writing-with-lamura-dex

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Meet the Character Monday

Let's meet: Cerris

Appears in: Signs of Light and Shadow (Fantasy Adventure)

Gender: Cis/Woman

Orientation: Lesbian

Description:

She was in her mid-twenties, with long black hair which hung down her back. Her complexion was a robust peach, with only small scratches, a few lingering freckles, and some flecks of mud to mar her skin. Her eyes were a deep, watery blue, but shone brightly out from beneath her dark eyebrows. Her cheeks and chin were soft and mild, her features surprisingly delicate for one so used to the outdoors. This was with the exception of a slightly crooked nose and a small scar on her left ear from some fight arguably won. Athletically built, her body was toned and agile. She wore a light-armoured garb, all greys and dark blues, made of leather and metal plates, tough but built for movement. It covered her from her neck to her boots, a dark red cape attached at the shoulders which hung down past her knees.

About: Cerris and her sister Elena were born and raised in the woods by their parents, Winfirth and Selene. However, when the girls were eleven, a monster appeared and attacked their home. Their parents were killed, leaving the girls to survive on their own, struggling to make it through. But they managed it.

As they've grown, Cerris has become the fighter of the pair. Learning to hunt, fight, and defend the pair of them, she's mastered the use of a woodcutters axe and a shield which belonged to her father. She wears her armour constantly to the point it's second nature to her now. She is also the more cynical sister, taking a more realistic view of things, but that isn't to say she's dour. She quite enjoys teasing Elena, and she does hope for romance at the taverns on the rare occasions they visit the nearby town, but living so isolated does make things difficult.

Even if they annoy each other, she loves her sister more than anything. If they're in public, Cerris will always have one eye out for her and one eye out for trouble, spotting the fight before it starts. She can however be a little reckless if Elena isn't there to temper her. Beneath her armour she has quite a few scars from training against wild wolves when she was younger, before Elena found out and forced her to stop. At the end of the day, all they have is each other.

At the beginning of the story, she is given two divine blessings, the titular Signs of Light and Shadow. These grant her a collection of magical abilities, including invisibility, insightful visions, summoning willpower, and a light which dispels illusions.

If only the gods had given her any instructions on how to use them. She'll just have to work them out for herself, as she follows the visions she's been receiving and sets off in pursuit of fate.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Short Story: Old Justice

Tales of Hero City Collection

Word Count: 8480

Comedy / Super Hero Short Story

The new blood of Hero City are out and about, ready to fight some evil, and what do you know but a bunch of villains are teaming up ready to be defeated. They're young and have lots to prove.

So when the old hero, Justice Man, offers his help, the new heroes are less than impressed.

The villains however... They've got a bit of a soft spot for the old guy.

Old Justice

Moonlight lit the metropolis rooftops, as yellow lights from sleepless rooms illuminated the buildings below. At the edge of the sea of monolithic buildings, a lush green garden sprawled, with trees and ponds standing in contrast to the buzzing city. The garden was surrounded by a twenty foot high wall, topped with barbed wire, and armed with cameras and spotlights. Inside sat a mansion, upon which a glowing neon sign proclaimed “Dr Inconspicuo’s Manor. No Trespassers.” The building had been built months previously by the reclusive, unknown billionaire, Dr Inconspicuo, who had never been seen, heard from, nor had any official records at all.

Needless to say, things were a little suspicious.

On the nearest rooftop to the park, a woman stood, tapping her foot impatiently. She wore a full purple and silver spandex body suit, which even covered her hair, with a pattern reminiscent of a racing car.

“Where are those guys?” she muttered. “We were supposed to siege the building at 10.”

“Or perhaps you’re early,” a voice echoed from the shadows.

The woman jumped, energy sparking off of her. “Bloody hell! How long have you been there, Stealth Watcher?”

At the far corner, a caped figure emerged from the few feet of darkness cast by the roof entrance. A cowl covered their face and a cape covered their body.

