached the savage being. Disgusted, he threw the eyeball at Zach who was still munching away at the leg. "Was this not good enough for you? Did you not like her eyeball? Why didn't you eat it you sick fuck?" Zach slowly raised his eyes to the man who was standing before him. His smile spread side to side revealing a grin tinted with red splotches of blood.

"Come join me friend and feast!" Zach gestured to the body parts that were strewn all around him. "It is far too good a body to waste on one man alone."

"I will cut you down and feed you to the crows. You don't deserve to even touch her. Get the fuck away from her body!"

<Part 4>

"My friend, why the hostility? There is plenty for all. We should share in what we could all have. After all," before Zach could finish, a fist landed on the side of his face knocking him to the ground. Zach smiled and wiped his own blood from the side of his face with the back of his hand. He licked his own hand and watched as his adversary cringed. "It's really not so bad. You should try it. In some ways, it tastes just like chicken but so much better." With that, Zach picked up a bone from Amy's arm and smacked Eric on the side of the head. Eric stumbled and fell back towards the water way. Amy's blood from the arm soaked into his hair and dried in chunks giving him a crazed look. Eric mustered up his rage and threw his entire body at Zach. As Eric's body came at him, Zach opened up his arms and grabbed a hold of him. Zach was in reach of Eric's neck and located the same spot that had caused Amy to lose consciousness. He moved his mouth towards Eric's neck but Eric moved his head just in time and Zach's bite did not severe the artery. The blood that came from Eric's neck was now staining his shirt and hand. He fell back onto the trash pile and tried to catch his breath. Before he could gather his strength again, Zach ran at him swinging Amy's arm over his head. Blood was splattering out of the arm as he threw it about and brought it down hard on Eric's head. Eric reached out to grab at Zach but only manage to grab hold of his shirt before he was hit. The impact of the hit caused both men to be pulled into Water Way 1. Eric started sinking as soon as he hit the water but the cold and new sensation brought him back to his senses. Eric was enraged and he grabbed at Zach's head and shoved it under water. The area around the two was turning a murky red. Bright red ripples were flowing out into other parts of the water way. Zach was struggling to come up for air as Eric continued to hold him under water. Zach's body began to spasm as he lost oxygen and finally went still. Eric pulled himself out of the water way and crawled on the side. He coughed up water and blood and then collapsed. He was sickened by everything that had happened. His body had ingested the water and he was exhausted. He slowly stood up and made his way to the hospital so that he could clean up his wounds. Eric placed his hand up to the side of his neck where he had been bitten by Zach. His hand came away stained with red. Eric looked at his hand and licked the thumb in order to clear away the blood. Not too bad he thought to himself. Sucking the fingers of his hand so that he could taste the blood, Eric continued on to the hospital a maddened look in his eyes.

The Good Doctor
Genre: Steam / Clock Punk
Word Count: 4,964

The rain hammered down on the corrugated iron roof, an ill-fitting accompaniment to the crackle of the fire and the beating of a hammer on an anvil. As the cold air mixed with the smoke billowing from hundreds of chimneys, a young, well built man worked tirelessly by the forge. He beat a sheet of metal into a roughly rounded shape and checked it against a set of measurements. He placed the piece on a cart, loaded with other pieces of similarly shaped metal.

Walking over to a sand box, he knocked the sand away from the castings of a new set of cogs and gears. These received a cursory brush off and were added to the cart as well. He wiped his hands on an oily rag and walked out of the forge. A few minutes later, he drove a smoking behemoth of a horseless carriage to the doors. This beast is a harsh, unforgiving lump of machinery that throws yet more black smoke into the atmosphere, contributing to the sulphurous overtones in the air. He pulled a tarpaulin over the equipment and hooked the cart to the machine. His goggles were covered in raindrops and he draged the back of his sleeve across the lenses, before mounting the carriage and driving off into the night.

A little time passed and a large house on the outskirts of town is the destination. The man pulled up and dismounted, before running to the door and pulling a chain. A klaxon sounded in the distance and the gates swung open on well greased mechanisms. As the carriage and cart made their way down the driveway, a door opened in the building and the heavily laden vehicle descended deep into the bowels of the stately home.

"Horgan, your time between trips is increasing. I do hope that I am not driving you to exhaustion." A deep, booming tone crackled out of a speaker tube that the carriage was driving past. Horgan stopped the carriage and looked over at the speaker tube, before raising his voice to speak to it.

"Not yet, sir. I have another consignment of parts for you."

"Clearly you do. Bring them to room six." There was a hiss from the speaker tube, signalling to Horgan that the conversation had ended. He climbed back behind the steering wheel and released the brake. A sharp hiss of steam from the pistons set his machine back in motion and he proceeded to a room marked with a large white 6 painted above. The smoke from the fires of steam boilers had caused the whitewash to darken over time, but it was still serviceable.

Horgan hauled on a lever and the two doors swung inwards, revealing what looked like a large workshop. He drove his carriage into this room and used a small crane to hoist the parts making up his consignment off the cart. As he returned to his vehicle, he noticed a white envelope sitting on the front seat, where only a few moments before, he had been sitting. In an impressive script, the name "Horgan" had been scrawled.

"Where did you come from?" Asked Horgan as he flicked open his pocket knife and slit the envelope.

"Mr. Horgan,

Thank you for your diligent work in supplying me with lots of spare parts over the years. My people have had the payment delivered to your bank, as per our usual agreement. Please could I request that you remove the three boxes of waste materials on the right as you enter the room. They may require the use of the hoist to remove them, however, I am sure a man of your means will be able to find a use for the materials within.

With thanks,

Dr. Michael Smith."

"Thank you, sir." Horgan folded the letter neatly and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket, then walked over to three large crates that appeared to be full, covered in an oily tarpaulin. He hauled back the tarp and cast an appraising eye over the contents, impressed with the mighty haul of scrap that had been gifted to him by his most mysterious client.

Quickly rigging the hoist and loading his cargo, he threw the tarpaulin back over the crates and secured them with a number of chains. "I wonder when I'll get to see you again, Doctor?" Horgan posed the question half heartedly to himself as he climbed back aboard his carriage and suddenly he stopped, an icy-cold feeling gripping his spine. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks, or perhaps the atmosphere, rich with sulphates affecting him. He could have sworn he heard Doctor Smith's voice saying "soon enough."

"Doctor Smith?" Horgan called out toward the darkness, to be greeted with no answer. As he turned to ask again, a great piece of metalwork creaked overhead and to his left, a piston let out its spent steam charge. "Maybe he's right. Maybe I am exhausted," he told himself, as he climbed aboard once more, driving back to his metallurgist's shop.

When he arrived back at his shop, he parked the carriage in one of his larger smelting works and unhooked it. He backed the vehicle out and shut the massive double doors behind him, before walking to the house front, which was effectively his own home.

"Billy!" Horgan bellowed as he entered the room, causing the cat to jump excitedly. A young man came up from the cellar, brushing sleep from his eyes half-heartedly. "Go and park the carriage and take the fire out of it. I've had enough for one day."

"Yes, Mr. Horgan." Billy tried to stifle a yawn. "How is the good Doctor?"

"You'll be able to go and ask him yourself if you keep standing there, idling about, my lad. Now get!" Billy ran off towards the carriage, to carry out his master's wishes. Horgan climbed the stairs and went to bed, his mind troubled by a few niggling doubts.

The next morning, a fog blocked out most of the light and Horgan awoke from a night's broken sleep, having been unable to stop his mind from racing. He washed and shaved, before dressing and heading downstairs for breakfast. There was a pot of tea on the range when he entered the kitchen and neither Billy, nor his lady companion, the widow Harris, were anywhere to be seen. He poured himself a strong black cup of tea and sugared it generously, before walking to the front of the shop, to collect his morning's order book.

The day passed quite quickly, preparing parts and new contraptions for people that paid well for a man of Horgan's skill. It must have been the reason that Doctor Smith employed him, as he was the best in the city at his trade, without question or doubt. At about half past four, Billy returned to his master's side, the young apprentice bearing a plate of food and more tea.

"Mr. Horgan, you have not stopped all day and you barely touched your tea this morning. Please, eat something and stop a while." Horgan was sketching idly on one of his larger drawings marked "21" - the customer number for Doctor Smith. He bit a large chunk off the bread roll that was on the plate and smiled at Billy, a spark of triumph in his eyes.

