Seeking a Master

"Oric-El?  Oric-El Ged?" Reiva Caserta took another step into the empty chamber, holding her sword shakily in front of her.  She was alone, except for her echoes.

Another step forward; she set her boots down as quietly as she could, but still there was a dull click off the hard floor, the sound repulsed off dusty statues and the dark ceiling high above her.  A noise scraped through the darkness, a noise other than her steps.  Reiva turned towards the noise, or where she thought it came from, sword thrust out in front of her.  The cutting edge of her weapon lit up bright blue, adding some light to the gloom and warning that the sword was now lethal.

Reiva kept the open doors to her back, letting the rectangle of gray light seep into the dark room in front of her.  The light was meager but it gave her some comfort.  She was also careful to always keep the opening in her peripheral vision; she didn't want something or someone getting between her escape route with out her knowing.

"Oric-El!" she called again.

The statues veiled in cobwebs gave no reply.  Nothing stirred in the chamber.  The fountains stood empty, the upturned chairs and broken chandeliers lay covered in decay, even the wind whispering in from the open doors seemed to lie still.  Reiva lowered her sword so she could see better, trying desperately to find what she had come so far for.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

Reiva tensed, forcing herself not to jump or gasp, her knuckles white as she squeezed the hilt of her sword.  Blood trickled from where her teeth and sunk into her lower lip.  The sword was back up into the guard position, her hands no longer shaking.  Though her heart was definitely shaking.       Reiva's eyes were trying desperately to pierce the gloom, to stop an attacker she knew must be there.  A shadow moved on the edge of her vision.  Reiva looked up.  A shadow, darker than the shadows around it, stood on a balcony many meters in front of her.

"If you've come to kill me, you've done a pretty bad job of going about it." said the shadow.

Three remaining lights of a chandelier flickered on, feebly attempting to fill the cavernous room with their orange light.

Oric-El Ged stood on the balcony above Reiva.  His eyes were dark, his face, set like iron, was framed by dusty brown hair streaked with storm gray.  His sword was sheathed and rested on his shoulder.  She took a shuddering breath, hoping the scowling eyes above her didn't see, before composing herself.  Holding her head hugh and sword firmly in her hands, Reiva looked Oric-El in the eyes as she adressed him.

"I am not here to kill you, Master Oric–"
"Ha!" Oric-El interrupted her with a barking laugh, "'Master Oric-El'?  Here we are on a desolate world far from the Empire, and yet you, girl, persist on civility."

"I meant no disrespect, Master Ged–

"Please, call me Oric-El.  It was what my mother called me, and since you and her are both women, I suppose it is appropriate." Oric-El sneered.

"–it's just I have come very far to–"

"Far!?  You come here to complain to me how far you've come?  I can tell you a thing or two about far!" Oric-El spat down at her.

"–ask for your help." Reiva held her mounting frustration in as Oric-El's sour complexion continued to spoil, "See, my name is Reiva–"

"Bah!" shouted Oric-El, waving his hand, "Leave now, Reiva, if you know what's good for you!  Now I'm not sure how you found me or why you have obviously stolen your father's pulsblade.  Now go: I have no interest in you." Oric-El turned his back on her.

"Caserta!" she screamed, her anger and pent up emotions pouring out, "Reiva Caserta!  Daughter of Avar and Quomi Caserta!  And this is my own pulsblade, I have enough of a conscience not to steal, even from my parents.  Unlike you!"

Reiva immediately regretted saying the last part.

Oric-El Ged turned back around slowly.  His eyes–when Reiva finally looked up at them–were devoid of any emotion, his face unmoving.  Oric-El seemed to ponder what she had just said for several minutes while at the same time examining her, studying her stance, her breathing, the way she held her weapon.  Reiva swallowed hard and readjusted her grip on her sword.

When he finally spoke, Oric-El's voice was quiet, almost soft, "Caserta?  That is a name I know well.  What is the daughter of heroes doing here on Vaaherdon?  What do you want of Oric-El Ged?"

"I want you to train me!" Reiva said, her relief tangible; finally, after all her trials, she had made it to the point.  

Oric-El's eyes, like the tip of a sword, glinted as they suddenly focused on her.

"No." his reply echoed coldly among the stone buttresses.

"But you don't understand!  I have to be trained: my mother needs me!" All of her relief was washed away.  Was Oric-El really that inimical?

"No is no, young Reiva Caserta."

"But–but why?"

"Because," Oric-El turned back around, "I don't want to.  I swore never to take another apprentice."

"So... so you won't train?" Reiva let her pulsblade hang limply at her side.

"How else shall I put it than 'no'?  You are a girl with a sword to big for her; leave, and find some other master."

"But there is none!  None of your skill at least.  You're Oric-El Ged; you mastered Tosai style when you were twenty!  You and–"

Oric-El's face was before hers, his eyes and hard face filling her vision.  The balcony stood empty, fifteen meters of empty air between where Reiva was and it.

