Page Long Stories #1: The Couch

The couch cushion folded around his butt comfortably, the worn fabric stretching to accommodate his familiar form. Sweat began to seep through the holes in his jeans, a moist lubrication to help his cheeks to slide into the creases in the foam. His back slowly relaxed, slumping down until his shoulders hunched up in a shrug.

Every night he sank down onto the broken down old thing, every night easier than the last. A few weeks ago he’d stood staring for a few moments before each retreat to the soft upholstery, glancing furtively toward the window; now he just poured the couch a drink along with his own and collapsed. And somehow, though the couch never moved, both drinks would be gone before unconsciousness overtook him.

That was probably an hour or more off yet, however. He took a listless sip of single malt, staring at the spot on the carpet where the TV stand used to be. They’d taken that, along with the TV, a week ago…or maybe more. No great loss, in any case. Nothing but static.

The whiskey burned pleasantly in his mouth, and he blinked slowly. The bottle stood on the floor next to the couch, freshly opened. It had probably been expensive. He threw the rest of his glass back and swallowed it quickly.

Yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, the wall in front of the couch had occupied his attention where the TV had before. Floral wallpaper straight out of the ‘70s, yellow stains that seemed to form odd shapes like clouds. After the couch finished its drink, they sometimes even moved.

They were gone now, of course. He had locked the front door back at the start of all this. Moved the refrigerator in front of it, too. Hauled it over, pushed it into place, stepped back with hands on hips and given his work a nod before moving on to boarding the windows. How long ago had that been? It didn’t matter. He took a sip of the couch’s drink.

The view was better now, of course. Where the wall had been, he could see all the way down the hill his house stood on to the remains of the city. He could watch the sun set all the way below the horizon now that the Citi Bank tower was gone. Well, not gone in the strictest sense – people had taken up residence in the few lower floors that remained. His TV stand was probably in one of them. The TV, too, if it hadn’t been too damaged when they broke through the wall.

He raised the glass to his lips to find it empty, and let it fall from his hand to bounce off his thigh onto the floor. The bottle was almost empty now, oddly. Couch must have been thirsty this evening. He settled himself further into the cushion, and closed his eyes.

Page Long Stories #2: Cajun Crossbow

Prompts: Remorse, Cajun, Crossbow

I knew the moment my lips closed around the morsel of mystery meat that I had made a mistake. A big one.

“Sorry, boys – I seem to have fixed the wrong lunch today.”

The men standing in front of me were confused by that, the guns in their hands lowering a bit. It wasn’t ideal, but I’d make it work. I sent a quick curse up to whatever god had put me in this position, and swallowed the meat.

As the spicy gibbet slid down my throat, a wooden crossbow, reinforced with iron banding and loaded with a heavy bolt, popped into existence in front of me. I wouldn’t call myself the most graceful of combatants, but damn if I didn’t feel like a badass when I snagged the bow out of the air and dove to the side, firing bolt after bolt at the would-be thieves.

Or I would have, anyway, if it hadn’t slipped out of my hand before I could even fire. This just wasn’t my day, I guess.

I did dive to the side, though – had to. While it wasn’t everyday that you saw a medieval weapon materialize out of thin air, it wasn’t quite astonishing enough to keep those guns from firing for very long.

I landed behind a gigantic box of watermelons. All I had wanted to do today was pick up a box of Fruit Loops. Well, that’s not quite true. I had also been hoping to eat them. Can’t a man go to his local Albertson’s on the weekend and get some fruit loops? America really is in decline.

Watermelon flesh started to erupt from the box as the two man gang opened fire on me. I wasn’t sure how long a box of watermelons would stop bullets. I doubt that’s ever been tested.

I reached into my fanny pack – yes, yes, fanny pack, I know, shut up – and yanked out a baggy filled with more chunks of meat. I carry a supply with me at all times, ever since I discovered the peculiar effect they have when I eat them. It’s not beef, or pork, or any other meat that I can identify. All I know is I found it in the freezer at the house I’m renting and when I eat it, weird stuff starts happening.

Case in point – I pulled another Cajun kibble out of the bag and popped it in my mouth. Cajun. How had I ended up with cajun? I needed to stop preparing this stuff drunk. At least it wasn’t Thai – now that would have been a disaster. As useless as a crossbow was, a sword would have been even worse.

I swallowed the second bit of meat and a crossbow appeared in front of me again. I took more care in grabbing it this time, took a deep breath, and prepared to face the blizzard of watermelon and bullets.

Hopefully tomorrow would go better. Maybe I’d try out steak sauce.

Page Long Stories 3: Welcome to Tobuscus, Hell

Prompt Words: Revolt, Small Town, Crime Boss

This town had gone straight to hell. Literally.

