by submission | May 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Deanna Di Lello
The RV began to slow despite Adam’s heavy foot on the gas. A loud beeping noise accompanied by a flashing light drew his attention to the fuel gage. It was past E. The RV came to a stop and Adam began to shake.
He had spotted a group fifteen minutes ago. They might pass him by or they might cause trouble. Either way, he was out of gas, out of food, and only had a day’s worth of water.
Adam reached into the front pocket of his jeans and touched the lipstick he kept there.
When the news broke, Adam was one of the first ones to pack up and go. Running wasn’t new to him and neither was quitting. Whether it was school, jobs or relationships, he left when things got tough. And everything was tough for Adam. Not that it mattered anymore. Now things were tough on everyone. It only took a few months before the highways were lined with RVs, family sedans, and pick-up trucks. People left the city in droves hoping to see less of the threat in the country. And they did. For a while.
Adam looked in the rear view mirror. The road was still empty. He took a few deep breaths before leaving the driver’s seat making his way to the bedroom. There his eyes darted from the shotgun in the corner to the pink suitcase on the floor.
If there was ever a time to do this, it was now.
Adam opened the suit case and gazed at the make-up bag, silver heels, red sequined dress and a blonde wig. His fingers brushed his receding hair line making their way down to his double chin, barely concealed by his patchy facial hair. First he would have to shave.
With hair removal complete, he applied the make-up. Adam puckered his lips in the mirror. Wait, was this stupid? Did he look like a clown? His head was suddenly filled with childhood taunts, Sunday sermons, and of course, his parents. He was about to wipe everything off when he heard a sound. The sound of feet dragging on the gravel road.
They were here.
The shakes had returned along with a good build-up of sweat. His thoughts of doubts were replaced by resolve.
Adam stepped into the dress and gently slid the zipper up his back. He placed the wig on his head and slipped into the heels.
The sound of dragging feet was now accompanied by a series of moans. Adam refused to listen. Instead, he turned to face the mirror.
The blonde wig gently cascaded over one shoulder. His eyes and lips popped. And the dress, the dress sparkled.
He wasn’t a clown. He was beautiful.
Why hadn’t he done this years ago? But he knew the answer. Fear. Cowardice.
He smiled at himself in the mirror. All he needed now was a name.
Slap! A hand on the window.
Bang! Fists hitting the side of the RV.
Adam pulled back the curtains. Some, freshly turned, looked like normal humans. The older ones were grey and rotting. All were moaning and groaning and scraping and clawing.
Adam picked up the firearm. Shotgun Sally. Yes, that was as good a name as any. He felt a rush, a thrill. When was the last time he felt that? Had he ever felt that? As much as logic told him he wouldn’t make it, there was a small part of him saying maybe, just maybe…
Adam threw open the door.
by submission | May 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: Barbora Bartova
It was a late sunny afternoon. The freshly fallen snow was glowing bright. For a moment she wondered whether the glow was caused by the sun or the radiation of the nuclear fallout. After a while, she decided it was the sun, but still, she would definitely not lick the snow. She tried to remember how snow tasted. She loved to eat snow when she was a little girl. The cold on your tongue, the taste of fresh air, and maybe chalk? She was never quite sure, it tasted as nothing and everything at the same time. And then there was the crunch between your teeth if you could bear the cold. Nothing really crunched the same way as freshly fallen snow pressed tightly into a bite-sized ball…
She looked up from the snow and brushed some dust from the glass of her helmet. In the sun any dust could almost entirely blind you. She liked fresh snow, it made lookout duty really easy. Everything was visible on the endless white plane. And tracks were really hard to cover too, so you could easily see if someone was snooping around. Now everything was quiet and the bright white snow was intact. Not a single dark spot anywhere in sight. The sun was slowly setting, it was about time to go home. Nights were rough outside. She climbed down from the small watchtower, unlocked the hidden panel on the side, opened the hatch beneath it, and looked at the stairs going down, down into the darkness underground. She turned around to watch the last sunbeams on the sparkling whiteness. She closed the secret door behind her and then the heavy hatch and the darkness surrounded her completely for a moment before her sleeve flashlight came alive. She started descending slowly, there was no rush. Her head was still full of snow. And there was no one in the world going to eat the snow for a very long time.
by Julian Miles | May 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Hey, Cherry. Who’s that freak you know? Reynard?”