"Leave." Oric-El's breath was hot as it washed over Reiva's face, "There's the door."

The doors opened outwards all by themselves.  Reiva furtively looked up into Oric-El's eyes; they flashed, challenging her to disobey him.  Reiva took a step backwards, eyes downcast.  She spun around and crammed her sword back in its sheath, then left through the doors out into the cold wind.  Reiva Caserta gave the ruined building one last look before trudging back to her ship, angrily wiping tears from her eyes.

Her ship was in sight.  The familiar colors and lights of what had become her mobile home brought no comfort to her though.  Reiva was empty.  She was at a loss, out of ideas, at a dead end.  Going to Oric-El Ged was a gamble, she knew, but she had hoped–like a fool–that he would train her.  Now she saw why he was an exile.  Suddenly the snow under her right boot gave way and her foot slid into a tiny crevasse   Rock bit painfully into her leg as she tugged and pulled, her breath steaming in the cold as she gave an angry yelp.  She heard a crunch of snow somewhere behind.  Reiva strained her neck as she probed the white rolls of hills behind her, at the same time snatching at the handle of her pulsblade.  Then she saw him.  Coming from the direction of the ruined plaza was Oric-El Ged, naked sword blade glinting in the gray light.  Heart beating like a hammer against her chest, Reiva pulled desperately at her sword; the awkward angle she was at because of her trapped leg made this hard.  Oric-El was almost upon her when her pulsblade finally slid into her hand.  And just in time, too.  Sparks flew into the snowy air as Reiva blocked Oric-El's chop meant to cleave her in half.

"What are you doing!?" Reiva screamed.

The answer she got was a sword blade along her side, opening a slit in her side that stained the snow red.  Oric-El's pulsblade wasn't glowing, otherwise the the sword stroke would've cut right through her.  His eyes flashed as he swung his sword up to come at her again.  Reiva merely reacted by thrusting the point of her unactivated pulsblade at his legs before angling it up to parry his chop.  Sparks stung her hand where their blades met.

"Smart," Oric-El said calmly, "but what if I do this?" He kicked a spray of snow into her eyes.

Reiva tried to block her eyes with her left hand but was too slow.  Blinded, she slashed her sword in front of her and over her head hoping to either give Oric-El a slash or intercept an incoming attack.

She heard Oric-El clicking his tongue off to her left, "Tsk tsk, Caserta, lashing out recklessly?  Deprived of your sight you should have listened and assumed a ready guard position."

"Master, please, what are you doing!?" Reiva cried out, angrily flinging the snow off her face.  She tried to twist towards her left to face Oric-El, the convenient crevasse restricting her.

"Evaluating." he idly cut falling snowfalkes as he gave her this single word.

"Evalutating?  Evaluating... me?"

Oric-El looked around with exaggerated attention, "I see no one else."

"So you changed your mind?" Reiva said, hope beginning to built up inside her chest.

"One could say that.  At first I wasn't sure, but once we got to talking and I found out you were a Caserta and your level of tenacity, I wanted to test you; see what you could do, what improvements you needed.  Definitely not your father are you?"

"I... suppose not." Reiva wasn't exactly sure if that was a criticism or merely an observation.

Without warning, Oric-El brought the flat of his blade crashing into the side of Reiva's head, sword flying out of her hand.  Her vision flickered out for a moment, everything covered in a black screen, as pain rocketed through her skull made worse by the severe cold.  She felt hot blood dribbling down her neck and along her back.  The pain, while sharp, was still only a shaking throb.  It would get bad in a couple of seconds.  Reiva clamped her mouth shut as she release a suppressed scream from her throat.

"What was that for!" she was able to force the words past her lips.  The pain was getting worse, radiating out from the stripe on the side of her head like burning fingertips pressing against her skull.

"Not expecting it."

Reiva's vision flashed again and she realized her ear was still ringing, the sound of the blow reverberating a thousand times inside her eardrum.  Oric-El stuck his sword in the snow.

"Well, I have to say I'm a little disappointed in you, young Caserta, I would have expected more from Avar and Quomi's daughter.  But I am a perfectionist; we will make a swordsman out of you yet.  First let's get you out of this hole.  Always be aware of your environment, young Caserta."

Oric-El gripped both of Reiva's upper arms and pulled her free with no great effort.  Reiva stayed lying in the snow, cradling the damaged side of her head in her arms.  Blood fell down to stain the snow in a ring of droplets.  Pulling up and sheathing his own sword, Oric-El picked up her pulsblade, flipping it around to offer her the hilt.  Reiva, with a trembling hand reached up and grasped it.

"Come, it's getting dark, we should go back inside, and see to that blood ear of yours."  With that, Oric-El Ged turned around and began trudging back to the abandoned. atrium without a backwards glance.