“I’ve told you before…” the shadowy figure growled, their voice forcefully gravelly. The voice’s owner was female, and trying very hard to sound otherwise. It was clearly a struggle. “How many times do I have to tell you, Sammy?”

“Tell me what?”

“I am Stealth Watcher II!” Stealth Watcher II growled. “Not Stealth Watcher. I am not my predecessor.”

Sammy raised an eyebrow. “You mean your boss, right? Because Stealth Watcher isn’t dead. He’s not even retired. But, I mean, how could I possibly confuse you two? You’re even more broody than him, which I didn’t think was possible,” she laughed, as Stealth Watcher II rounded on her.

“If you two are going to fight, can we at least take bets?” a new voice called from above.

Both women looked up as two figures descended. One was a regular looking man, Hollywood tan, brown hair and stubble, dressed in some form of karate gi. The other man was a colossal figure, easily eight feet tall and half as wide, with most of his skin covered by green armour plating.

“I bet on Sammy to win,” said the giant, descending on rocket thrusters and speaking with a thick German accent.

“Then I’ve got Watcher II. She’s scrappy,” the martial artist agreed, a magical green aura lowering him to the rooftop. He landed and stood smiling. “Alright girls, let’s see who wins.”

“You first,” Stealth Watcher II warned.

“Yeah,” Sammy agreed, fidgeting with her body suit. “You fight Klaus. I’ll fight Watcher. Then we’ll see who wins, Footie?”

The martial artist turned to the giant beside him. He looked him over, having to look up to finish the job.

“Maybe some other time,” he bailed. “Also, don’t call me Footie. It’s Wandering Foot.”

“Right you are, Footie,” Sammy grinned.

“She gets my name wrong too,” Watcher sympathised. “I am not Watcher, or Watcher II. I am Stealth Watcher II!”

“Right you are, Night Guard,” Foot said cuttingly. “Or have you finally ranked up from sidekick to full hero.”

“It’s a trial period…” Watcher II growled, formulating ways to hurt him behind her mask.

“Can we get down to business?” Klaus changed the subject before any fists were thrown. He held out his palm and a small holographic display appeared from the centre of his gauntlet. It displayed Dr Inconspicuo’s mansion in minute detail, the diagram constructed from blue light.

“Alright,” Stealth Watcher II agreed. “What’s the plan?”

“Go in, fight the bad guys, win,” Foot said simply.

Klaus frowned. “I was considering a plan with a little more detail. For example, we break in through the eastern skylight and then work our way west. That should put us on a direct course with the control room where our targets are waiting. And there, we can stop their diabolical plan.”

“What’s their force strength?” asked Stealth Watcher II.

“Unknown. Could be anywhere from just the three of them to 10,000 men.”

“I don’t think they could hire ten thousand men without us noticing.”

Klaus rolled his eyes. “Well, maybe a few thousand. I just mean it could be a lot of guys.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Sammy cut in. “I’ve been waiting on this rooftop for half an hour now and I am buzzing for some action.” She did appear to be gently vibrating.

“Alright then,” Foot concurred. “We go in and we win this. But first things first…” he smiled, as did the whole group. Even Watcher seemed to glower a little less. “Role Call?”

“I love this part. Makes me feel like a proper hero,” Sammy beamed. With that, all four leapt to their corners of the roof making grand posturing gestures. Sammy went first.

“I am Sammy Swift. Faster than the wind, speedier than the crack of a whip, snazzier than a sports car,” she announced, posing arms out. She then ran five laps of the rooftop in a couple of seconds leaving a spiralling blur behind her. She came to a stop on a dime and kept posing.

“I am The Wandering Foot!” Footie proclaimed next. “Student to the Wandering Fist and a master of all martial arts. There is no door or wall that can stop my feet in motion.” He did a few kicks as an example, one firing a green fireball off into the night. There was a squawk as a pigeon got singed.