When the citizens of Tobuscus woke up on Friday, October the 13th to unseasonably warm weather, not much was thought of it at first. The radio DJ made a joke at the expense of climate change skeptics and immediately launched into thirty minutes of today’s biggest hits, commercial free, from his heart to your ears.

A few people started wondering if the problem might be larger in scope when bits of flaming tar began to rain from the sky. Dire straits became all but certain as those bits started several fires that not only couldn’t be put out despite the Tobuscus Fire Department’s best efforts, but they didn’t actually burn anything up. The DJ nervously chuckled about God speaking to Mayor Oswald Moses from the burning shrubbery in the courthouse gardens before putting the station on autoplay for the rest of the day and going home.

Beauregard Ainsworth Beansely, known strictly as Bed N’ Breakfast to anyone who didn’t want their face forcefully rearranged, was perhaps the last skeptic. Whether it was a weird meteorite or government experiment gone wrong, it wasn’t a reason to stop selling pot to the fine people of Tobuscus. Folks needed the warm embrace of dear Mary Jane on days like this, he told his employees, and if they couldn’t summon the common decency to serve their fellow man in time of need they’d feel the steel toe of the Bed N’ Breakfast boot.

When the monsters showed up in an armored troop vehicle, though, even BnB had to admit something not strictly natural had occurred.

He didn’t know if Tobuscus been transported to Hades, Molten Core or the far side of Venus, but they weren’t in Kansas anymore. The creatures that rolled into town were hulking and brutal, and they quickly transformed Tobuscus into a labor camp, killing off anyone who was too young, old or otherwise unable to work. Worst of all, they strictly and effectively prohibited the sale of recreational intoxicants. True, people didn’t really have anything to pay with anymore, but it was the principle of the thing.

BnB’s mother had always told him his life of crime would end in tears. Sheriff Muldoon had threatened to send him to juvie if he didn’t put a stop to his destructive ways. Even Mayor Moses had lectured him once when he’d caught his daughter buying some choice green. “Beansley, the entire town of Tobuscus is ashamed of you. Clean up your act!”

BnB figured their tune would change when he ended the monsters’ reign of terror and handed the keys to the city back to the Mayor, along with a complimentary joint. The monsters were well equipped and well-entrenched. Small problems for the properly motivated. And BnB was motivated. Business had been bad for too long.

“Time to bring the love of our dear Mary Jane back to Tobuscus, boys. Let’s light ‘em up!”

Off and on over the last decade or so, I’ve been working on a sci-fi novel. I wanted to create a cohesive fictional world with believable characters, and so I wrote a few short stories to help me flesh out my characters and universe. The following is one of those stories.

First there was nothing.

Nothing formed into blackness, empty darkness, cold stale air, nothing in front, nothing behind, nothing to see, nothing to feel, nothing to assure that one had not stepped through a doorway into hell.  The darkness was overwhelming, almost palpable in its lack of substance.

Then, slowly, movement could be discerned.  There was still no light, no light, and yet the blackness seemed to shift, as one shadow moved over another, as if the demons of the darkness had sensed an intruder and were prepared for an ambush, eager at the prospect of blood leaking through their fangs.

Near the center of this swirling darkness stood a mass of even darker black, if such a thing were possible, one that did not move, did not shift, did not run.  The mass merely listened and watched, peering into the inky obscurity as if to discern its inner nature, to reveal its hidden secrets.  The swirling shadows seemed to hang back from it, leaving a wide berth of complete and total emptiness, a black ring so removed of light that even the darkness hung back from it.

Suddenly the mass began to move, stalking slowly, creeping forward, making no more noise than a shadow.

Mace Stouhn was used to darkness.  Darkness concealed, darkness offered safety.  Mace employed the darkness, used it, bent it to his will.  Some said he was a master of darkness; others said it was the other way around.  Very few that knew enough about him to say one way or the other lived long enough to find out which was true.

There were times, of course, when Mace himself wondered, wondered if he would burn in hell for what he did, for what he had done and planned to do.  Sometimes he would lie in the darkness and ask questions for which there were no answers, question whether or not things might have been different if…

But it did not matter.  Even if he had suddenly found an answer, realized that his way was error, it would change nothing.  He was what he was.  He knew no other way to live.  Other than to die.

And the darkness swirled on, washing over him in deafening silence.

Suddenly, not silence.  Mace froze, his microscopic progress forward halted completely, as he listened.  A sound, no louder than the breeze over heather, of an exhalation and, quieter still, a desperate inhalation.

Fool.

This would not be the first target that had given itself away by clinging to the temporary silence of holding its breath.  Mace knew that when fear and adrenaline were rushing through one’s veins, even absolute silence could sound louder than the crack of a rail gun.  One’s own heartbeat seemed to crash and betray, and the breath necessary for life could sound remarkably like a death knoll, repeated over and over with every exhalation.