Reiva leaned on her pulsblade as she pulled herself slowly to her feet.  So, this was it.  She had accomplished her goal.  Oric-El Ged was going to train her.  Then why did she feel so sick?  Reiva looked at Oric-El's receding back then at her waiting ship.  No, there was no letting herself go back now, not after all she'd been through to get here, even if "here" was cold and painful.

Reiva Caserta, sheathing her pulsblade, looked one last time at her starship before following the footsteps of her new master, the evening wind throwing snow all around as the sun set behind her.         

The Rise of Man

God came to Ourano-Kal'es as he rested under his pavilion, and God said:
"Ourano-Kal'es, rise, what do you see?"
Ourano-Kal'es rose quickly from his rest and gazed up at the sky.
"I see the stars and ever-moving planets, my Lord."
"I have given the universe to you and your kin.  Go, you shall have dominion over every star and every planet; every nebula is yours to explore and every arm of the galaxy is yours to inhabit.  So long as you and your sons keep my Word, it shall be so."
"As You say, so shall it be." Ourano-Kal'es replied, "I and my sons shall keep your Word, as You know we do, but how will we reach out and touch the stars?"
And God said, "Build a boat not of wood, but of metal and stone and fire and you and your kin will reach the distant stars.  But I warn you, do not stray into the heart of the galaxy, for there things dwell that are not meant for you.  The rest of the galaxy is yours to seed.  Fill it with your descendants and seed life where you please."
Ourano-Kal'es promised he would do as God has said and bowed his head in thanks.  And so it was that Ourano-Kal'es and his sons and his sons' sons and all their people built a vessel not to ply waters, but the speckled void between the stars.  They spread out from their homeworld in every direction, settling on any world that pleased them; every nebula to them was as a wall of mist, every planet and solar system were but islands, and the stars were like grains of sand to them.  The galaxy was theirs to steward over, and all life was theirs to guard and shape in their own image.  Yet in all this, Ourano-Kal'es and his and his sons' sons kept their word with God and never strayed into the heart of the galaxy, where it was not safe for their kind.
But the time came when Saturos-Más gathered together all his kin and all the races of the worlds before him and said, "All power has been given to us so we may steward over the universe.  We have become like gods.  God told our forefathers never to stray into the heart of the universe; but that was ages past.  Now we are stronger than they and more numerous than the stars with the strength to reshape worlds.  So come, let us gather our strength-every vessel and ship, every man and soldier–and gain even the very core of the universe."
And so all the strength of man flew in the murky core of the galaxy and uncovered the secrets that lay there.  Saturos-Más and all the powers of men gathered there partook of the knowledge found there, and they realized that they were naked in spirit and the truths of the heavens and all the worlds fell before them.  Man turned on man as all the powers of men tried to destroy each other in their madness.  Worlds were put to flame and solar systems were rent to pieces  in the destruction a great force was unleashed upon man: the C'gha.
They fed on stars and nebulae, devouring anything in their path.  Man fought against them in desperate battles; the very stars were quenched with the blood spilled by the sons of men and planets were cracked open as if they were eggs.  The strength of men found too late how to imprison the C'gha under more than rock and metal.  The universe was choked by the ash of a hundred thousand worlds and man retreated to whence he came, broken and devoid of knowledge, not being able to tell his left hand from his right.  And there man stayed, the C'gha a forgotten nightmare sealed away beyond the stars.

Through the Looking Glass

The blades of the ceiling fan rotated lazily, doing little to lift the heat filling the room.  It was small, the room, with only a single light bulb hanging from the chipped ceiling, giving cheap, yellow light to the filing cabinets  along the bare walls and to the crowd of men in the center of the room.  They had him tied to the chair.  Two of the men stood behind the chair, casting their big shadows across him, while three others towered in front.  Blood ran out of the corner of his mouth and his left eye had been turned a meaty purple from its previous date with a fist.  First one's always the hardest.

"Know I don't know who you are," the boss said, crouching down in front of him, "but you ain't welcome here, stranger, this is our territory.  Now, you mind telling me who you are?  You keep staying quiet and I'll let Tommy take over, and he's not much of a talker himself."

The boss's face was hidden behind a mask of shadows with only the glowing butt of a cigarette casting the faintest orange light on his mouth.  Strands of smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, gathering like a wreath around the light.  He, the man in the chair, spat blood on the floor.

"I'm a detective, my business is confidential." he spat.

A fist smashed into his jaw.

"I know that, Einstein!" the boss snapped, "And quite a detective you are: a magnifying glass, handgun, and a notebook full of gibberish.  Oh yes, and that pocket watch.  I suppose at least that will fetch some cash."

"I'm a special detective." the man in the chair said with a chuckle.

Another fist became acquainted with the skeletal structure of his face.

"Quit the garbage   Who are you and why ere you snooping though my property?  I won't ask again." the boss leaned forward, his voice like a razor in the man's ears.

"Alright, fine." the man in the chair spat out more blood, "They call me the Finder.  I'm a detective of a very special caliber; so special in fact, I'm the only one.  There's a certain item in your possession that is of interest to me.  That satisfy you?"