“Krusher Klaus,” said the gigantic Klaus. “Scientist and giant, I can crush my enemies with my fists or with my mind.” He smiled cockily and tapped his temple in a rehearsed stance.

They all looked to the suddenly darker corner of the roof where smoke now roiled.

“I am Stealth Watcher II,” came the voice from the dark, straining to stay gravelly. “I move in shadows and bring punishment to all those who dare to hunt in my night.”

“And I’m Justice Man!”

The four heroes span to see a man standing at the entrance to the roof. His suit was a dark orange and blue, with a large J.M. across the chest, and a cape flowing from his shoulders. He was easily in his mid-fifties, if not older. His head was shining in its baldness, and his face was gently wrinkled. He stood, smiling proudly, utterly unheeding of everyone else’s confusion.

“Justice Man?” puzzled Klaus. “I may be new in town, but who is Justice Man?”

“Local hero,” Foot answered. “He was a hero when me and Watcher were kids.”

“Stealth Watcher II!”

Foot waved her down. “He was one of the big players back then. His nemesis was Mr Intellitron, who you might have heard of.”

“Ah, yes. The glory days,” Justice Man sighed nostalgically, his voice deep and heroic.

“Of course, villains were weaker back then,” Foot derided. “He didn’t even beat Intellitron. The supervillain retired and started up a beach resort.”

“Oh yes. Intellitron Resorts. I went there last year,” Klaus recalled.

“You used to fight alongside Stealth Watcher,” Stealth Watcher II addressed Justice Man.

“I certainly did. He’s always been a good friend,” Justice Man said proudly. “And who are you? You’ve definitely got the air of Stealth Watcher about you.”

“I’m Stealth Watcher II,” she answered seriously. “and like my mentor before me, I’ll be a better hero than you, even without powers.”

“Ah, S.W, that takes me back. It’s like old times. How’s he doing anyway? I miss that cowled crusader,” Justice Man smiled obliviously.

“Alright, why are you here, old timer?” Sammy said untactfully. “Do you need some help?” She mouthed each word like he was deaf.

“I was more offering to help you,” Justice Man smirked. “I heard you were going up against some tough villains. Annihilator, Madame Mechanism, and that terrible fiend, Dark Dragon. Well, I’ve fought Annihilator and Dark Dragon before. And I have some experience with someone like Mechanism. Hell, one time, Intellitron had me pinned under a girder and my only way out was to use my mind powers to grab a rubber duck and…”

“What can this guy do again?” Klaus interrupted, asking Wandering Foot.

“Telekinesis, flight, above average strength. Has a gimmick of a bullet proof cape,” Foot answered. “He used to be a big deal.”

“Ah, alright,” Klaus nodded. He turned to Justice Man and started talking loudly. “Alright gramps,” he joined Sammy in enunciating every word. “I don’t think we’ll be needing your help today, but thank you for dropping by.”

“My hearing’s not gone yet, you whipper snapper,” Justice Man chuckled. “And these villains aren’t push overs. I’ll tell you, one time I was against Annihilator…”

“Shall we go?” Sammy addressed the other young heroes. They nodded and one by one they left. Sammy sped off down the stairs in a blur. Stealth Watcher II slipped into shadow and somehow vanished. Meanwhile, the Wandering Foot and Krusher Klaus left the way they came, flying from the rooftop, while Justice Man continued telling his story.

* * *

Within the mansion, there was a bustle of activity. Workers moved boxes and mechanical parts throughout the building and did various other miscellaneous tasks, the manpower broken into three distinct groups. The majority wore blue jumpsuits with gear logos on the shoulders. The second group at first glance appeared to be wearing bulky hazmat suits, but on closer inspection were actually bulky robots. The final group, and heavily in the minority, were those dressed in dark robes and wearing dragon masks, the Apocalypto Cultists, who were primarily just giving the orders to the others.