But it was an illusion, an illusion that pushed the untried and the beginners and the fools into mistakes like this one had make.  While the halting of respiration did create silence, the inevitable gasp, however restrained, was a hundred times louder than normal breathing.

A very important lesson to learn.  A lesson that, apparently, this target never had learned.  A pity.

And then a sound that nearly made Mace’s lip curl with disgust: the near inaudible hum that signaled a target lock.  This mistake was not that of a mere beginner.  It was that of an idiot, controlled by fear.  It was probably laying facedown, its treacherous weapon held in front of it, lying in its own urine, tears running down its face as it contemplated its death.  If one required a computer to target and fire one’s weapon, one had no business using a weapon.  And though the computer’s hum was unhearable to the untrained ear, Mace had spent hours listening to it and many such sounds, imprinting them upon his memory for just such a situation as this—so had every other half-decent assassin on the planet.  If the target did not know this, it was a fool for its lack of preparation; if it had known, it was afool for making that kind of slip.  Mace did not unduly enjoy the kill at the end of a hunt, any more than one enjoys answering the final question on an exam except in that it means that the exam is over; but he would not particularly regret ending this particular target’s pathetic existence.  But it was a moot point: Mace’s assignment did not necessarily call for the target’s death.  Only his takedown.

Mace began moving again, millimeter by millimeter, pushing slowly through the darkness.  He did not expect that his target could see him, but that did not matter.  One did not survive by making that kind of assumption, and even if it was true, the krefek’s computerized weapon could sense him.

The weapon most likely sensed body heat, but there was a small chance that it was of the rarer motion detecting variety; if it was the former, than moving slowly made no difference, but he did it anyway against the chance that it was the latter.  And anyway, there was no point in completely giving away his position just yet.

As he moved, he waited, his ears straining to hear through the swirling blackness, his eyes striving to penetrate it.  He waited, and would wait for days if necessary, for the right moment.  The moment just after his target’s last mistake, and just before his target’s last breath.

And it came, with a faint change in the rhythm of the target’s breathing, with a sudden sense of danger and immediacy floating through the darkness, and the unpardonable scritch of a neglected and long uncleaned trigger being pulled.

Mace hurled himself backwards, feeling the projectile leave a hot red trail along his forehead, caught himself on the heels of his hands, letting himself hit the floor and somersaulting back over his head, coming up in a crouch that instantly became a leap towards the source of the shot.

The target—a man, dressed in black—screamed as Mace’s apparition-like form soared out of the depthless darkness, desperately trying to shift his aim.  But too late.

Mace twisted in midair, bring his hand around in a violent surgical strike that caught the target on its wrist, sending its weapon skittering away, accompanied by the snap of bone and another scream, this of pain.

He landed on the target, bringing his knee up hard into its midsection, hearing the outward rush of air and feeling the form doubling over in sudden agony.  His movements as fast as instinct, he reached his left arm around the target’s neck and grabbed its opposite shoulder, at the same time grasping at the target’s left arm with his right hand, suddenly lifting and pulling the target’s body around so that it faced the floor, and then slammed it down onto the cold steel surface, hard enough to stun but not to incapacitate.

Before the target could even register what had happened, its broken wrist was pulled around behind its own back far enough to touch the opposite shoulder.

The man struggled briefly, yelling incomprehensibly, then, “Stop!  I give!  I give!”  Its voice was strangled, though that was hardly strange, as it was probably struggling to breathe, was writhing in pain, and had blood leaking into its mouth from at least one place.  It was helpless, desperate.

But this was not the first helpless and desperate person Mace had encountered.  Reaching down with his free hand, he touched his fingers gently to the targets unbroken arm, leaning down to whisper into its ear.

“Try it.  I dare you.”

For an eternal instant, the man tensed; then, suddenly, went limp, the poisoned holdout blade falling from its hand with a resigned curse.

Before the target could begin begging and make him sick, Mace reached down and gripped the back of its head, applying pressure to two points just above the neck, and felt the body go completely slack with unconsciousness.

Mace did not move for several seconds, listening, feeling.  More than once a target’s body had been rigged with doomsday weapons, usually poison gases, that would activate at sudden unconsciousness or death.  A coward’s tactic, but one that made certain sense, from a victim’s point of view.  But if an attacker was skilled enough to make a takedown, and yet stupid enough to fall victim to such a simple ploy, he deserved to die for the waste of talent.

Pushing his heavy frame off the limp body, Mace reached into a compartment in his jet black camouflage and pulled out a tiny recorder.  Activating it, he began to speak quietly to it.

“This is to inform you that you have used your first and your last chance.  The Head of Graneeda are lenient when they can afford to be.  Your interference was meaningless enough that they have decided to let you live.  Consider this the first day of the rest of your life.

“Just how long that life will be, is up to you.

“You have been warned.”