"Thank you, Billy. Go and tell the stokers to fire up the number 2 smelter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a timepiece, checking the hour of the day was still reasonable. He pulled out six one-inch silver coins and handed them to Billy. Give one florin to each of the stokers for their time this evening and the other three are for yourself. Have a pleasant evening tonight.

Billy ran as fast as he could through the corridors, until he reached the boiler room, which kept the master's steam pumps powered in the workshops. As he opened the door, he was greeted by three burly men, stripped to the waist, covered in soot and sweat. "The boss wants you to fire up the number 2 smelter. Says that he's got some important work that needs taking care of and that you men can have a bonus of one florin, for stopping."

2/4

"Well, boys..." one of the three had stopped to lean on his shovel and was directing his scornful approach to the young apprentice. "I guess that means we've got some work to do. Just leave the florins by the tea stove and we'll get to work, Master William." As Billy approached the bench and set down the three coins as instructed, one of the other men went and pulled a large lever, closing off the feed for the fire that the men had been working at, before opening one a little further along. A large hoist was used to manoeuvre a pile of coal into position and in no time at all, the boiler began to steam.

Back in the room where the cart had been parked the night before, Horgan locked himself in, removed his jacket and absent mindedly tapped on a gauge, checking the pressure of the steam, as it started to climb slowly. Putting on a pair of large work gloves, he climbed up onto the cart and started to sift through the boxes of discarded materials that had been left to him by Dr. Smith.

Bent pieces of metal sheeting and pipework were tossed aside into piles for reclamation. The first two boxes yielded a fine haul, so Horgan retired from the cart and loaded up the copper pile into a large bucket, before moving the cargo above the furnace, to begin the process of melting down the metal. Leaving that to work away, he returned to the third box and pulled a large cast of iron that had been shattered away from the top. As that hit the floor with a clang, he turned his gaze back, to be greeted by what looked like a suit or armour from the medieval age. As he cast an appraising gaze over the suit, a modification caught his eye.

"Hmm... someone has been working on this... It looks like the plates have been welded together. Why would someone want to throw this away?" He climbed back down and found some heavy duty straps to wrap around the armour, enabling him to hoist it out in one move.

"I didn't want to 'throw it away', Mr. Horgan. I wished to show a craftsman my handiwork." Horgan's blood froze, as he turned slowly around to look at the box on the cart where the familiar voice had come from. He looked on in horror, as a gauntleted hand reached out of the box and took a grip on the side, heaving itself up. The helm turned towards the figure with a sound of metal passing over metal with a screech. "I do hope that you admire the work, Mr. Horgan."

"Bu-b-b-but why, Doctor Smith? Why?" Hogan's arms dropped, still carrying the heavy duty sash, now no longer required for such a hoist. The mechanical creation stepped over the edge of the box, delicately lowering itself off the cart and walking jerkily over to Horgan. Slowly, the helm was lifted, revealing the fact of Doctor Smith, recognisable, despite being shaven of his trademark moustache and mutton chops.

"You may wish to be seated for this tale, Mr. Horgan." Obediently, Horgan pulled up a chair, still fingering the coarse material between his fingers.

"You see, about six months ago, while I was conducting some research with a now former colleague of mine, Doctor Marcus Weatherspoon, I decided that I was going to look into the physical principles of clockwork. You see, we believed that the steam age is coming to an end. Our principles revolved around the simple clock and replacing complex steam drives that may enable us to make smaller, more intricate machines. Steam still has quite an advantage while lumbering with great cargoes, in industries such as your own." Horgan raised a smile half-heartedly, still in a state of shock.

"I was in the library, at the top of a ladder. I found the book that I was looking for, but alas, it was not within reach of where I stood. In too much of a rush to descend, move the ladder and try again, I reached across. I grasped the spine of the book, but as I pulled it, I lost my balance and the ladder slipped from my feet. Clutching to the bookcase, I clung on for what seemed like hours, before the whole case slowly tipped toward the centre of the room."

"How are you still here today, Doctor? A fall like that should kill a man, surely."

"That is indeed so. When I awoke, I was confronted by Doctor Weatherspoon, who probed me with intense questioning before even revealing to me what had happened. When he found me, my body was broken and crushed beneath the oaken bookcase. I was apparently in a very bad state and had lost a lot of blood. With a few colleagues from the medical profession, Weatherspoon worked quickly, removing my legs and most of my arms, to prevent further loss of blood. I was still in a very bad way, so he decided to apply our works to my soon-to-be corpse." Smith moved a hand to a part of the breastplate, covering his chest and opened a small door, exposing a mechanism within the armour. No human element was in there, just a set of cogs, wheels and a small pendulum.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock, was the only sound that became painfully obvious above the fires melting the copper back into the raw metal.

"And now, I stand before you with a proposition, Mr. Horgan." Smith closed the hold in his chest. "Doctor Weatherspoon has gotten too big for his boots and now regards me as his property. He may have saved my life, but underneath all of the machinery, I am still a man."

"I cannot fault that logic, as you still stand there before me, Doctor. What do you need from me?"

"I am sure that we can come to some sort of arrangement, Mr.Horton."

That night, the sound of hammers echoed through the workshop and the stokers worked hard to earn their additional florin bonus.

Across town, Doctor Marcus Weatherspoon sat at a desk, writing a letter to a colleague at the Royal Society.

"I have completed my latest research project and can present a copy of the results at the forthcoming seminar. I believe that these findings will cause quite a stir and as a result may well change the way that we look upon technology for all time. Using the principles of steam and fluid dynamics, we can make our technology more compact and even replace amputated limbs.

I look forward to receiving a slot for presenting on the 12th of next month."

Weatherspoon signed the document and called forth a servant to have the letter delivered.

"Perhaps I should go and pay my dear old friend Michael a visit. After all, he will need a chance to prepare for the big show." With that, he stood up, and was helped into his overcoat by his butler, who handed him his top hat and cane.

The journey by carriage was a short one. Great clouds of steam billowed into the evening mist with a hiss, as Weatherspoon stepped into the street. As the Doctor unlocked the front door of Smith's house, before entering, the butler stepped out of the car and lit a cigarette, grateful for the chance to relax. Rubbing his hands together against the cold, he almost swallowed the cigarette when Doctor Weatherspoon returned from the house, flustered and panicked.

"He's gone! Come on man, we've got to find him, and quickly!" The butler dropped his cigarette and ran to the house, where both men searched the house from top to bottom.

"Well, did you find anything that might show where he could be?"

"No sir. He can't have gone far, surely. Where should we look?"

"I think that the best course of action is for me to retire to consider my next move. If you think of anywhere that he may have gone, please tell me." As they drove back to the Doctor's residence, Weatherspoon's mind raced, as to where his former colleague could be.

As they arrived at Weatherspoon's home, a black, marked police carriage was present and an officer stood at the door, impassively. The Doctor climbed out of his carriage and approached the officer, tipping his hat in a gentlemanly fashion.

3/4

"Good evening, officer, I trust that everything is in order."

"That it is sir. Just a few routine enquiries, so if you could be about your business, all will be well." The Doctor was taken aback by the standard response of one of the constabulary.

"I will sir, just as soon as you stand aside and allow me to enter my own home!" The constable visibly bristled at this and tried to recover.

"Is that so? Could I please ask your name, sir?" The constable flicked open a notebook and licked his pencil, ready to note down this for his report to his senior officers.

"Doctor Marcus Weatherspoon. I live here at number 72 Westminster Drive." He waited patiently, as the policeman painstakingly wrote this all down.

"Very well, sir. Please, follow me." The constable turned and walked in through the door. As Weatherspoon followed, he noted that the door handle had been crushed out of shape and the door frame showed signs of a forced entry, with the frame being broken to splinters near where the locks had been located. They walked to the dining room, where a small group of officers had taken up residence, spreading bits and pieces of paperwork across the table.

"Sergeant Taylor, this is a Mister Weatherspoon to see you. He claims that he lives here."

"That's Doctor Weatherspoon, for your records, constable." He took off his hat in disgust, and handed it with the cane to the butler, who walked off slowly, to deliver them to their proper place.

"Well, Doctor... It seems that we have a strange crime on our hands here. It seems that someone, or something broke into your house in order to deliver something, as opposed to stealing something." The sergeant stood up and approached the Doctor, looking him up and down, regarding the large moustache that joined up with his sideburns, making him look more or less like he was permanently frowning. The fact that the Doctor was not happy did not help the look at all.