An alarm sounded. The structured order turned to sudden panic, as a purple blur sped through the corridors. Guards pulled their weapons, but were disarmed just as quickly. The blur reached a larger room, where some guards had already managed to draw their weapons. They opened fire and trapped the purple blur behind a pillar.

One elder henchman, a large 14 on his lapel, was shouting orders to flank the hero. Before anyone could, a dark figure dropped from the rafters and into the gathering throng. One after another, henchmen were knocked unconscious. Henchman 14 just rolled his eyes, even as the troops began to overwhelm the dark figure.

The window exploded as the colossal form of Klaus burst through, followed by Wandering Foot. Henchmen fled from the falling glass, and the tide of battle swiftly changed. Klaus landed, launching small crowds of people with swipes of his arm, while Foot kicked magical fireballs into the hoard, sending people careening covered in magic ash. No longer pinned by gunfire, Sammy sped out and joined Stealth Watcher II in the fray. The four of them fought on, pushing towards the doors.

Henchman 14 watched, scowled, then retreated through two massive metal doors. With a press of a button, the doors sealed with an epic clang.

Combat continued as the four heroes cleared the room. The Apocalypto Cultists drew swords, but Klaus slapped them to the ground. The robots marched in, but Stealth Watcher II threw devices turning them against their allies. Wandering Foot met the rest of the henchmen, showboating as he took them down. Finally, Sammy Swift got bored and , moving at a blazing pace, swept the room going back and forth like a lawn mower. Her fists knocked down every henchmen she hit. In moments, the room was quiet, other than the sounds of pained groaning.

“And that is why you don’t mess with heroes,” Foot quipped.

“But these were just the henchmen,” Klaus tempered. “The real villains are beyond.”

“Yeah,” Sammy debated, “but we’re young, we’re feisty, and we got this far without any help from that old fuddy-duddy-”

“Wow, that was quite a battle,” Justice Man admired as he floated in through the window.

“Urgh, I summoned him,” Sammy groaned.

“Quite a lot of henchmen. It reminds me of the time I fought Winter Lord and The Surgeon at the same time. A lot of doctors caught colds that day, I can tell you.” He laughed quietly to himself.

“Yep. A guy in a parka and a failed medical student. Definitely the same thing,” Sammy muttered.

The four younger heroes walked over to the giant metal doors while Justice Man searched the room. Some of the still conscious henchmen recognised him and asked for autographs.

The four stood before the massive doors. Klaus rubbed his metal gloved hands together while Stealth Watcher II examined the keypad.

“I could type every possible code in the blink of an eye?” Sammy suggested.

“No. If you enter the code wrong three times it locks down,” Watcher II answered broodily.

“Me and Foot could pull it open?” Klaus offered.

“Then you couldn’t get through. We might need you in there.”

“I could open it with my mind powers?” Justice Man suggested.

Sammy was the only one who even bothered to turn around. She watched as Justice Man lifted a henchmen’s rifle with telekinesis as a demonstration. She sighed.

“We don’t need your help here, gramps,” she said, smiling falsely. “But if you really want to help, then could you do an aerial sweep of the grounds for us?” 

“Not a problem, miss,” Justice Man smiled, then took off back out the window.

“But we did a sweep on the way here?” Foot stated.

“I know. But it’ll keep him out of our hair for a while.” Sammy explained, as Watcher II attached an electronic device to the keypad.

* * *

The giant doors eventually slid open, and the four heroes stepped through into a massive chamber. On a raised platform before them were three ominous figures.

The first was a tall woman wearing a dark-blue, armoured jumpsuit. Grey hair rolled down her shoulders in lightning-shaped zigzags, and some kind of pack was strapped to her back. She was also stood on some kind of giant mechanical spider, which definitely matched the aesthetic she was going for. Around the spider, and below the raised platform, stood 20 henchmen, each numbered, 14 amongst them and noticeably older than the rest.