Mace placed the tiny recorder in the man’s ear and set its activation system—it would play back the message when the target regained consciousness.  Standing, he paused, contemplating.  Was it a twinge of regret that he felt, at leaving this target alive?

Perhaps.  The man’s utter incompetence and cowardice disgusted him, and he regarded the target as one regards a stain on a garment.  If Mace had his way, the man would have died for being such a poor excuse for human.

Of course, by that reasoning, if Mace had his way, half the population of the earth would be eliminated.

Oh, well.  One can always dream.

Silently, he moved off, disappearing into the blackness, leaving no trace of his presence, other than his unconscious target lying in a pool of drying blood.

And the darkness swirled on.

Off and on over the last decade or so, I’ve been working on a sci-fi novel. I wanted to create a cohesive fictional world with believable characters, and so I wrote a few short stories to help me flesh out my characters and universe. The following is one of those stories.

Mandy swore as she snapped her phone shut, slapping it back into its magnetic holder on her belt and scowling intently over the holographic yellow police line at the house.  It was picturesque, beautiful gardens surrounding it, a little creek running along one side and disappearing into a forest, rustic shingle rooftop and rough-panel siding.  It could have been straight out of one of those old Kinkade paintings her mother had hanging all over her walls, except that none of the windows were lit.  The kind of place that Mandy herself would have loved to live in.

You’d think, she thought to herself, that people this sick would’ve chosen a more imposing hideout.

The phone at her side buzzed, and she snatched it back up to her ear, flipping it open and adopting an icy tone.  “This had better be you telling me you’ve got that van.”

The voice on the other side was harried, male, and exhausted.  “Yes, I’ve got the van, just like I said I would.”

“What you said is that you’d have it an hour ago.”

“Look, darling, nothing in life is certain—”

Mandy cut him off, her frustration straining through her tight tone.  “Neither is the survival of the two little girls inside this house, Timmy.”

There was a pause.  “I know.  I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Make it five,” Mandy said, and replaced the phone again.  She then picked up the receiver of the police communications equipment, took a deep breath, and dialed onto the house’s network.

A voice answered instantly, deep, calm, and deadly intense.  “Hello.  Your time’s almost up.”

Mandy’s voice was professional, with just a hint of placating desperation thrown in for good measure.  “Please understand these things take time; we’re doing the best we can—”

The voice cut her off, its tone still icy smooth.  “I’ve heard that one before, fed.  Now that I think about it, I remember hearing it three years ago—just a few minutes before I was taken down and loaded into an armored police van.  I am going to repeat my terms to you one more time, just so you don’t have to go to the trouble of searching through your recording for them.  If that van is not here in twenty minutes, I start cutting off fingers.  Twenty-five minutes, toes.  Thirty minutes, ears.  Do I need to go on?”

“We understand that you’re serious.  The van will be here.  But it’s rush hour, c’mon, we just need a little more time.  Our driver has it on the way, he’s on the highway coming as fast as he can.  Give us thirty minutes.”

The voice did not reply for a moment.  “Thirty minutes.  The clock’s ticking, fed.”

The connection cut off.  Mandy set the phone down and leaned against the table, which was set up across the street from the house in question.  Police cruisers and a few SpecOps hover cars cluttered the small two lane road.  A few cops milled about, mostly for show of presence and to keep the camera crews occupied.  Mandy glanced at her timepiece, then clicked the comm attached her to collar.

“Big Mike, how’s the team placement coming?”

Big Mike’s old southern drawl came back through the comm, harsh and raspy with the encrypting.  “All but one team member is in place, Mandy-girl, just waiting on our last long rifleman, and then we’ll be green.  What is the situation there?”

“Not much change.”

“Hang in there.  I’ll let you know when—there, he’s in position, covering the back end of the house.  No visible motion.  Keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir.”  Though Mike Jefferson was her superior officer, they had worked together long enough that their relationship was no longer merely one of profession, but more of a partnership.  Twelve years her senior, Big Mike was commander of her special operations unit that handled situations like this when the local authorities decided it was too hot for them.

This particular situation had quickly become much hotter than expected, a botched robbery turned botched kidnapping turned hostage situation.  It did not help matters at all that the two girls that were being held inside were the twin daughters of the visiting politician, Andre Viat, quite possibly the most influential man in the world.  Some called him a savior, others the antichrist; right about now, Mandy didn’t care much what he was, she just wished he and his daughters had stayed home, instead of bringing their high-profile selves to her country and—inadvertently—gifting it with this huge dose of bad publicity.  Their position in the world was already bad enough; this would be enough to get them thrown into the same batch as Afghanistan and North Korea.

But that was a mess for others to sort out.  All that mattered right now were the lives of those two girls.  If the rest of the world went to hell while she worked that out, she would have to fix it at some later point.