Constable Dalforth grins nastily.
Inspector Cherry Fasslin of the Tactical Response Group grimaces. He knows she knows exactly who he’s insulting. She also knows he wouldn’t say word one if that particular gent were actually nearby.
“It’s Reinhardt. Why?”
“Maybe you should call him. The polar bear has a katana. Might be a challenge.”
Cherry sighs. She’s spent so long working on animorph relations with members of the regular police. This caveman seems to have missed every session.
“Constable Dalforth, that’s a white-pelted ursimorph with an ōdachi. Calling it a polar bear might offend it, and calling it’s heirloom monumental blade a small sword is sure to.”
“I see a furball with a samurai sword, I’m not worried about the niceties. I call in the TRG. You are the TRG, aren’t you?”
Officer Lupin Blue has moved up on Dalforth’s blind side.
“Boo.”
Her whispered greeting causes him to jump, literally, which ruins his trained response to spin, crouch, and be ready to defend or draw. He lands with his feet mid-move and stumbles sideways until he bounces off a gyrocar.
“’kin’ ’ell, a moggie.” His voice is flat with anger.
Cherry winces. Definitely missed every session.
Lupin’s ears drop flat.
“That would be felimorph, but you’re forgiven. Once.”
“’kin’ TRG…”
His red-faced reply trails off as the barking laughter of the ursimorph gets louder.
Cherry looks over. It’s leaning on a lamppost, ōdachi resting on a shoulder, pointing at Dalforth.
“You can’t dance for shit, notepad.”
Dalforth’s hand goes to his sidearm.
“What did he just call me?”
Officer Joe Tremaine, the other member of Cherry’s patrol, places a hand on the shoulder of Dalforth’s gun arm.
“He called you a ‘Notepad’. It’s military slang for a police officer who’s not as tough as they act. I think he’s nailed you, mate.”
Dalforth glances about.
Cherry hopes he sees what she does: Joe is leaning forward, using his long reach, so he has room to react. Lupin’s taken two steps back, has a hand on her sidearm. If Dalforth tries anything, he’ll be down before his piece clears the holster.
The laughter stops.
“Ey, TRG boss lady. You the one who knows our Cat?”
Cherry gives a quick smile and discreetly gestures for the snipers to stand down.
“Had dinner at her and Marie’s place last night. What’s with the blade, big bear? Bit late in the day for a shave.”
The ursimorph chuckles, swings a giant scabbard round from behind, then sweeps the ōdachi into it with a single, smooth movement. Standing with the scabbarded blade in one hand, it salutes her.
“I’m Captain Seiji Guevara. Been away for a while. Got myself turned about in these rebuilt back ways, saw a uniform exchanging packets with someone, went to ask directions. The someone scarpered. The uniform screamed and drew on me. I had a flashback, caught it in time, but drew before I stepped back. We were in a standoff until he holstered his piece when you lot rolled in.”
Cherry nods. As it happens, she recognises his name. Reinhardt mentioned it last night.
“Officer Blue, could you update Captain Guevara’s datapad with the latest Southwark maps? Then we’ll let him get on his way.”
She checks her datapad, then glares at Dalforth.
“After that, we’re going to have a long chat with Constable Dalforth about why he’s so far from his beat, who that someone was, what’s in the other packet, and why he’s so jumpy.”
Dalforth swallows so hard they hear it.
Joe chuckles.
“Gotcha, dirty badge.”
by submission | May 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: Kevin Johnston
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by submission | May 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Jacob Bentzen
The blonde beard iXi had commissioned dripped with dew as he flowed through the misty forests of New Norway. He leapt over the moss-covered rock and landed on the animal trail without breaking momentum, his naked body covered in sweat and thin lines of pink skin left by branches and bushes.
iXi’s eyes did not analyse any of the startled critters or birds. A scent had caught his nose and something drove him to follow it, to chase it, an incredible urge he had never felt before. The black market software was already worth the risk.