The second figure, stood on the far side of the platform, was a metal creature that stood as tall as the woman even on her spider. In silhouette it would have resembled a demon, with a long tail and horns. In truth, the horns jutted from its back and up behind its head, which was a security camera encased in a bullet-proof globe. Its arms were long and ended in drill-tipped claws, its legs were reverse-jointed, coiled and ready to spring at any moment, and the machine’s skin was thick and dotted with bolts and rivets. Across its chest was the word “Annihilator” with only the A, H and R being part of the metal’s original pattern. The rest was spray-painted on in pink.

The last figure, sat in a very high-backed chair, was typing at a keyboard. Pointed pauldrons poked out the sides, and a sinister red glow surrounded him. At the sound of people entering, he leaned to look at the newcomers, red eyes scrutinising them. Even over this distance, the four heroes shivered under its gaze. He sat back and raised a hand to his compatriots.

“Kill them,” an unholy voice commanded.

The two other villains leapt from the platform and into action. The woman thrust her arms out, as both hands transformed into energy cannons. Annihilator dropped into a combat stance, as plates of metal moved on his back and two futuristic machine guns extended over each shoulder. For a moment, nobody moved.

“Madame Mechanism. Annihilator. Dark Dragon,” Wandering Foot addressed, trying not to shudder at the last one. “We are here to serve the note of justice against you villains, and stop you from deploying your doomsday device and taking over the city.”

“Note of Justice?” muttered Madam Mechanism. “These heroes keep getting cornier.”

“AFFIRMATIVE. AMEN TO THAT,” Annihilator mechanically agreed.

“Also, I wouldn’t call it a doomsday device. It’s more a satellite bank hacking system, with a built in laser cannon. A super weapon, sure, but not doomsday. Get your facts straight.”

“Well, whatever it is, we will stop it,” Klaus interjected. “Science must not be misused for evil.” He clenched an armoured fist.

“Only evil from your perspective, dear,” Mechanism sneered. “I think I’m doing the world a favour because-”

“Are you ignoring my orders?” Dark Dragon hissed. Mechanism gulped. “I said, kill them.”

“Attack!” Mechanism called.

Her twenty henchmen charged, weapons at the ready. The villain followed suit atop her giant mechanical spider. Annihilator roared like a wild animal, specifically a Tasmanian devil he’d recorded, the robot met head on by Krusher Klaus.

Dark Dragon got back to typing.

Klaus and Annihilator landed blow after blow, energy shields and plasma weapons lighting the room. Stealth Watcher II and Sammy Swift faced the group of advancing henchmen, with 14 giving the commands. Stealth Watcher II fired a grappling hook up into the ceiling, intent to disappear into the rafters. Then she flinched and dropped the launcher as her grapple line zapped her.

14 smiled smugly. “I’m no amateur, Stealth Watcher. Step one, electrify the rafters.” He raised his rifle, but was blindsided by Sammy at top speed, knocking him down.

His fellow henchmen didn’t need his orders anyway and opened fire, dividing their attention between the speeding Sammy and Stealth Watcher II. Meanwhile, Wandering Foot flew towards Madam Mechanism and her spider.

“And who are you supposed to be, karate man?” she mocked.

“I, Madame Mechanism, am the Wandering Foot!” he said brashly, diving a kick towards the mechanical spider. It leapt from his path, while Mechanism primed her weapons.

“Wait, Wandering Foot? As in the Wandering Fist but a foot instead?” Mechanism jeered. “Wow. That’s unoriginal.”

“I’ll show you unoriginal!” Foot snarled and charged, as Mechanism opened fire.

Back on the ground, Stealth Watcher II had thrown a grenade and ripped apart the metal floor. Hefting a large section, she hid behind it as cover. Nearby, Sammy was moving so fast that the trained henchmen couldn’t keep up, their shots at best hitting her blur.