Leaning against the table, Mandy closed her eyes and began to think, began to ponder, to gather all that she knew and all that she had learned of these robbers turned kidnappers into some cohesive form.  To see through their eyes.

There were two of them.  The first was a John Doe, perhaps his first venture onto this side of the law.  The second was Ralph ‘Slits’ Gray; his file back at their office was four inches thick.  He was nicknamed Slits for the scars on his wrists—leftovers of a failed suicide attempt during his first stay in prison, and supposedly the reason for his drive against all things lawful—first the authorities had ruined his life, and then they had ruined his death, and so he had dedicated whatever it was he had now to working against them.

But though Slits was a habitual lawbreaker, he had never been recorded doing anything even approaching as serious as this.  A robbery here and there, an occasional carjacking…but kidnapping?  Desperate people did desperate things…but this didn’t fit his profile at all.

Another thing out of place was how calm he seemed.  If it had been her who had just tried to rob one of the most powerful men in the world’s vacation home, failed, had had to grab two eleven year old girls and hold them under force while a crowd of cops and gawkers gathered and the world heard about what you had done, she’d have totally lost it, started screaming and shooting and making irrational demands.  Perhaps if she had been a professional, experienced kidnapper or terrorist, she would’ve handled it better, but she certainly wouldn’t have sounded like she’d expected it all along.  Which, now that she thought about it, was exactly what Slits sounded like.  Of course, that was not conclusive proof of anything, but still…

Mandy followed that tack.  Say that this was planned…planned to look like a robbery gone bad, when the hostage situation was the real goal all the time?  If that was the case, then Slits definitely was not in charge…finesse and deception?  Not the Slits I know and love. Either he was acting on remote orders—but independence had always been one of his trademarks, so that didn’t fit—or he was being forced into cooperation.

But why?

A motive for kidnapping the children of an important diplomat was not hard to imagine.  Viat had made plenty of enemies.  But why make it look like a robbery?  And why, according to her theory, were they forcing a small chips crook like Slits to be their front?

While Slits was not stupid, he wasn’t brilliant, either.  Pulling off a high-profile, high-risk robbery like this required brilliance.  Plain and simple.  No way any normal person could get away with it.  Too much security.  Perhaps a mastermind or a terrorist organization would have had the guts and brains to pull it off, but Slits was neither.

If they hadn’t been able to determine for certain that it was him, she would’ve submitted an opinion that they were dealing with someone else.  But it was Slits.  The voiceprint matched to ninety-eight percent, they had clear security footage of him and the John Doe entering the building, they had DNA samples from the car they had used, parked a few blocks away.  It was him.

But it wasn’t like him.

Mandy’s gut told her that Slits was being used as a puppet.  She couldn’t explain why, but she had learned to trust her instincts over the years.  Most of the time, they were right.  It had been a gut instinct that had bloodlessly resolved the Empire State Building affair, the job that had effectively launched her career.  It had been a gut instinct that had saved the lives of two dozen hostages a year ago in a Nevada bank.

Heck, it was a gut instinct that stopped me from eating one of those day-old McMuffins they were passing around earlier…Though now, as her stomach growled, she almost wished she’d taken one.

But who is using him?  And why?

Even as Mandy asked the question, she knew it wasn’t important.  Or, rather, wasn’t important at the moment.  That would be for someone else to figure out.  Right now, all that was important was getting those two girls out unharmed.  And now she had her foothold.  The rest was clockwork.

Mandy activated her comm.  “Mike?”

“Here.  What’s the situation?”

“Got ‘em right where I want ‘em.”

“That’s my girl.  Anything I can do?”

Mandy peered at the house, watching for shadows in the windows.  “Can you get me the positions of the subjects?  I want to try and talk to Slits without the Johnny listening in.”

“One sec, sugar.”  Big Mike broke the connection, and Mandy leaned against her equipment table, running through her plan of attack, looking for weaknesses, playing her own devil’s advocate.  But the theory fit the facts she had, which meant it was time to test it.  If it broke down, she would bail and take a different tack.

Big Mike’s voice crackled in her ear.  “Can’t see much, Mandy-girl, but judging from the sound patterns I’m picking up from the window mics, the Johnny’s with the kids, and Slit’s two rooms away, maybe where the TV is.  That help?”

“All I needed to know, sir.  Thanks.”

Mandy could hear Mike’s grin over the connection.  “Take the buggers down.  We’ll stand by in case all hell breaks loose.”

Mandy deactivated the comm, and once again picked up the receiver.

This time the answer was a few seconds in coming.  “Hello.”

His tone had not changed; calm, in control.  For a second, Mandy’s confidence in her theory wavered, but before she could change her mind, she jumped in.  “Why are you doing this, Slits?”

There was a long pause; the question had clearly taken the man by surprise.  “I enjoy complicating your lives.  Where’s my van?”