"The mirror?" the boss growled, "What do you want the mirror for?"

"It once belonged to one Abigail H. White.  She was murdered some time ago; the mirror is important in the case.  It's police property now, you have to hand it over."

The cigarette glowed orange, smoke streaming past the boss's face as he sat, peering silently at the Finder.

"That's a load of bull, and you know it." the boss spat in the Finder's face, "I told you I wouldn't ask again."

"And I think I've had enough of this." the Finder said with a smirk.

"What?" the boss exclaimed, rising to his feet in surprise.

The Finder shucked off the handcuffs keeping entrapped in the cair like one shakes water off one's hands.  He kicked the boss in between the legs and sent him sailing across the room, knocking the two goon behind him to the floor.  The Finder picked up the chair, swinging it around his head like a hammer, and smashed it into the two men behind him.

"I picked the cuffs while one of your boys was giving me a makeover.  I'll just be taking the mirror know." the Finder said, tossing the cuffs on top of the boss's heaving chest, wiping blood from his cheek with his other hand.

"Who– what are you?" the boss gasped.

"A traveler from another dimension."

The boss's face was made uglier by the expression of confusion.

"What?" he gaped.

The Finder slammed a leg of the chair into the boss's thick skull, knocking consciousness from it.  The Finder strode over to the desk, picking up his sparse effects: his coat, hat, magnifying glass, and book.  He pulled the coat on, wrapping himself in its worn familiarity; he tucked the book, watch, and magnifying glass away in their particular pockets, then stepped back over to the boss.  The mirror was tucked safely inside the boss's coat.  The Finder relieved the sleeping man from the possession; the mirror was too effeminante for him anyway.  The Funder slipped out of the building into the fog-bound streets; he watched his back carefully as he slid past one building after another, the life on the streets having taught him to keep an eye behind him.  The Finder checked his pocket watch, the silver gleaming in the dark fog like a pearl in the ocean, popping open the scratched lid.

It was nearly six o'clock.

The Finder hurried down the street, past the shadowy forms of people, towards the train station like a hulking behemoth in the distance.  The Finder stopped at a telephone booth; he stepped inside, checked the fog outside, then rang the special number.  The Watcher's voice came crackling into his ear.

"Finder?  That you?"

"Yeah, I got the Anomaly.  What time was the train?"

"Six fifteen."

"Damn!  I'll be late, I–"

A spotlight pierced through the shroud of black fog, landing on the telephone booth.  An alarm filled the thick air.

"Gotta go!" the Finder shouted, slamming the phone back home.

He ran from the booth, the spotlight searching for him through the fog all while the alarm filled the drab street suddenly devoid of people.  He found the steps leading into the station just as he heard the loud sounds of pursuit coming, rushing, down the street towards him like a river.  He flew inside, pushing past crowds of stunned individuals: the train was starting to leave the station.  The Finder ran down the platform, his pursuers coming down the stairs to the platform.  The Finder grabbed onto the caboose, pulling himself on with a grunt: he was on the train.  He slipped inside the caboose as it left the station behind it in the fog, the mirror in his hands.

"That was too close." he said.    
    

The Pariah

There is nothing in the endless void of blackness and stars; only the silent dance of suns and planets with only the intermissions of comets and asteroids.  Even after Man built the first spaceship the greatness that is space was affected little.  The ugly behemoths of carbosteel and pig tin scuttle from star to star, delivering goods, picking up deliveries, or deploying troops.  The stars and twisting planets take very little notice of this interstellar network, though, the achievements of Man have changed very little about the universe.  Or at least that's how it was before the war...

***  

Galen's eyes snapped open, the strange dreams of deep space retreating into the dark corners of his mind and the usual chill creeping from his limbs.  He sat up, rubbing his head, blinking artificial sleep from his eyes.  The blue light in his chamber was blinking accompanied by the honking alarm.  He grumbled, placing a scarred hand on the white plastic wall of his small, tubular chamber as he pulled on underpants in no particular hurry.  There was a small screen and keyboard next to the door of his chamber, he strode over and punched a button; the screen popped into life.  First there was static, then an image of Ophelia waved into life.

"Galen!" barked the speaker with a crackle, "Get the fek to your station!  We're four klicks out.  Over."

With a pop, the screen was black once more.  The alarm silenced and the light returned to a steady yellow glare.  With a sigh, Galen brushed ice crystals from his hair and pushed the button to the door.  It slid open with a shrill hiss and he stepped out into the hall.  The corridor was long but narrow, like almost everything on the ship, with a row of pneumatic white doors lining one side and lockers on the other.  It was the resting quarters for the crew of the Pariah.  There were only about ten or twelve hands on the ship, though.  The doors of the other engineers slid open as well; Clarke stumbled into the corridor farther down and Tet soon followed.  Kelly came out of her chamber one door down; when she saw Galen she gave him that shy smile she usually gave him and crossed over to her locker.  Galen walked across the cold metal grates of the floor to his own locker.  The melted ice droplets clung to his skin refusing to drip down onto the floor.  Gravity must be light Galen thought as he pulled on his under-suit composed of a thin rubbery unitard, then he covered himself in his uniform and boots.  He turned around to look at the the progress of his fellow engineers as he buckled on his utility belt.  Tet was ready and attentive, Kelly was finishing tying her hair up, and Clarke was still yanking on his uniform.  Galen started giving out his orders anyway.