"Well, that about sums up the Royal Mail for you, doesn't it, sergeant?" The sergeant took the mocking tone as an insult, but ploughed on nonetheless.

"Apparently the thing looked like," The sergeant consulted his notebook "'A suit of armour from the middle ages'. It broke in through your front door, caused your scullery maid to faint, walked into your study, deposited a note addressed to yourself on the desk and then left. You wouldn't happen to know anything about something like that, would you, sir?"

"A suit of armour, you say? I can't say that I would know much about one of those. Not my field or expertise, I'm afraid. Where did you say it went to when it left?"

"Well, it walked out of the door and mounted a carriage, which drove off, so there were at least two persons that know something about it. Might I ask what you field of expertise is, sir?"

"Fluid dynamics. If I were trying to break down a door, I would have just used a compression piston to force my way in. Better yet, if I were delivering a letter, I would have used the letterbox."

The sergeant's eyes narrowed at the Doctor's description of how to break into his own home. He flicked the notebook shut and replaced it in his pocket. "If you do think of anything that might assist us with our enquiries, please do not hesitate to inform us. The station is at the corner of Saint Georges Way."

When the officers had left, the butler made a good job of shutting the door and bracing it for the night. When he walked into the study, he found the Doctor sitting at his desk, clutching a large glass of Brandy and reading a simple note.

"Things may have just passed beyond my control, Wilson."

"Sir? Are you feeling alright?"

"Not really. I think that something life changing is going to happen on the 12th at the Royal Society." Doctor Weatherspoon stood up and left the room to retire for the evening. The note drifted across the writing desk, fluttering to a stop under the lamp. As the butler went to switch off the light, he looked at the note that was written in a child-like script, as if the author had not had much practice.

"Marcus,

Do not fear, I will be at the Royal Society, as discussed. I wouldn't miss it for the world.

MS.

* * *

Plans had been prepared over the course of a few days and with the expert craftsmanship of Horgan, Doctor Smith was satisfied with the results. He walked past a rack, containing what looked like parts of his armour, but slightly different. These were highly polished and were only recently constructed. Pistons and linkages protruded from spare limbs and inside his metal helm, Smith smiled to himself, sensing that he had found someone able to fulfil his wildest dreams. He looked at the calendar, which had the numbers crossed out to the 10th of the month.

Grasping a pen awkwardly in his gauntlet, Smith crossed through the number 11, marking that in a few hours time, it would be his chance to show the Society what was the biggest development in human history since the advent of fire.

"Do you never sleep, Doctor?" Horgan paced across the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes and idly swigging a mug of black tea.

"My dear Mr. Horgan, I have not slept a wink since my accident. I need no rest, save only an occasional hour or so when I can allow my mind to wander." Smith brushed a speck of dust off his shoulder. "I think that we are finally ready to head to the Royal Society." The young man's face was a triumphant grin, although over the last week, he had visibly aged. The man and the machine both loaded the collection of gadgets onto the cart in solemn silence, realising that this could be the end of their brief tenure together. Stepping into one of the crates, he pulled the side closed behind him and lowered the visor of his helm, resuming his disguise.

"Mr. Hogan, if I still drank, I would propose a toast to the future." He bowed his head, as if there was nothing substantial within the armour.

"We shall wish it in, Doctor. God speed, my friend." He placed the lid on the crate and nailed it in place.

* * *

The Royal Society was already bustling by the time a rather pale and anxious Doctor Weatherspoon arrived. He shook hands warmly with a few friendly members, but could not shake the feeling of worry from him. He had not heard or seen his former colleague since the incident at his home, but he was sure that the demonstration was performed at his home for a reason. Having checked Smith's home daily, he was somewhat surprised to see that there was no sign at all of his presence. He took his place, careful to keep his emotions in check, as he was still in good stead, with a detailed presentation ready.

As the evening wore on, various people presented unspectacular pieces, which Weatherspoon found thoroughly boring. As his speech approached, he walked toward the stage and out into the corridor to the rear, to get some fresh air. As he passed into the local alley, he bumped into a middle aged man, who was rushing around the area, attending to some last minute preparations of some sort.

"Oh, I am sorry. Dr. Weatherspoon, isn't it?" The man caught Weatherspoon, just as he was about to move past him, not wanting to cause an incident.

The Doctor blustered as the man recognised him almost instantly. "It was. How did you know my name?"

"You are a much talked about member, sir. I create parts for some of your colleagues. David Horgan, of Horgan Metallurgy." The man smiled, as he gave his business patter a quick run.

"Ah yes. Forgive me, I must make a few last minute preparations of my own." Horgan nodded, as the Doctor hurried off for a last minute panic.

When Weatherspoon returned, he was announced to the stage and swiftly moved to the lectern, where he received a rapturous round of applause. When this had died down, he cleared his throat and smiled nervously toward the crowd.

4/4

"Ladies and Gentlemen, esteemed members of the Society. I have been working on a project that could change the face of machinery forever. The amalgamation of steam, clockwork and fluid hydraulics has been proposed before, but on a much smaller scale. I propose to make it bigger and better." He droned on for a few minutes more, regarding how the fluids could not be compressed like steam and in combination with clockwork could be made into much more intricate systems.

"I did have a working prototype, but alas, with innovation as it is, there were always issues, so the project could not be brought to fruition."

"UNTIL NOW!" A voice to the side drew everyone's attention from the lectern and a few gasps were heard, as the full plate suit of Doctor Smith walked into the auditorium. Standing slightly to the left of the lectern, Smith raised his visor. "Good evening, honoured members. A slight issue befell me recently and, without the quick actions of Doctor Weatehrspoon and the Royal College of Surgeons, I probably would not be here today. You see, the technology that the good Doctor alludes to is what keeps me alive today." He nodded to his right and Horgan came out, assisting, by removing the Doctor's left arm. He walked back to the door and pulled a large trolley out, containing an array of the pieces that were a part of the works completed.

Slowly and methodically, Horgan pieced together a second body from the parts - two legs, a lower and upper torso formed in front of the members, who were intrigued. "Now comes the real science, ladies and gentlemen. Technically, we must cease the life of Doctor Smith momentarily."

"I do so voluntarily, do not fear, dear viewers." He nodded to Horgan, who undid two bolts, before removing the head and shoulders of smith from the first body and placing it on the second, before replacing the connections with surgical precision. He opened the chest cavity and moved the pendulum, which started the machinery working. Smith raised his head "You see, there is nothing to fear, as I am still here among us all." Horgan busied himself with attaching the arms of the piece, before finally removing the protective head plate and replacing it with one more befitting to the black and silver livery adorning this menacing piece.

"Of course, now that we have dealt with that part of the business, we can state that this piece of work here," he gestured with a sweeping gesture towards the part constructed body in the suit of armour, "is Doctor Weatherspoon's work, so please judge him on that. My work, in conjunction with Mr. Horgan, is on display here." His arms indicated himself and as he moved, he seemed to be enjoying more precision and freedom to move.

Slowly, the members of the society got to their feet, applauding the mechanical man standing before them, like a conqueror. His smile was broad and while he was now nine feet tall, he still stood, humbled by the honour of the society. Taking in the applause, he turned to his former colleague.

"You tried to laud me as your finest creation, Marcus. I am only the creation of God. I have merely taken his work and yours and have... improved it." Visibly shaken, Weatherspoon took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the sweat from his brow and retired from the stage.

After spending several hours answering questions about how this would affect mankind and how it could be applied, Smith called the evening to a close and, stunned by the positive reception, left the Society. Having helped Horgan to load the cart up, he stood on the back, pulling the tarpaulin over his head. "Could you take me to the park. I feel like taking a quiet stroll for a while?" Horgan agreed to this, as the recent weeks had been long and tiring, even for a human, but for a machine, such as Smith, he could only speculate. Smith dropped off the cart when they reached the park and he bid the Metallurgist a good evening.

"I believe that I shall see you tomorrow, Mr. Horgan. Your fine talents will make you a lot of money in the near future, I can say."

"Thank you, sir. When should I return to fetch you?"

The scientist shook his head, with a smile. "No need, my friend. I will walk home myself from here." As the carriage drove away, Smith walked across the park and started walking up Westminster Drive. "One last thing, before we make the world better..."