A haunting call made him reel, skidding to a halt. iXi jumped onto a boulder and crouched, eyes darting between the surrounding pines whose sharp branches were draped with greenery as if someone had hung their ragged moss to dry. He closed his eyes and steadied his breath. Birds chirping, trees rustling in the breeze, a small creek somewhere below.
Then the call.
His body tensed, and he could feel the software tearing down firewalls in his system. A sudden hunger twisted in his gut, followed by a rush of adrenaline and euphoria that sent him darting off the boulder. His surroundings became a blur; only ahead was clear, only the scent of fur flowed through his nostrils, and all he could taste was blood.
The call sounded again, closer this time. iXi ran faster.
A flicker of brown in the distance. A short white tail. Antlers.
Resisting the urge to enhance his vision, iXi broke into a full sprint, flying through the greenery, panting hard while straining to keep as stealthy as possible.
100 feet.
A loud crack ruptured the silence as iXi snapped a branch off a tree. 50 feet. The beast—a young stag—whirled, preparing to bolt.
15 feet. iXi broke his stalk and dug his toes into the forest floor with a last effort, pulse hammering in his ears and muscles screaming. Then he was airborne.
His free hand reached out for the stag’s tail while the sharp branch tore through the air aimed at its hind leg.
The beast bolted out of reach in the last second.
iXi spun out of balance from the strike and crashed neck first into a thicket of damp, sharp brush, knocking the breath from his body. Gasping and thrashing, swiping wildly with his bleeding arms, he floundered out of the broken undergrowth and collapsed on the spot of moss where the stag had been feeding.
He rolled onto his back and swallowed deep lungfuls of the crisp forest air.
The sensations of the hunt—the drive, the hunger—left him like a snapping twig as the software reverted to the main game menu. A flash image crossed his mind: He was back at the ship, connecting to the EMO-Sim and seeing R34 and C-Polo’s grins as they realised he’d caught more scrapes than stags.
iXi rose. His body tensed as he unlocked all his inhibitors, roaring as the thin Blacksteel blades sliced out through the flesh of his forearms and slid into his palms—nano-bots wrapping the wound shut as he gripped the blood-soaked metal. Like spider legs, thin black rods of steel burst from his ankles to ensure his balance. He eyed the stag’s trail with a fury.
It was time for a new game.
by Stephen R. Smith | May 14, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
I woke with a start before dawn, the sky outside was still dark and yet the room was bathed in a shimmering orange glow.
For a moment I thought I was dreaming, but the room was my room, as I left it when I went to sleep, excepting of course the strange light. And the man.
He sat just beyond the foot of the bed in a straight back chair that did not belong, his arms at his side, hands folded neatly in his lap. His head was tipped back ever so slightly, and flames poured as if liquid from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth only to evaporate before reaching his shoulders, filling the air and the room with this shimmering liquid firelight.
I knew in my gut what this was, who this was, why he was here. I had been remiss, I owed him a debt and he was trying to collect.
I believed him lost. I thought I could forget. I thought he was free of this mortal coil, and yet here he was, having found his own way from who knows where to me.
The air crackled, static charge raising my hair as it bridged the distance between the walls and where he sat.
His head tilted forward ever so slightly, the fiery eye sockets looking right through me before he disappeared with a snap, the room suddenly plunged back into darkness.
I sat stunned for some time, hair still on end, the smell of ozone permeating the room and a metalic taste in my mouth.
I raised a hand, pulled a fistful of light from the ether and tossed it to the empty glass globe hung from the bedroom ceiling. It coalesced there, gained strength, and bathed the room in a soft white light.
My knowledge of and agency over light came at a cost, the loss of a partner I assumed was final, but clearly more than light can be pushed into and pulled from the ether, and if he was there, trapped in the who knows where, it would be in my best interest to find a way to bring him back.
Before he found a way back on his own.