"Engineers, we are four klicks fron rendezvous point.  Tet, Kelly, you come with me, we'll replace Damon and Marc in the Engines.  Clarke, once you're ready, head to the bridge.  Understood?"

"Yes sir!" they all said.

Galen led Tet and Kelly down the dim hallways down into the guts of the Pariah to the Engine Room.  Clarke headed for the bridge on the other end of the ship.  When Galen and his crew reached the Engines, an exhausted Marc greeted him.

'Chief, finally!  About trajing time!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"Shift's over, Marc, go get some sleep." Galen said to him.

Damon, tossing his goggle to the side, came out of the Engine Room hatch.

"Shift done?  I've been awake too long, it's time for a nap." he said as he and Marc headed away towards the resting quarters.     

"Alright, people, let's get to work." Galen ordered as he pulled googles over his head and stepped into the Engine Room, "I want this girl to hold together when we dock.  Kelly, can you get that screen to show the Guider feed?"

"Sure thing, Chief." she said.

Kelly stepped up on a pipe, wrenching open a pannel on the wall and began splicing wires as Galen and Tet oversaw the smoking behemoth that was the engine.

"Got it!" Kelly called as she put that pannel back in place and jumped down from the pipe.

The screen hanging from the low ceiling beam blinked into life with the blue information screen of the Guider.  In the center was the grid showing the empty space surrounding the Pariah; in the bottom were the stream of jargon useful only to the Guider and the pilots; in the upper right corner was the number of klicks from their targeted destination.

"Three klicks, sir, should we give her a push?" Tet said.

"Sure, let's speed this up.  I'd say push it up to 2500." Galen said, eyes still on the screen.

Tet punched a code and some data into a keyboard, then cranked on a gear to charge up the engine more.  Steam hissed through some pipes overhead.

"Good, two and a half klicks now.  Almost time for the hailing call.  Kelly, audio work on this?" Galen called over to Kelly.  Kelly was a skilled electrician and computer engineer as well as a starship mechanic, one of the few onboard able to understand the streams of command-line programming of the shipboard computers.

"Should be working, Chef." she said to him.

Two klicks now; the speakers crackled as Halon's voice– the ensign– blared through them.

"Starcarrier Celestine, this is the C.S.G.E. Pariah, clearance o-seven-seven-niner, requesting to dock, please respond.  Over."

They waited for a response to come crackling back; nothing.

"I can see them, why aren't they responding?" Tet said, looking at the large dot on the screen.

Halon repeated his message, but still now response came.

"We're just a click away." Galen said, "The Guider should be able to see her by now.  Kelly, reboot the feed!"

Kelly dashed away and fiddled with more wires.  The screen wavered, flickered, then changed to a live view of the void in front of the Pariah.  The three engineers stood beneath the screen; eyes wide and staring.  Kelly gave out a gasp.  The might that was the Starcarrier Celestine, one of the largest and most powerful class of ships in the galaxy, was strewn out across the space before them in shredded pieces.  The bodies of the hundreds of inhabitants floated among the wreckage.

"What the fek could do this to a Starcarrier?  Who would do it?" shouted Galen.

A light burst into life and a klaxon blared through the corridors: the captain wanted them all on the bridge.

     ***

Spacers were created by the Colonial government to be able to survive the harsh conditions and long years of space travel.  They were altered to be able to withstand cryostasis and to only need the barest amount of nutrients to live.  Spacers, it is rumored among the Colonies, don't age, but this has yet to be proved.  Spacers are treated with suspicion and mistrust by the Colonials the rare times Spacers have interactions with Colonials.  The Governance uses Spacers as pilots of freighter ships, mining vessels, and naval battlecruisers.  The only ships not operated by the mysterious Spacers are the Starcarriers; the pride of the Colonies and the key to Man's future.           

Vampires sue Twilight author

Due to the recent series of novels and their success among modern youth, the sanguine Crown of Noctheim demands Twilight author Stephenie Meyer reimburse them for misportraying an existing and ancient species with a long and noble history.  They stated that they took great offense at the main plot point of the book series and film adaptations: the vampire-human relationship; a relationship of such has only ever happened once in the history of the Inquieta in the 16th century and has never happened since.  The circumstances of this historical relationship were very different from those in Mrs. Meyer's portrayal, and it definitely was not romantic, again like in the mistaken portrayal in the book series and films.  Humans and vampires, while the latter's population is drawn from the former, are different species and not compatible with each other reproductively and due to certain necessities.