For a second, Mandy toyed with the idea of grasping for extra minutes by claiming that there had been an accident on the highway, and that it had slowed traffic down even further, but she didn’t want to risk it against the chance that they would check that on the internet.  Being caught in a lie wouldn’t help her situation.  “I know this wasn’t your idea, Slits.  You’re a lot smarter than this.”

“What, you don’t think I can handle a few dirty feds?  It’s not as if I haven’t run into you three-piece jokers before.”  There was indignation in the tone, but also a wavering.  She had him.  Another round to the gut instinct.

“No comment.  But you must have known that us three-piece jokers weren’t going to be the only ones here.  You know how many guns in a S.W.A.T. team, Slits?  There’s three of those out here, a spec ops unit, a HD terrorism squad, Viat’s personal body guard, and about a hundred cops.  Don’t try to tell me that you thought that you could hit this hornet’s nest without waking the whole hive—I won’t believe you.  I’ve read through your record.  While I wouldn’t call you the smartest man I’ve ever studied, you don’t strike me as suicidal.  Who’s your partner, Slits?”

A bark of laughter that sounded decidedly forced.  “If you think I’m going to start giving you names—”

Mandy cut him off, her mind working three sentences ahead of the conversation.  “I don’t want a name, Slits.  I mean organization.  Whoever he is, he’s a lot bigger than you are, and he’s using you as his scapegoat.  You really think he’s going to let you get arrested?  If he’s who I think he is, once you’ve played your part, you’ll never breathe the air out here again.  You know I’m telling you the truth.”  In truth, Mandy didn’t have the foggiest who Slits’ partner was, but the deception could go far to convince Slits’ of her credibility.

A long pause.  “I…Where’s the van?  You’re down to fifteen minutes, fed.”

Mandy ignored the question.  “I’ll make you a deal, Slits.”

That comment got an immediate response, as Mandy had counted on—she couldn’t have him hanging up on her now.  “I don’t make deals with cops!”

“Hear me out.  Here’s your options.  You could ignore me, stay in there, cut off a little girl’s fingers and get life in prison even if your partner doesn’t kill you—which he will—or, you can help me out, get charged with nothing more than unwillful aiding and abetting a kidnapping and attempted robbery, and be back out jacking cars again in a year tops.  Unless you know something about life after death that I don’t, it seems to me that it will be hard to rob that next bank from the inside of a body bag.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.  Mandy pounced one more time.  “You don’t really want to cut their toes off, do you, Slits?  You don’t strike me as sick.  You have a daughter of your own, don’t you?  What will she think of you with that news splattered all over every headline on the web?  And even on the billion to one chance that you escaped this with your life, you’d be the most hunted man in the world.  You’d have to go into permanent hiding, Slits.  If you so much as thought about even bending a law, it’d be over.  Help yourself here by helping me out, huh?  If they got you to do this by force or threat, we’ll protect you if you want, or leave you be if you’d rather handle it yourself.”

Again, silence.  This time Mandy waited.  At last, Slits’ voice came back over the line.  “I’ll never forgive myself for this.”

Mandy almost pumped her fist in the air.  “You’d never have had the chance to try with a bullet in your skull.”

Another pause.  “Do what you do in five minutes.  I’ll keep him off the girls.”

The line clicked.

Mandy nearly crushed her comm as she slapped it on.  “Mike, you got a storming solution worked up?”

Big Mike’s grin could be heard through the static.  “Mandy-girl, we had that worked up ten minutes after we got here.”  The grin disappeared.  “What gone wrong?”

“You’re going in, hard and loud, five minutes.  Slits will provide a distraction.  His partner’s the one really running the show.”

She heard his voice faintly, and realized that he was speaking to someone else.  And then his voice came back.  “How do you know he’s telling the truth?”

Mandy shrugged.  “My gut, Mike.”

“I’m sure I’m safe in assuming you wouldn’t be trusting those two lives in there to a mere hunch?”

That gave Mandy pause.  How did she know?

I… “I’m as sure as I’ve ever been about any of this, Mike.”

She again heard him giving orders, then, “Good enough for me.  Five minutes.”

—

Ten minutes later, Mandy watched as Slits was led, handcuffed and masked, out of the house and into an armored van.  His partner was brought out in a body bag on a stretcher.  The two young girls were brought out on stretchers and loaded into an ambulance, which whisked them and their parents away, followed by an armada of press vehicles and camera vans.

Big Mike made his way through the crowd of cops over to Mandy, a characteristic half-smile on his face—half happy for a job well done, half saddened by the loss of life and the state of the world that required him to do that job.  “You were right, Mandy-girl.  Slits was in there lying over both of them, in-between them and his partner.  Had to take that bugger out, had his finger on the trigger.  That was some negotiating, getting old Slits to help out the feds.”