Genre: Biopunk
Not in Seven Years
She had not seen the sun in seven years. It was there, she knew, but she no longer believed. And if sometimes her days were punctured by memories of bright sand and a warmth on her cheek, they were scarce and hurt less as the years rolled on.
Beside her in the dark, Dog slept. He slept truly, the sleep of the conscienceless. She woke many times in the night alone, unable to dream any longer, sitting in the shadow rooms, drawing her knees up to her breast and reaching out a hand to touch Dog's chest, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his breath, feeling the feeble, steady thump of his heart. Though her touch was not gentle, never once had Dog woken. She drew comfort from his presence, but no peace. Because she had a knowledge in her bones that whoever was beside her could not stop whatever was outside.
Once upon a time this thought would have sent a cramp to her tender belly and raised nervous goosepimples. The truth of it was instinct now, and kept her alive longer than she would have guessed. A person or a thing can be taken from you, and ripped out of you, no matter how surely the threads of relationship are sewn into your being. But when yourself was taken, nothing would remain to mourn. Her tongue swept over her molars as she thought on this. The burden was heaviest on those who survived, needing to carry memories of eyeball splattered deaths and mewling, sickling pleas for a bullet through the skull.
Dog stirred. He must be waking, because he never moved in sleep. She pressed her tongue against her eyeteeth and felt a dull ache. New cavities. How long since she had tasted toothpaste? A few months ago, but maybe only a few days?
"Hey." He said, the dark skin wrinkled sadly beneath his eyes. She carefully stretched out a leg and turned towards the boarded windows.
"Probably it's time for us to go." She jerked her chin towards the window. They stood and stared out the tiny spaces between the wooden slates, peering intently out the frosted glass, though neither one could make out a goddamn thing.

Their motto was to follow the smoke, follow the smog. Dog would chant "Follow the smoke" like a mystic prayer. She preferred 'smog' because everything was green-grey and thick, toxic tasting and toxic smelling; an industrial fart. She did not pray or wish to find it. A residue of the procedures, it obliterated the sun, anchored down the dark, stretching so far overhead it became sky.
Where smog was, sometimes people were. Or anyway, the in-between things like them. But she and Dog were specific in their searches. They did not want people - they wanted THE SCIENTISTS. The DOCTORS. She rolled the names in her head - PatriciaOtocosJohnFlemingYvanPioleBillHo ldertheThird. To amuse herself, she aristocratically rolled the 'r's' of Dr. Holder's name as she recited silently.
She and Dog walked the sullen streets with a torch in their hands, shoulder-to-shoulder close, the dirt exchanged on their clothing. If they were outnumbered, the fires would do no good. But the fire could be used on themselves because in a bad situation, the best choice was always to burn.
Today, they picked their way to an old hospital belching chemicals into the grey dome of the sky. It was twenty blocks north and there were many sewers and dark businesses and apartments standing sentinel in between. She smiled when she thought of the Scientists in the hospital, any hospital. Dog glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and frowned at the deadened curl of her lips, but knew better than to ask about it.
A creak made them both freeze and without moving her torso, she stiffly turned her neck left. Dog did the same, a puff of breath escaping his nostrils. Her eyes scanned the thing quickly. A head, no arms, eyes and nose and ears, no mouth. Gotta get that mouth, she thought fiercely. But it also had those stiff legs, which had given her the warning. She carefully bent her knees, the torch in one hand and a shitty, rusting pipe in the other.
Its legs scissored forward in epileptic twitches and she almost took a hit by keeping her eyes focused on those veined limbs. She swung the pipe in a smooth arc and knocked the head off, sending it flying. As it fell through the air, the mouth squared open to emit a warbling, high pitched wail, crackling, unbearable.
"Fucking shit - " Dog leaped forward and stomped it in, difficult to do, its mouth snapping like a fish, keening and keening and keening until he had finally smashed its entire cheek and teeth and mouth in. Even then, the head twitched relentlessly - finally it fell silent. Dog's sneakers were covered in blood and grey pieces of skin, mixed like congealed head cheese. In the poor light, the thick blood looked like cherry pie filling; bright and mucosal.
"Hurry, c'mon, we can't stick around." She was already moving; it was all right - Dog had much longer legs and would easily catch up. And already, her sharp ears could make out the stumbling creaks, the same keening pitch, a blasphemy to human ears. Boxes spilled over in alleys as they shuffled out, and thumpings, from those coming around garbage cans, around unseen corners.
She sucked in mouthfuls of the smog and ran unthinkingly. It was only a few blocks more to the hospital. A stitch started in her side, but she forged ahead, used to physical ache and to pain and to desperate runs.
"Wait." Dog panted. "Wait." She turned to him in surprise and slowed, but did not stop. He stumbled and bent over, breathing harshly. Her arteries were churning and she couldn't hear anything over her own breathing.
She walked over and looked at his face. Beneath his almost black skin, he was turning a faint purple. This had never happened before. She gulped down air and her hand shook from lack of oxygen as she placed it on his back, feeling his body tremble.
"You 'kay?" He shook his head.
"Hard - to - " He gestured jerkily to his chest. "Sorry - "
"We have to get to the hospital." Her voice softened. "If something's wrong, we'll find something at the hospital." These were stupid, meaningless words because she was no doctor and knew nothing about medicine. He knew that too, but smiled at her clumsy attempts to help, a warm look which made her turn away. She wished he wouldn't do that; even after three years, she never knew how to respond.
Four blocks to go and they made it okay.

Dark and gray inside the hospital. It smelled familiarly like piss and bleach. Broken lamps, broken beds, and a few broken corpses with their cleanly stripped bones lined the halls. Thank God no flesh was left or the smell would have made her vomit. There were seven floors and they were going to explore them all.
No one on the first four floors, so Dog began to feel comfortable, chatty. This was a problem he always had, but it hadn't killed them yet; came close a few times, but no dice. She rolled her eyes when he began to ask questions, but answered obligingly, kept her voice nice and low so no echoes sounded in the gloomy halls.
"What do you think the Scientists are gonna do when we find them?" He looked carefully into a black room. She stepped back with the pipe held ready. Nothing.
"I dunno. Maybe they'll try to kill us." She cocked her head, but dismissed a scuttling noise in the pipes as rats. Some motherfucking big rats. Mutants everywhere these days.
"Where do you really think they all are?"
"Hiding. Dead. Drinking appletinis."
"I want an apple. I'm hungry as hell." She could hear the smile in his voice.
"Yeah."
"What...are you gonna say to them?" Why did he always ask the same damn questions? She sighed loudly, no mistaking her exasperation.

"I'm going to say, 'suck it, you motherfuckers'." She snapped. Dog waited patiently, knew how to play the game. They turned a corner in sync and she started in surprise at their images in the round corner mirror. Disturbed by her grungy face and wild eyes, she ducked her head down, a sharp pang in her throat for the girl she used to be.

Silly, how it would come to her like this. She couldn't even remember herself. It was like thinking on a photograph, so familiar, but the details fell away. The old world was comfortable and somehow artificial; pain and danger made this one real. Long ago, she had been young and her black hair shiny and clean and she had gone to a school and had warm showers - long showers. She never knew what monsters were or what a half-devoured person looked like, didn't know they were capable of gagging on their tears and begging and didn't know she had more mercy than fear.

"I'm going to ask them to make everything okay again." She whispered as they came to the stairs. They stood still together a moment. Dog didn't say anything, but nodded. She avoided looking at his eyes and they pushed open heavy double doors and began to climb up.

They found the Scientists on the children's ward. He looked up, eyes wide behind his thick glasses, and stumbled awkwardly to his feet. He was too fat, and Dog landed heavily on him before he could skitter to shut the office door in their faces. While Dog pressed the Scientist against the floor, she hurriedly looked through the room for something to use as a rope. She resorted to tearing the curtains in a loud rush. Together, they tied the struggling, porcine man and she slapped him hard on the side of the head to stop his squealing.

She stared at his face, eyes stinging. There was only the sound of his wheezing to break the silence as she waited for the correct memory to surface.

"Dr. Fleming." The Scientist raised his head.

"Who are you? What do you want?" He whispered in his high, breathy voice. His chin wobbled with fear.

"Do you know a Dr. Pham?" Confusion clouded Fleming's eyes and he shook his head definitively.

She hated to be disappointed and she hid it badly. She didn't really think he would know. Dog tensed up.

"Where are the other scientists?" Very bad - her shaking voice betrayed how much the answer meant.