To read the rest of the article, click here.

The Last: Breakfast

I woke up several hours after our nightmarish escape from the safe house.  The sun was peeking past the buildings of downtown Boston, hitting me right in the face with its obnoxious golden light.  I think Gorham had been sleeping too; Chula Vista still had her eyes closed and head leaned against her door..  I looked over at Victor; he had bags under his eyes and he was doing his anxiety chewing on a toothpick.  If he had cigars he'd have smoked 'em all by now.

"Charleston, what time is it?" I grumbled.

Victor's face involuntarily twitched.  Yeah, he needed a nap.

"0720... er, 7:20.  Lookin' fer a place to crash."

I stretched as much as I could crammed in the seat as I was, then yawned, "Wh- why don't we leave Boston?  If– hey, there's Piero's." I saw the warm red and brown sign through all the debris and wreckage.  When I was up in this part of the city, Piero's was my favorite cafe to stop at.

"Can't.  CDC's still blocking 90 n' 93.  And smaller roads too.  Bridges over the river have been blocked off by the National Guard.  This city's bolted up tighter than Satan's colon.  Only way out's on foot, which means bein' chewed up alive and shat out by one of the f–kers."

"Alright... alright.  Victor, ya gotta get some rest soon though.  And it looks like your about to explode, I mean I'm scared shitless but ya gotta relax a little."

"What d'ya think I'm doin'?  Driving around 'cause I feel like burnin' gas?  Now can it, Russia."

Yeah, he really needed a nap.  Ok, and I was really getting sick of that "Not-calling-each-other-by-our-names,-even-your-own-godson-thing".  This was gonna be a long zombie apocalypse.  I turned my head away from Victor, his eyes twitching as he glared at the crap-filled street, and I looked out my window.  Man, the city had really been going to hell.  Heaps of bags and trash; suitcases and boxes; broken appliances; shattered glass; busted, broken, and/or burning cars; and whole lot more general debris and chaos.  There were cop cars too, and a turned over SWAT van with its windshield busted in, at Huntington and Stuart.  Reminded me of those pictures you see like on Wikipedia of cities after World War II or something.  Except this had the scattered corpses of people, clumps of dead zombies, and the occasional living one.  

I heard a noise behind me, I looked back and saw it was Vista waking up at last.  She stretched, brushing some of her black hair out of her face.  I think she noticed me looking at her.  She gave me a little, nervous smile, I tied to return a confident, manly half-smile.  Not sure how it turned out.  Vista looked out of the hummer, leaning to the side to see the passing buildings out the windshield.

"Um, Sir, Charleston?  Do you have any food?  Are we going to stop to have breakfast?" she looked plaintively at Gorham and me.

I looked at Gorham, then at Victor.  Right, food.  Damn was I suddenly hungry.  I think the last thing I ate was in my dorm.  My stomach felt empty and it began voicing its desire for food.

"Yeah, Charleston, we should get some food from the trunk."

"No.  I'm saving that for when we need it." Victor's eyes snapped around as he scanned the wreckage-clogged street we were driving down.  He sped up and stopped by a little cafe at the bottom of a parking garage.  It was The Atre Cafe or something like that.  I think we were near Wang Theater.  I thought I knew most of the streets of Boston, guess not.

"Grab weapons from trunk.  Get in, grab n' get out.  Be careful." Victor kept the hummer running as Gorham, Vista, and I hopped out of the car, I was pretty darn stiff though, and hobbled to the trunk.  I took out a 9mm and Gorham took one of Victor's rifles complete with scope.  Vista I think took another handgun.  I also slipped the machete into my belt for good measure.  I led Gorham and Vista up the small flight of stone steps up to the cafe front.  It had a glass front and most of the panes were smashed, at least partially.

"Careful of the glass guys." I said back to Gorham and Vista.

I strode up bravely to the glass door, praying to God there wasn't another 500 pound zombie waiting for me on the inside.  Gotta act cool, you know.  Gorham looked through the smashed store front into the dim cafe inside.

"Looks clear, Russia, let's hurry and get this over with.  Looks like some people didn't make it out."

I pushed open the door, the other two close behind me, I quickly raised my handgun, searching the cluttered cafe for zombies.  The place was a mess; tables were knocked over and coffee and other liquids were spilled across the floor.

"Ok, careful, guys, one of those things could– is that a cinnamon roll?  And coffee?" I lowered my gun and leaped over to the counter.

I picked up the cup of coffee and was about to guzzle the whole thing down my throat when Vista interjected.

"Um, Russia, you don't know what could be in that.  It could be.. I don't know, infected?"

The coffee cup stopped inches from my mouth.

"Oh yeah, good point, Vista." I tossed the coffee cup on the floor.  Somebody'd clean it up.. er, wait...