Mandy gave him a tired grin.  “I have some pretty serious questions about this whole thing…”

Mike cut her off with a wave of his hand.  “So do I, but right now we need to clear out of here so the cleanup crew can get to work, and get some rest before this blasted phone of mine rings and calls us off somewhere else.  We’ll talk on the plane.”

Nodding resignedly, Mandy turned and walked toward their rides, quickly realizing how exhausted she was.  Her job, while not usually physically exerting, was emotionally draining.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt rested.

As she stepped into the shiny black SUV, she caught sight of her driver leaning out the window, looking very pale.

“What’s with you, Berty?”

Berty glanced back at her, grimacing.  “I think I’ve been food-poisoned.  Must have been that fragging McMuffin, it’s the only thing I’ve eaten all day.”

Mandy almost laughed, but couldn’t quite find the energy.

Off and on over the last decade or so, I’ve been working on a sci-fi novel. I wanted to create a cohesive fictional world with believable characters, and so I wrote a few short stories to help me flesh out my characters and universe. The following is one of those stories.

Rain fell softly from the sky, weeping trough the upper canopy of the trees and dripping gently down onto the lower branches, condensing and gathering, then falling again, perhaps to another branch, perhaps all the way to the ground.  A mist enveloped the forest floor, blanketing the dirt and shrubbery and shallow creeks like a shroud.  Out of the mist jutted mighty trees, their monstrous visages clustered together as if in threatening barrier.  The tender breeze whispering through their knotted limbs gave them voice, a soft hiss that could be both inviting on a warm summer day, and haunting after the sun had left the sky.

The forest hung in twilight now, at the crux between light and darkness.  Everywhere birds and animals of the day were ending their shifts as the beasts and creatures of the night emerged.  High above the ground, owls could be seen, roosting on branches or gliding silently through the air, keen eyes focused on the ground for their next victim.

In that way, mused Aerikon, we are striving toward a common goal.

Of course, he knew that the simile did not extend much farther than that.  The owls were out and killing in order to keep surviving.  He was out and killing in order to bring sudden end to survival.  But, he thought, we are both predators, and we both hold death in our hands.  Or talons, as the case may be.

Bringing his attention back to his task, Aerikon Pliaski peered intently through the scope of the death that he held in his hands, scanning the forest floor for the signs he knew would come.

But not yet.

The game was still in its opening stages, the pieces only just beginning to make their moves.  But soon, soon…it would begin in earnest.  Until then, the wait.

Waiting was a skill not natural to Aerikon, but he had learned it.  Learned it quickly; one tended to pick things up fast when the alternative was death.  Nevertheless, he did not like it; he was not like some, to whom a passing hour was but an instant.  Every second that passed without the game being played in earnest were wasted.  Every second that did not leak the blood of the enemy was counterproductive.

Come on.  Make your move.  Let’s play.

From his vantage point nestled in a crotch between branch and trunk high above the ground, Aerikon lay face down and searched the ground once more, his long rifle moving slowly, sweeping the game board below.  The stock of the gun conformed to his position, its stock pressed against his shoulder and wrapping around underneath and up behind, forming a ‘U’ shape, which allowed him to brace the stock against his side and steady it.  The custom handgrip in the stock was formed for his fingers, and fit his hand like a glove.  It had become like an extension of his body, his long and deadly arm.  With a scope equipped with infrared and night vision capabilities, he had a third, all-seeing eye.  His armor was the best photomimic camouflage available, making him completely invisible when not moving.  From here, he was god.  He was the master player.

Of course, he was not ultimately the master player.  The true Master resided below, inside the underground bunker directly underneath Aerikon’s position, doubtless carefully laying plans with his closest advisors.

Aerikon felt a faint vibration under the skin on the back of his neck, and clenched his teeth to activate his comm.  The whispered voice of his commander hissed gently in his ear.

“Shadow one to all units, we have just been raised to threat level three.  The base’s security has been compromised, bomb threat inside.  The Karman is being escorted out.  Stay alert.”

Shutting off the traceable comm with another click of his teeth, watched as the peaceful, if imposing, scene below him broke into pandemonium.  The half dozen security personnel that had been patrolling the area flew into action, two running to prepare the Karman’s speeder, two breaking for the base’s exit, and the last pair taking up protective positions along the pathway between the exit and the vehicle.  One of these soldiers below was not truly a soldier, but a member of the Shadow Guard, their eyes on the ground.  He stood alert at the speeder’s door as his counterpart climbed inside to begin the warm-up sequence.

Aerikon grimaced.  This was not the first bomb the Karman had fled—it was an unfortunate part of being the most important man in the world.  And yet, it still infuriated him.  Rend their souls!  Why can’t they understand?  What is it that drives their hatred for sanity?  For peace?