Fleming stared at her, his rosebud mouth opened in shock. Then his doughy face scrunched up as he giggled. "Hee hee! Hee hee! Hee hee!" He exhaled heavily and his eyes almost disappeared as he smiled widely at her.

"Here? Here? It's only me - there's no one else left!" She jerked her head back in shock.

"No!" Snarling, she grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him violently. "NO. Where are they?" Dog touched her shoulder, but she shook his hand off impatiently.

"And why should I tell you anything, my sweet, my pretty? Hmmmm?" Fleming's eyes twinkled behind his glasses.

"I know where Patricia Otocos is." She watched in fascination as he swallowed convulsively, jaw slack. It wasn't entirely a lie. She knew exactly where the proud doctor was - bloody and dead on her desk. She and Dog had come upon the head Scientist at The University one hundred twenty one miles away from here. They helped her, but she had lost too many limbs and her organs failed her. They took her papers and keys, then lay her out on the mahogany desk with one arm crossed over her torn chest, draped in her lab coat. Her last words had been: "Oh, bad children..."

Fleming recovered soon enough.

"You know? But...I need her! She should be here! If I had her ..." His voice went up and down an octave as he gibbered to himself. "Show me, sweetness. Show me proof that you've seen Dr. Otocos." If she didn't know better, she thought Fleming was going to orgasm from the hearing this bit of news. Dog jerked Fleming's head back.

"When you speak to her," Dog thrust his chin in her general direction, "Be polite." Fleming bobbed his head obsequiously.

"Of course, young sir. Of course. I quite understand how it is between you two." An unsettling grin showing large teeth bloomed on his face. Dog clenched his jaw but refrained from knocking Fleming out, knowing (and hating) just how much they needed the prick.

Wordlessly, she pulled out the pendant. Everyone knew the pendant. Platinum, with the serpent of the Rod of Asclepius twined around the earth. The design became famous after Dr. Otocos had announced the cure and men and women everywhere wanted one, although the genuine article had "PatriciaOMdPhD" etched onto Antarctica. Before, when she saw it on TV, it looked like the serpent was guarding the planet. Having had it these last four months, she thought the snake looked like it was devouring humankind whole. She watched as Fleming sussed out the proof.

After he found it, his eyes flickered briefly in fear, then that scrunched smile again. "Oh, dearie. Oh, dear me. Well. Well - I supposeI could take you to see them. Take my keys. Oh, my dear, here, secondbreast pocket. Yes - right. Use the brassy triangular one....Mmm...no....That one. Room 6-302. They're all in there. They're every one of them in there." Because his face and voice annoyed her, she kicked him in the arm as she walked by. Dog looked at her sternly, then coughed. They had tacitly agreed he would stay to guard Fleming.

It was down the hall, left, and the first door on the right. Room 6-302. She couldn't see inside the room. Uneasiness gripped her chest. Clutching the key in bloodless fingers, she shook her head in amazement. How had she gotten here? How had this happened to her?

In October, the 11 o'clock news anchor's voice trembled with excitement as he announced the discovery. She had been lying on the carpet while her parents watched the news raptly, her mother explaining the procedure to her father. An essay in AP US History was due the next day and so she hadn't paid much (any) attention.

"Dr. Otocos has literally changed the thread of life." Her mother marveled, sheepishly admitting that she was envious. "Patricia has it made now. She will go down in history as a hero, a genius - the Nobel Prize, MacArthur grants - all hers."

A frenzy had gripped the nation - a cure for that stealthy bastard, that traitor of the body - cancer. It was an oncologist's wet dream - gene therapy tailored for each type of cancer and no fatalities in any clinical trials. There were no balding women, no vomiting, no pain. No pain at all. People cried on the news every night, miraculous recoveries flourished, and joyfully numbed parents prostrated themselves to praise Dr. Otocos and her team.

As with all things, there was a price to pay. But it was such a small thing - a limit on sun exposure. The new DNA was fragile - the vicious sunlight broke the tender hydrogen bonds. An hour or two at most; beyond that, there was no telling. Eagerly, patients nodded their agreement and eagerly, parents promised they would keep Susie Q or Johnny S inside. They promised. And life went on, the smog pumping quietly into the sky, cancer a pitiful foe, a joke.

But nothing will satisfy man. Rogue scientists and doctors, pharmaceutical companies and astute CEOs, all asked themselves: Well, why stop at cancer? They dreamed big things, their ambitions knew no limits, and not even two years after the discovery, a new breed of human stalked the planet.

Better, faster, stronger - the newly modified emerged from discreet clinics, their old selves rearranged and mutated and sloughed away. Smog continued to sigh out from smokestacks; people coveted the darkness, saved their lives for evenings when that big bad sun had set. Businesses began opening at five in the evening...then six...then nine. The school bell clanged right on time at eight pm.

It was difficult to know who had chosen to change. That beautiful woman on the barstool - had she gone from a "Y" to an "X"? That new husband - white as pearls, now.

It all went wrong so quickly, no one had time to understand. It began on just another Saturday in April. Strange deaths and businesses closing forever. People refusing to leave their homes because of unsightly changes; hushed rumors rose. She read some things on the internet she understood and didn't want to believe. Too much therapy. Too many changes, too many desires. And the flesh is weak. All the while, that smog slowly usurped the sun so that all those things which had been forced inside could now come out to play and to eat.

Remembering, it amazed her now how quickly humanity had fallen. A few pathetic bonfires, a riot here or there, and fear, concocted a very nice epidemic of violence and panic. She didn't know how the rest of the world had got on because the television stations went empty after a week of the riots. Telephones had fallen silent two days before; land lines gone, cell towers quiet.

One morning, her mother, an unaffectionate woman, had kissed her soundly on the forehead and asked her to lock the door tightly. Her father squeezed her to his chest, patted her cheeks awkwardly and lovingly with his chubby fingers.

"The government needs all the scientists now." Her father had told her the evening before.

"You don't even do biology! You don't do medicine!" She cried out, fearful tears leaking out.

"...They need all sorts now. All the help they can get. Dr. Piole knows what he's doing. Maybe we can find a cure for this thing, be famous. Wouldn't you like to be famous?" His eyes crinkled as he smiled. She would have smiled back, if she had not been so aware of her mother sitting tensely on the couch.

The next morning, they left and she thought they were probably dead by now. That hadn't stopped her seven-year search.

And here she was, in front of 6-302. If Yvan Piole was in there, she would beg him. She had nothing left, no pride, no fear, and she would drop to her knees and beg to know what had happened to her family.

The door was heavy, a thick metallic thing, and the quiet room smelled acutely of formaldehyde. It was the smell of her mother's lab, a carcinogenic smell. There was a humming in the background, like an A/C unit running. She fumbled clumsily for the light switch and the ceiling lights sizzled and spit before they flickered on. The fluorescent glare was difficult for her eyes to take. The room was inordinately cold, her breath faintly visible.

Immediately, her gaze was drawn to the man on a chair, sitting with his back to her. Even at this distance, she recognized Dr. Piole's dark head. Her heart tightened in gladness and she broke into a run, turning with joy to face him.

When she saw what was left of him in the chair, her smile faltered and she quickly turned to the side and retched, acid burning her throat as her stomach heaved. She stumbled away and bumped against the metal cabinets, which sprung open. Inside the cabinet was the rest of him, neatly stacked and going bad, but overall, very clean. Very tidy. Jostled by the collision, a hand tumbled down and cupped her feet. Her throat muscles worked spasmodically, but the scream refused to come. She didn't remember how she left the room. She fainted in the hallway, an ungraceful heap in front of 6-302, like the slain guardian of some mythic gate.

Dog found her there, disoriented and broken, and pulled her into his arms. She turned into his warmth, the tears dripping silently down her cheeks. He held her tightly, close, and she was so damn grateful for his touch. Her arms were like a vise around his back and her fingernails dug painfully into his skin.

"What happened?" His voice was low, slightly raspy. She was quiet a few moments, wanting to compose herself.

"Yvan's in there. He's dead. He's cut up." A pause as she clenched her teeth. "Fuck!" A frustrated sob escaped her throat. "God fucking fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" It went on like this for a bit, a steady stream of cusswords and blasphemous swears against God. Dog rocked her back and forth and she cried. He knew the tears were not from sadness or even from horror, but for herself, and for her search. Her long, pointless, dead-end search. A long time ago, he had emptied himself of tears. Finally, she stopped, though her eyes were glassy.