I proceeded to scoop up the cinnamon roll.  It seemed clean and was still very slightly warm, sorta lukewarm.  I was just about to take a huge bite, my mouth watering, when a frickin' zombie burst up from behind a table.  Apparently the people who didn't make it out were now zombies.  Should've guessed that.  I whipped around, heart hammering against my ribs, 9mm raised.  But before i even had time to fire off one shot, the frickin' zombie's head exploded and the cafe was filled with the loud crack of rifle fire.  An empty cartridge clattered onto the floor.  Gorham stepped beside me rifle raised.  I shook my head to try and alleviate the ringing.

"Let's just grab some food and go, bud."

I blinked at him.  Right, I didn't want to linger.  I jumped over the counter and scooped as much pastries and sandwich material as I could into bags.   Vista searched for more food close by while Gorham stood by the fallen tables, looking this way and that with the rifle of his held ready.  This was obviously not the first time he'd held a gun; Vista though, she held like it was a dead rodent.

"So Charleston probably wouldn't approve of this, but why'd you say you wanted to head up to New Hampshire?  Where is Gorham anyway?" I asked as I jumped back over the counter with my spoils of war.

"My wife, Florence, is up there, visiting her brother, Danny.  I stayed behind 'cause the shop was busy.  I was going to join her this weekend.  Gorham's up in the north of New Hampshire, in the White Mountains."        

"Oh yeah, well I hope she's alright.  How 'bout you, Vista?  You said your parents are in California?"

She nodded, "Yeah... I hope what ever this is hasn't reached there yet."

"Hmm, I wonder where this infection has hit.  Is it just Boston, or the East Coast, or what?" I said scratching my chin.  My hand scratched against the stubble that was growing there. "Oh we should go now, otherwise Charleston's gonna burst in here with a machine gun thinking we're getting eaten."

We all turned to leave when we heard a noise and a small whimper coming fro the employees' only room behind the counter.  Our three gun barrels were pointed at the door in a second.  My heart began racing again as we heard more noises and something walking closer to the door.  Gorham peered down the sight of his rifle.  Then we all jumped as a voice called out from just behind the door.

"Don't shoot!  I'm not sick!  I'm not one of those things!  Please don't– !" the voice was a man's, filled with stress and fear though.

"It's ok, we won't shoot, just get out here!" Gorham called back to him.

The door was pushed open just enough to let the man slip out.  He looked like he was only a couple years older than me, in his mid 20s or so, and was in the dirty clothing of a cafe employee.  A hoop glinted on his eat and he held a butter knife in his hand.  Really?  Come on, man.

"What's your name, kid?" Gorham asked him, rifle lowering.  Vista and I followed suite with our own guns.

"Uh, Clay.  Your not gonna rob me are you?" he mumbled as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand.  I noticed he had a pretty nasty looking bruise on the right side of his forehead.

"What?" Gorham looked surprised, maybe even a little taken aback.  "Why would we rob you?"

"The last people in here did... they, uh, took some others into the parking garage..."

Gorham, Vista, and I all gave each other significant looks.

"Guys, we should– !" I started to say with some alarm.  A door far on the other side of the shop to our left was suddenly hit by what sounded like fists.  A lot of them, more than I cared to stay and find out about.

"Let's go!" I shouted, waving my arms toward the exit.

The door gave in with an explosion of wood splinters.  A pack of those things came tumbling in, mouths open, eyes searching and hungry.  I saw one still had a fresh bite wound on his shoulder.  There must've been nearly twenty zombies shambling down the hall.

"Let's go!  Let's go!" I yelled, pulling Vista out the door, Clay dashing up behind me.

Gorham ran into the doorway, then he turned around and fired off several shots into the pack.  I think I heard some corpses hit the floor.  We all four fled down the steps and flew into the hummer.  Before the doors were even closed Victor was off, zooming down the street; the hummer smashed a sedan out of the way as we fled and as the zombies came stumbling down the steps after us.

"Damn, I must've hit three of those things dead in the chest and they didn't even flinch!" Gorham said as he flicked the safety on his rifle and wiped the sweat from his forehead.  "And these are hunting rounds."

Victor's eyes flicked up to look at the rear view mirror.

"Took you guys long enough.  Stirred up the whole f–king city too.  And who the hell is this?"

"Uh, hi, I'm– ." Clay began, but of course was cut off by Victor.

"Don't tell me yer name.  I don't need to know, neither do I care.  I'll just call you Waiter if I need ya for some reason."

I dished out food to everyone, except Clay says he wasn't hungry.  Something made me think he'd seen more than he'd wanted to today; ugly, terrifying things.

"Bon appétit, everyone." Gorham said as he raised up his sandwich.  We all dug in ravenously, even Victor.

We were speeding past Chinatown, planning I guess to get to the river, or just find a place to hole up for the night.  We were passing Wilbur Theater when we saw them.  Whole packs of them clustered around the theater, battering at its boarded-up doors.  Scared whimpers and yelps could be heard faintly from inside every time one of the things hit the doors.