Aerikon did not know, nor did he believe he would ever know.  All he knew was that their efforts would amount to nothing.  They could not touch his master.  Not while he was playing.

Another com vibration.  “Shadow one to all units—threat level four.  Intel indicates a strike as the Grand Karman leaves the building.  The threat must be identified and eliminated before that happens.”

Aerikon again scanned the ground.  This new piece of information confirmed his worst fear.  Thus far in his experience with bomb threats against the Karman, no assassin had yet taken the next obvious step and laid a trap for the great man as he left the endangered area.  He supposed that it had only been a matter of time.  The strategy was old and proven—force your target out into the open, and then take him down.  The short walk from the base’s exit to the secure vehicle would be the best opportunity for an assassin to strike.

“The Karman is making his way toward the exit.  Ground, have you identified a target?”

The Shadow on the ground shifted his weight to his right foot, and glanced casually in the opposite direction, his motions a coded language in which all the shadow guard were fluent.  Negative.

Peering through his scope, Aerikon focused on each of the figures down below, magnifying their faces so that he could see them as if they were standing in front of him.  He searched each face, looking for signs of tension, of anticipation, of anything.

Nothing.

Whichever one it was, he was an experienced player of the game.  Of course, this was to be expected, seeing as he had already wormed his way into the personnel of the Grand Karman’s secret refuge.  Each face registered only alert awareness, some more than others, but nothing that was indicative of anything.  No apparent lack of sleep, no visible signs of stimulants.  Nothing.

Bloody schwin!  Where are you?

“The Karman will reach the exit in approximately thirty seconds.  We must identify the target.”

The Shadow down below began making quick movements, shifting his weight and position suddenly.  These were not coded movements, but an attempt to evoke a reaction from the assassin, who must surely be on edge as his target drew nearer.

But all he registered was a few glances from all of the other personnel.  Normal behavior.

Could the intel be wrong?  No, impossible.  A level four threat is not based on a bad feeling.  We swept the area for assassination devices.  Sensors are deployed to a radius of three miles, reporting nothing but wildlife.  It’s one of them down there!  But which one?

“Fifteen seconds.  Where is he, Ground?”

Aerikon readied his weapon, his finger resting with practiced comfort on the trigger, a nervous edge beginning to gnaw at his mind.  His master was in peril.  Where was the danger?

He activated his own com, speaking into it without moving his lips, his voice a whisper barely hearable.  “Stop the Karman from leaving the building!”

“Negative, Three.  Whoever’s controlling the explosive would notice any sudden change in protocol.  Ten seconds!”

Beads of sweat formed on Aerikon’s forehead.  Danger within, danger without.  Caught between a rock and a hard place.

He could do nothing about the danger within…but the danger without…

Suddenly Aerikon began to move, his hands and arms moving with practiced ease, eye sighting through the scope finding the first guard’s head, finger compressing gently on the trigger.

Not waiting to see the impact, Aerikon found the second man and sent a messenger of death screaming his way before he even had a chance to react to the violent death mere feet from him.

The third man had begun to run for cover by the time Aerikon locked onto him, but far too late to save himself.  As he fell the fourth soldier dove away, rolling and running low for Karman’s vehicle.  Crosshairs found the back of his head, and his run became a spasmodic somersault that came to a stop at the final target’s feet, who had just exited the speeder.  Miniscule upward adjustment, and a fifth bullet sliced through the air and found him before he even realized the danger he was in.

The Shadow Guard that had been standing on the opposite side of the speeder’s door was flat on the ground, only his lower legs visible from Aerikon’s vantage point.

The entire operation had taken just under seven seconds.  Raising his face from his scope, Aerikon registered the buzzing of his com.  Clenching his teeth, he activated it.

“Cease fire, Three!  Comply!  Four has you in his sights!”

Taking his finger off the trigger, Aerikon responded.  “Three, complying.”

“Do not move from your position.”

The base’s heavy blast door slid open, and the Grand Karman strode out, clad in a flak jacket and surrounded by his personal guard.  He startled violently at the scene that greeted him, but was given no time to contemplate it before he was ushered forward and into his vehicle.

As the speeder lifted off and soared away, Aerikon’s com again sounded.

“Explain yourself, Three.”  One’s voice was dark and deadly calm.

“Working my way out of a checkmate, One.”

“Four of those men were loyal to the Karman, Three!”

Aerikon frowned angrily.  “Better four dead saints than one dead savior.”

A pause, and then, “All units, break down.  Rendezvous at site C.  We’re going to have a talk, Three, about your decision making.”

Aerikon began to pack up his gear.  “Be sure to bring a notepad, One.”

Glancing up as he started to descend to the ground, Aerikon saw an owl soar overhead, a dead mouse clenched in its talons.  Grinning darkly, he continued his journey downward in the growing darkness.