"That fucker Fleming. He knew exactly what I would see in there." She muttered. "He knew. That fucker."

"Only Piole? He said they were all in there." Dog reminded gently.

"I didn't look. Maybe they are all in there." Her heart beat slowly in her chest. "Let's go check it out." Dog stood and extended a hand. She ignored it and pushed the heavy door open.

Together they walked to the couch where Yvan slumped. There was a torso, some thigh left, and his head, with chunks of muscle carefully, lovingly, sliced away from his cheek. Part of an eyelid had been taken, so that his left eye appeared to be open, watching them. His lab coat had been left on, but no clothes. They looked at him a good long while, then opened the eight cabinets lining the periphery of the room. She realized the formaldehyde stench came from the cabinets and they were all very full.

"Well. They're all accounted for." She said quietly after they had firmly closed the cabinets.

"I wonder what for." Dog said, holding her arm and leading them out. She walked numbly alongside him.

"What?"

"I wonder what they're going to be used for. What they've been used for."

"How do you know for anything? Maybe Fleming's just a psycho bastard." She muttered bitterly. A corner of Dog's mouth lifted.

"Yeah, well, he's both, but he's real logical. While you were gone, he babbled. He's a serial talker; I get the feeling he's very into being orderly and having a reason for everything."

"How do we even know he did this? Maybe there's another psycho motherfucker in this hospital and Fleming's just his bitch." She retorted.

"They were...like a meat market. Like a butcher's shop. For eating. Maybe he's eating it." Dog pondered aloud. They'd almost reached Fleming's office. It was a disgusting thought, but not surprising. No fresh beef in the supermarkets and pockets of the hungry all around. But then she thought of the formaldehyde and shook her head.

"No... But maybe something else is." She and Dog stared at each other.

"Let's go ask Fleming."

The piggish Scientist was struggling in his bonds when they came through the door. He froze and Dog pulled him up, coughing a little at the effort.

"We found them." She said coldly. "What are you using them for?"

Fleming's eyes wrinkled as he smiled. He didn't bother to lie. "To eat." He gestured to his fat belly. "I need good meat. I get so hungry." He whimpered pathetically. A corner of her lip lifted in disgust.

"You may be a fatass cannibal, but you wouldn't be stupid enough to eat formaldehyde. What are you feeding? What are you - " She broke off, thinking of the scuttling rats she had heard when they first came into the hospital. Her eyes met Fleming's. Dark beads of sweat rolled down his pudgy face. She thought of Patricia Otocos. Her mind was stalled on the tracks, struggling to right itself, but she felt the truth before she knew it.

"Dog." She said hoarsely. "I don't think we searched the whole building."

"We searched every floor." He protested, clearing his throat roughly. Fleming watched them curiously, his shiny eyes going back and forth like a badminton birdie.

"Yes - every floor. But not the basement." Dog's eyes gleamed in realization and he untied Flemings legs, then pushed him towards the door.

"C'mon, lardass, we're going on a -" Before he could finish, a coughing fit stopped him. Dog let go of the Scientist, who flopped on the ground.

"Dog - " She stepped forward, biting her lip nervously.

"S'okay - that formaldehyde - " Another fit. "I think it's just working my lungs."

"Okay - okay. Do you want...some water? I'll go find some water -" They both knew the best she would probably come up with was scummy toilet water. Dog shook his head vigorously, eyes running.

"Why don't you just stay here? I'll go check it out. I promise I'll come right back if something happens. I'll take Fleming. Just stay here." She said. Please stay here and be okay when I come back. He smiled at her.

"Take this." He tossed her pipe to her. "Be careful." The words would have sounded ominous, but he ruined the effect by coughing again.

"Your young sir is quite sick, you know." Fleming said with a nervous smile.

"Shut up." She prodded him hard with her pipe. "Move faster."

"It probably is - "

"I said shut the fuck up!" She kicked his back furiously and he rolled down the last few steps, crying out like an old woman. He lay moaning at the bottom.

"Get up, you bitch. I want to see exactly what it is you've got hanging around this freak sty." He shuffled to his feet and sent her a glare, which she ignored.

The basement was quiet. There was that sound she heard before. She thought it had come from the pipes, but now realized it sounded like it was actually comingthroughthe pipes, from somewhere else. What had sounded like muted scuttling was now loud and grating.

"Why don't you just tell me what you've got down here? Or I could beat it out of you." She threatened wearily. Fleming beamed at her.

"Oh, I think it will be much more exciting for you to see for yourself. That one." He jerked his chin at rusty double doors. There was a padlock around its handles and the room was dark. The clanging was coming from inside. Fleming had to back up to unlock the door because she had refused to untie him.

"You first." She said, shoving him inside. There was a faint glow around the edges of the large basement, but the room was otherwise dark. The clanging was unbearable in here, an off-beat pounding like the percussive announcement of a headhunter.

"Turn the lights on." Her hands were full - one holding the pipe and one around his tied arms.

"But I - "

A thin smile edged her lips. "Be creative. Use your mouth, your face, I don't care." He fumed, but within a few moments, the entire basement was flooded with light. When they came on, Fleming took advantage of her horror and hopped to the middle of room.

He stood there, beaming, gesturing broadly with his jiggly arms. "Look at them - my children. What do you think Patricia would have said tothat? Hee hee! Hee hee!"

Coffin-sized glass tubes, the monstrous children, their mouths opened, but silenced by the fluid they were bathed in. They were hideous. They were awake. They were hungry. Seeing her, they pressed themselves against the glass, bleating so horribly for her flesh, she could see their throats undulate, but heard nothing. Her guts were churning, the memories of these past years festering, an abscess of long, bad nights, painful days of living. Out of control, she grabbed her head and a blistering, primitive howl of loss erupted. She wanted them to know her suffering, she wanted Fleming, and all those arrogant, messiahs, the Scientists, to know of her loss, her many years of hunger and sadness, her tears and of the blood and especially the pain.

Without thinking, she smashed into the tubes, causing the creature inside to ecstatically scramble and scratch at the glass for freedom.

"Stop! STOP!" Fleming screamed. "They're hungry! They need your flesh, your DNA!"

"LET THEM EAT!" She shrieked. The glass broke loose and it leapt for her, but a brutal hit with the pipe set it straight. Deciding to go for easier prey, it leapt with a screech of joy onto Fleming, who fell backwards in a spray of blood. She freed five more and beat two to death before her rage cooled enough for self-preservation. She ran from the room, padlocking it, and made it up those seven flights of stairs in less than 5 minutes.

She blacked out in Dog's arms, but no tears came this time.

She woke. A cool hand touched her forehead. "You're all bloody." She turned away from his face, into his lap.

"Where's Fleming?" She didn't respond. Dog stayed quiet a moment. She could hear him trying to say something. He knew she wanted to forget. To move on. No questions. Finally: "While you were down there, I went up to the roof. Let me show you something. Come on." He tugged her out the room, up the stairs, to the roof.

"See? Over there? That light? Looks like God's own sun, huh?" She looked. Even at this distance, she could tell it was a streetlight.

"That's stupid." But she smiled. Dog hugged her close, pressing her ear against his heart.

He thought: It's better that I don't tell her about the cancer.

She thought: Yeah, if I squint hard, it does sorta look like the sun.

ONETWOTHREE EL FIN!

Sorry in advance for formatting errors.

Major Tom
Word count: 4996
Part 1
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The desert remains quiet even as the train soars through it. Passengers sleep soundlessly in the Victorian-decorated room, unaware of the danger outside.

The foreman is the first to notice something in the distance. "Hph. Must be a rabbit or sumtin" he thinks to himself. The dark sky, covered by the impossible stars has created shadows of everything. The foreman, being 50 years of age, is experienced and knows all sorts of creatures live in the desert; some apparently so gruesome the general public only hears bits of gossip about. These are the type of creatures that haunted broken down trains, or so he hears from other crew members of the Trans-Continental Rocket Train. However, he's not concerned; he's dismissed these rumors before. Just the other day he was hearing about this idea of a flying machine. "Why would we need that?" he replied. "When we this steam powered train that goes 200 kilos per hour?"