"Hey, hey, there are people in there!  We gotta help 'em!" Gorham exclaimed.

I felt bad too for the poor bastards locked up in the theater, must be pretty terrifying in there.  Looks like they did a pretty good job of boarding it up though.

"No." grunted Victor, "We keep driving.  Not our problem."

"Charleston, please!  We should at least bust 'em out through the back or something.  Come on, listen to 'em!  They need he– gelp!" that last word came out as this weird strangling noise because Victor had suddenly braked and swerved the car the car around.

He kicked it into high gear, driving right into the main pack gathered at the front doors of the theater.  Zombies tumbled over the windshield leaving bloody streaks; zombies were smacked by the side mirrors, bones cracking and heads turning at unnatural angles; zombies were run over by the hummer with that sickening bump and crunch.  Blood spattered onto my window making me jump.  Victor stopped the car.  He wrenched the door open, marching to the back of the hummer and throwing the trunk open.

"Ya wanna help these people?" he said as he cocked his AK-47, "Then hurry up and grab a gun."                      

Extraneorum

Captain Germanicus' report to the Senate of Rome and Emperor Trajan:
I, Germanicus Manius Gaius Flavius Albus, veteran of Dacia and the Germanic frontier, was stationed by request in Britannia.  I desired to see the wild land Caesar so long ago had landed on and I thought I might make a life there.  I was put in charge of a garrison from Eboracum; we patrolled the city's borders, guarding against intrusions and raids of the Picts and Brittunculi.  We did stop a raid of several of the local tribes from reaching the city.  It happened on the fourteenth day of Iunius, a warm, gentle day; I was leading six of by best men in a scouting mission to the north of the city.  There was Marcus Bubulcus a broad man from Gaul; Quintus Galerius Licinius, the son of a colonist from Londinium; Aelius Scipio and Nerva Naevius, my two lightest scouts, both from Italia; Armendric called Alexander, a Burgundi tribute soldier stationed here; and Tiberius Brutus from Syria.  Aelius was ranging ahead when he rushed back, face slick with sweat.  He said he had found strange Pictish machine.  We were all curious to see this contraption, for as of yet Rome had seen no cleverness in the Britons.  We hurried to the fell where he had found it; the thing lay on the grassy side of one of the sloping hills, exposed to the sky, dark trees all around.  We circled around it, inspecting it and trying to discern its purpose.  The alien thing was made of a dark metal seemingly akin to steel; strange rivulets or strings of blue ran down the center of the monument.  It stood easily two men tall and bout three wide, prongs, four of them, reached up in the center of the thing, which was roughly tear drop shaped.  Finding no discernible purpose to it, we searched inscription or markings.  Though the thing was covered in octagonal designs of foreign origin, we could make nothing of it, but instead we found a hatch to inside the Pictish edifice.  I ordered Bubulcus to pry it open; he was just about to give the hatch a great heave when it opened easily before his hand with the hiss of hot water in a pipe.  Inside it was dark except for similar blue lighting, like the sun seen through ocean water; Aelius and Nerva were able to fit inside easily.  They found many strange Pictish ornaments and odd octagonal pieces of the dark metal.  I kept having a growing bad feeling about this whole thing; I began to question where this strange monolith was truly made.  Then Aelius and Nerva brought out the corpse.  It was shrunken and emaciated as with famine; its veins were of the same azure blue  as the rivulets on the monument; its skin was gray like a corpse, and had un-human hands more like claws; and its eyes were large, circular, and black.  The tribal creature had a split in its chest that oozed green ichor.  I knew this was no Pictish landmark or ritual monument, but something far more foreign and mysterious.  We loaded all the artifacts onto our horses, who acted with some suspicion around the pieces of metal.  We rode hard all the way down Britannia to Londinium to consult the governor.  On the way, as we were camping only several miles north of the city in the forest, Quintus and Aelius were inspecting the ornaments when one of them clamped onto Quintus' arm.  In the struggle to get it off, another ornament a little longer than Quintus' clasped onto Aelius' arm.  The cuffs caused no pain and were the same coloring as the monument; as we consulted with each other, Quintus' let off a pulse of azure fire that extinguished our fire but also charged his sword with the glow of lightning.  One of the octagonal pieces of metal flew into the air, unfolding to cover Quintus in armor that marched the steel armor he had worn.  The ornaments then came alive with activity: one flew up and strapped itself around Bubulcus' shoulders and chest, with the armor following soon after; a second cuff wrapped around Quintus' free wrist; an ornament clasped onto Nerva's upper arm; an ornament that turned into a gauntlet folded around Alexander's forearm; Tiberius received one cuff around his wrist; and I too had one of the ornaments wrap around my shoulders.  After all was done, we all had new, dark sets of armor to replace our old.  And that is what happened the night of the thirtieth day of Iunius; that is how we, the Extraneorum, were made.