He still sees the object, which is looking like it's coming closer. The foreman decides to take caution. Not wanting to harm the train, he walks inside his break van to a hook on the wall. Taking the bell off the hook, he calls to the engineer to slow down the vehicle. Steam hisses as the train slows. Passengers don't even notice and sleep as the foreman makes his way to the front. After the foreman leaves the executive class car, a man wakes up. No one even stirs as he gets down a brown leather case from the overhead. A rag time tune plays in the background, through an amplifier system. The composer is Scott Joplin, the man thinks to himself. It's interesting new music, and the man is amused by the composition of the piece. Surely it was written by a white man.

He opens his case to reveal a small frame. Not wanting to wake the other passengers, he takes a step outside his car and into the storage car. He turns the knobs of the Oriental-decorated frame, creating static. A gauge to the side reads 66.7, and a woman's face appears where a picture should be. "Hey you" he says.

"You seem to be in a good mood" she replies.

"Well, I'm finally coming home. Been working too long in New England; full of upper class pricks."

"Understandable honey. Just make sure you bring back something for the kids."

"Of course. I bought something off the station at Kana-"A loud roar is heard as the man is pulled quickly off the car into the desert. The Phone-O-Frame lands on the floor of the car as the woman on the other end screams out her husband's name.

The rest of the passengers have woken up, either due to the roar or the scream. Either way, the men tell their wives to stay calm and take down their luggage to reveal guns. The range of weapons is amazing; some with light weapons such Colt Peacekeepers to Winchester rifles and shotguns. However, one man draws attention by revealing a newer weapon, one never seen before. It's a smaller gun with a magazine attached to the bottom. The manufacture's name reads Heckler and Koch. "What?" he asks the other passengers. "Them Germans make damn fine weapons, and this here's a beauty. While you guys need to load after 4 shots, I'm shootin' like no tomorrow. 30 rounds per clip; I highly recommend when ever you guys take that jet-boat to Europe you invest in one of these bad boys. Future of guns, this is. Gas operated. No need to cock the hammer. Full-auto." The man hits the top of the gun, and a click is heard, telling the rest of the men his gun is loaded.

"Don't you think we should call ahead for some military backup or something?" a younger man holding a shotgun asks.

"Don't see the need to. They be busy with other affairs. Probably some coyote got lucky with a jump. Who knows?" a heavier man responds, indicating he will be the leader of this hunting party.

"Besides," another man says. "Military don't have any affairs on this train."

The men slowly make their way down the train. When they get to the brake van they come across the foreman, who's frantic. "I can't call them through the phone. If they don't have control of the train we could all die!"

"Calm down there partner. Grab yourself some gear and help us find out the source of this problem. You hear that roar earlier?"

"Thought it was just a bear or sumtin."

"Might have been something else. We need to find what ever it is, it's scaring the lady-folk."

The foreman takes down his Winchester and continues to walk with the men. Outside the executive car they find the Phone-O-Frame, cracked. "This ain't no drop crack" one man says. "This here's a scratch of a mean creature. Look at how deep it is."

"Be careful men. Don't want to lose any of you" the leader tells them.

"Are you sure we shouldn't call ahead for help?" the nervous man asks again.

"Ah, you sissy. There's nutin to be afraid of. This is probably one big misunderstandin, there's nuthin out-" The man is whisked off the train by an unseen force.

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? FIRE!" the leader yells. Shots ring out as shell casings land on the iron floor. Nothing yells. The men cease fire. Nothing is hit. Nothing is bleeding. The men, despite all their bullets, have hit nothing.

The nervous man is visibly shaking now. "I knew I shouldn't come on this train. I hate these trains man. Should have taken that buggy to the West. DAMMIT!"

Some men try to calm him down while the others prepare themselves to go into the executive car. Opening the door, a horror scene awaits their eyes.

Blood is sewn across the Oriental rug. The Turkish furniture ruined with red spots. The Scott Joplin tune repeats over the speaker system, stuck in a loop. "Jesus Christ. What the hell happened in here?" the leader asks.

"My god. It looks like a massacre."

A gun shot is heard behind the men. They turn around to see a body lying on the floor. The nervous man has put a bullet in his head, not wanting to live in this world any longer. The other men stand and shake their head.

The leader tells the group to keep their spirits up. They decide to see if the engine room is under control. As the move through the blood-ridden car to the front a man near the window is pulled out through the small opening, breaking the glass. The men open fire, only to hit nothing again.

"DAMMIT!" the leader swears. "WHAT THE HELL IS GOIN-"

Another man near the window is ripped from the train. Glass once again shatters. Some men bother to fire, despite knowing the accuracy of their bullets. The leader doesn't even bother lifting his seemingly heavy gun. "STAY AWAY FROM THOSE GOD DAMN WINDOWS!" he yells.

The men crowd near the middle of the car. Their footsteps create a sound, one only from walking on wet carpet. Unfortunately, this Oriental carpet is wet with blood. They make their way to the front of the car, where the engine room lies ahead. Two men walk up, ready to pull the door open. The rest ready their guns. A cool wind blows in through the windows, blowing out the candle-lit room. The men wait, letting their eyes adjust to the moonlight. The two in the front rip open the door.

Pure darkness comes rushing out. Like a tidal wave, it knocks over several men and drags them into the engine room, their screams drowning out the sound of the train. Men fire, yet the darkness appear to ignore their bullets. The black mass shuts the door and the car catches fire spontaneously. Men yell as the room begins to burn. Some jump out the windows, while others go to the back, where they find the door has been locked. The leader, trying to keep his sanity, makes his way to the front door and yanks it open. The sight before him baffles him.

Despite a creature taking at least 10 of the men, there is no sight of them in the car, nor is the engineer or the conductor. The engine room is clean, spotless, but NO ONE'S CONTROLLING THE TRAIN.

Major Tom
Part 2
--------------

The leader rushes over to the dashboard to the various knobs and switches, all of which is set to the maximum. He tries turning them down but they are jammed. He looks for the handle called Manuel Override, but alas, it is broken too. The man is slowly losing his cool, but what really makes him lose his insanity is when he looks through the magnifying telescope. Peering down, he sees the tracks lead RIGHT OFF A CLIFF. He turns to warn the others, yet in the blazing room they are gone. He sprints to the back of the train, yet the women are gone too. He turns to see the pitch black come straight at him, realizing in his final thoughts he has lost all of it, and screams his heart out.

500 miles away in the quaint little town a woman named Evelyn Rose wakes up with a startle. Visibly shaken, she walks out of her bedroom and into her kitchen, where her boiler is still heating up her apartment via pipes. The clock in her kitchen reads 5:00 AM, and she realizes she needs to get up for her job. She sticks a pot on the stove and the steam from her boiler heats it up. The pot makes a DING sound, telling Evelyn the water is ready. She moves the pot over to an automatic filter, where she pours the water in and out it comes as coffee into a cup. A pack of cigarettes lay on the table, opened. She slides the thin piece of rolled tobacco out of its package and sucks on the end of it while striking a match. Lighting the cigarette, she walks back into the bedroom to her closet while the lump on her bed rolls over. She pulls out a pair of khaki pants, a dark blue blouse, and a pair of boots. Putting them on, she also pulls out a well worn brown duster, a leather holster with a FN Model, a smaller ankle holster with a Colt Detective Special, a pair of handcuffs, and a slightly tarnished badge reading Sheriff.

Evelyn walks back into her small kitchen, cigarette almost out. She picks up the coffee and begins to drink; peering out her window at the town she calls home. Dawn is breaking, the sun highlighting the red rock in the outskirts of town. The sky is not unlike a painting at this point, shades of yellow, red, orange fill the open sky. However, to the east lie rain clouds, meaning the need to dig ditches and prevent buildings from floating away. "I hope those clouds blow in a different direction" she thinks to herself.

She looks down at the dirt road of Main Street in Harrison. The milkman in his self-buggy is beginning his run. The light in the office of the Harrison Reporter is on. A few drunks are leaving Leroy's Bar. Nothing out of the ordinary so far, but her gut tells her otherwise. And for once, she thinks, it's not the coffee.

It's this one man that's out of the ordinary. He appeared just last night, wearing very odd clothes. Black cobbled shoes, black duster, dark glasses, some sort of small suitcase, black hat, and what looks like a military uniform confused a good majority of the town. He claimed to want to see Robert Alton Harris, founder of the town and entrepreneur of the General store. After he was let into Harris's mansion, he was not seen again.

A phone rings in the kitchen. It's the station master at the train depot. He speaks so frantically that Evelyn can't understand him. She tells him to calm down, and that she'll be over in a bit.

The lump has finally gotten out of the bed. "Everything okay?" it asks.

"Yes" replies Evelyn. "You can go back to bed."

"Ok" it mutters.

"I should really get that woman an alarm clock" thinks Evelyn as she walks out of her apartment.

It's much too early to use the noisy buggy, so Evelyn decides to ride the horse from the office to the train depot. Locking the office up, she leaves a note to her deputy, telling him to meet her at the place of panic. She rides over across town as the day gets brighter. She dismounts and ties her horse to a pole proudly supporting the Union. Still, the news (when it gets out this far) is pretty grim.

The war is still raging, and General Lee doesn't want to give up, despite being outnumbered. Perhaps it's the naval support he's getting from Spain that's helping, but then again, those ships are sinking faster than a rocky relationship built on booze because of the cannons built on Cuba. France and England is too busy to care with their war. The Union's superiority comes from those manufacturers. Ever since Whitney came up with that steamboat idea of his, the North basically used the same technology to produce everything from self-propelled buggies to automatic weapons. Wouldn't mind getting my hands on some of those automatic weapons Evelyn thinks.

The train depot is empty, despite the Rocket Train was supposed to come in today. Checking her watch, she realizes the train is here early, yet no one's here. The station manager finds her, frantic. "What's going on here?" she asks.

"There's no one on the train" he stutters. "Absolutely no one on a train that can fit 400."
"That's not right. Are you sure about this?"

"Positive. Train arrived early without calling first. You know how they are about being on time. There was something odd because not even a radio signal was coming from that train. I went in to check, and no one was there. Empty, like all of them disappeared or something."

"Hm" she thinks. "That feeling was right."

She walks into the open door of the lower class section of the train. Suitcases are opened and scattered among the floor. She walks up toward the front of the train, with each car being the same as the last. Outside the break van she finds several bullet casings, all of different calibers. The cracked Phone-O-Frame lies beside them. "Something big happened here. A group of men with these types of guns don't just disappear" she tells herself.

The upper class car is spotless, like nothing happened to it. The Gramophone is still playing over the amplifier system. Several more casings are on the floor.

Inside the engine room the controls are set at park, nothing out of the place. The engineer's log on the side says everything is working, nothing is wrong with the train. The problem with this though is the train is early, which would have been recorded, and nobody's on the train. "There's something definitely wrong here" she says out loud.

"Shift the Balance boards forward and drop the aft weights!" the Captain cried out, sending the deckhands about their buissness. "Bring the down the sails! Rook, prepare the Redwood!

"Aye aye Captain" Rook cried as the deckhands continued their preparations for punching through the low pressure pocket. It was hard working up hill for the black haird youth but he somehow managed to make it to the door in the deck, flinging it open to use the stairs that were there like a ladder.

Rook manged his way up the stairs to the corner before zipping around. Airships were designed for easy access to the Engine Deck for such emergencies, this the rest of his travels would be down hill. Rook flew down the rest of the floors till he arrived at his destination. He scanned the chamber in haste, his green eyes glowing in the dark as all those with the Sight did and sighted his prey in the corner. He went to the bundles of Redwood and took one of the longer boards to put into the ignition chamber. He then went to the barrel of Redwood ash and tried to move it over, but for all his efforts he couldnt slide it an inch due to the incline.

Luckily, or unluckily depending on where you were at the time, the ship hit the pocket and evened out. Rook knew he only had few precious seconds before they were in total freefall to tip the barrel into the ash distributor. With that thought in mind he threw himself at the barrel and was rewarded with the sight of it falling where it needed to. He popped the lid off just as they hit freefall but that was soon abated as the ash was distributed. Once the barrel was light enough, Rook was able to lift it back up and put the lid on before moving on to the second part of his task.

He went over to the Ignition Chanber's housing and took a piece of Sparkwood out of one of the pockets of his flight suit and opened the window over the Redwood. He struck the Sparkwood against the Redwood, shooting sparks along its side, until the Redwood was alight. Rook then closed the window and latched it tight, to then open the water valve that let a torrent of water in, that then let a faster torrent of steam out. The Redwood properties allowed it to burn violently when water was added, allowing for the invention of such steam engines to power through these low pressure pockets. There was only one drawback and that was the speed tried to pull you to the ship or crush you against any surface in your way.The boy was thrown against the wall as the ship took off faster then he had cause to want. It was at this point that he remembered that he had forgotton the most important part of the step, to get his mask on.

Flying at such high speeds in such low pressures took away what air there was to breathe. Thats why flight suits had originally been created, so as to create an entraped air to breathe your own air for the short while that you were in the bubble flying so fast. Later motifications were added but the original intent was for this one purpose that Rook had forgotten.

Black spots danced at the edge of his vision has he struggled to put the mask on against the inertial forces pinning his body to the wall. The deckhands along with the Captain would have strapped themselves in as soon as the freefall was abated, and they would have also remembered their masks. Finally, against all hope the boy slipped the mask on and took a deep breath of whatever air was in there to start with and soon the blackspots went away.

What seemed like hours was only minutes as the Redwood finished burning through itself and the water and the ship came to a halt. Next time they hit a bubble they would have to wait just like they were now for the bubble to disappear. Except next time putting up sails wouldnt get them moving again.

Rook got up from the floor that he had slipped down to when they had stopped and began his ascent to the main deck and his waiting captain. When he appeared he was greeted with a round of applause. He blushed as he walked to the captains perch, for he knew what this meant. He had earned a place amungst the crew, he had proved his worth.

"Rook Fulcroth, you came to us with no family and no home to go back to. We took you on as a charity service, but now we keep you as a member of this crew. You have learned the basics well, but now it is time to further that. You pulled us from freefall and sent us out of there quicker then all on my crew, and that has shown me you can control your gift. We could have skirted that pocket but I had to see if you were ready. Now that I know, when next we pull into port I shall have you apprenticed to a Master Engineer. He will come on board and show you not only how to keep the ship's engine and other machines in prime condition, but also how to fabricate the various parts we need. When you are finished you will stay aboard for a year and a day to pay the fees. God willing, after that time you will decide to stay. What do you say to that?" Rook merely stared at the captain before busting out in a large grin.

"Aye aye Captain!" He shouted out and the crew shouted their merriment.

"Well then, lower the sails and lets set off for Tierwell Port!" The Captain order.

______________________________________
______________

Night had arrived and all but the unlucky few choosen to stay up were asleep. They were a days sail away from port and they could see their objective, but no one sailed at night. Not if you could help it. This had never bothered Rook before, but now that he was to be an apprentice to a Master Engineer the old ways were irking him.

"I can't sleep" He told his orange cat as he was getting out of bed, this some how justifying disturbing his rest. Rook put his suit on and climbed up to the deck and saw an unnerving image: the deck litered with bodies. Worse still was that they were all naked with arms and legs spread. There was no blood to be seen and no obvious wounds on the bodies of the crew. It was as if everyone had laid down on the deck and just died.

Rook sprung into action and rushed to the controls. He knew that if there was any hope of saving the men that it lay in Tierwell. His gift came in handy as he was able to read the labels of the levers and pull only the ones that needed pulling, and it was then the ship took off in ernest. Before he could even think of setting the anchor again Rook was thrust against the door of the captains captain and burst through the Greenwood, once more being slammed but this time into the back of the cabin. Another disturbing site was now before him: His captain, stabbed through the chest with his own sword.

It wasn't long before what ever force and thrust the ship forward had stopped and left Rook to fall on the floor. He got to his feet shakily and stumbled out of the cabin, tears beginning to fall down his cheek before once again his vision was put to the test. The men he had assumed dead were now standing tall, swords brandished, and the most ungodly of moans emminating from their lifeless mouths. It was as if the sounds of hell were being projected through. Rook stumbled backward in horror, only to be stopped by his Captain, standing in the door way.

"Rook, whats the matter?" the Captain asked, concern showing on his face, sword poking out of his body. He reached towards the boy but Rook backed away. His back hit the wheel and he knew he was trapped. The Captain started to advance in on him and the crew shambled forward from below, beginning their accent up the stairs. There was only one option left open to Rook and he tried to execute it.

He lunged from the starboard levers to drop all the weights on that side so the ship would tip over but the Captain beat him to it, struggling to get Rook under his control. Rook fought back as best he could but couldn't get out of the Captains grasp. With fear of becoming undead in the front of his mind, Rook closed his eyes and threw his head forward onto the blade.