Grumbling, 14 got back to his feet. He ordered Henchmen 5 through 9 to flank left and 10 through 13 to flank right, all to surround Stealth Watcher II. The rest of the men were ordered to keep suppressive fire on Sammy.

Watcher II reached into her combat vest, pulled out some smoke bombs and threw them, but they landed where the henchmen had been before 14 split them up. The only ones caught in the smoke were the ones shooting at Sammy, who all collapsed into coughing fits. 14 himself just held his breath and kept firing to keep the super-speed hero at bay. The pincer movement meanwhile began to surround Watcher II’s improvised cover. She flung out a small boomerang, which knocked a henchman down. But the rest kept moving forwards.

Suddenly, the roof burst open in one corner of the room. Standing in the rubble was Justice Man, proud and triumphant. He was also facing the wall, his back to everyone, taking a moment before he noticed. As well as that, and more perplexingly, he was now wearing a trench coat, fake glasses, a fake nose and beard, in some futile attempt at a disguise. His super suit and logo were still visible under the trench coat, which wasn’t even done up at the front.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Wandering Foot shouted angrily.

“I thought I should infiltrate this facility in disguise,” Justice Man responded.

“You think that’s a disguise?!”

“But who could it be, if that truly is a disguise,” Henchman 14 called out theatrically.

“Seriously?” Foot almost screamed.

“It is I, Justice Man!” the elder hero responded, throwing the trench coat and fake features off with practiced ease. “I am here to stop you, evil-doers!”

“Justice Man!” Madame Mechanism said in shock. “No one said you’d be here today. I wish I’d done my hair better,” she considered, then took up an intimidating stance. “Whatever the case, we will fight to the last, Justice Man, even against a hero as great as you,” she proclaimed, a tinge of over acting to her speech.

Annihilator nodded his camera. “THREAT LEVEL SIGNIFICANTLY INCREASED. THIS WILL BE FUN,” the mechanical voice whirred.

“And what am I, chopped liver?” Klaus complained.

“Yeah? Are we not good enough for you?” Sammy chimed in. “Were we not kicking your butts well enough?”

“Last I checked, we were kicking your butts,” Henchmen 14 called out.

“Only until I beat your boss,” Wandering Foot argued. “This old codger,” he gestured vaguely at Justice Man, “he isn’t going to change anything.”

“You watch your mouth!” Madame Mechanism snapped. Everyone stared at her. “Justice Man is a legend. He battled my Uncle Intellitron dozens of times and is truly a force to be respected. He’s beaten more villains than you can name.”

“You’re Mr Intellitron’s niece?” Justice Man asked kindly.

“Yep. Just following in the family business. Mum doesn’t approve, but what are you gonna do?”

“But… he’s an old man,” Klaus argued. “Feeble and foolish.”

“JUSTICE MAN HAS BEEN IN CONTINUOUS OPERATION AS LONG AS THIS UNIT HAS,” Annihilator rumbled. “AND HE JUST BURST THROUGH A SOLID CONCRETE CEILING. THAT IS HARDCORE.”

They all glanced up at the sizeable hole in the ceiling. Stealth Watcher II pulled out her grappling line again and held it ready.

“But he’s so old,” Sammy said disgustedly.

An annoyed Madam Mechanism fired something at Sammy’s legs, but she hopped over it, leaving the device on the floor nearby.

“Sure, he’s no spring chicken, but he still hits harder than you,” Henchman 14 countered.

“Do I know you?” Justice Man asked thoughtfully.

“We’ve met before. I’m Henchman 14.”

A spark of recognition crossed Justice Man’s face. “One of Intellitron’s lot, right?”

“I’m on loan from Intellitron Resorts. Helping out the niece.”

“You… hit me with the magma ray many years ago,” Justice Man recalled.

“That’s right. You then threw it at me, as I recall.”

“You were also the one turning the crank when Intellitron was lowering me into a tank of poisonous sharks?”

“I’m honestly surprised you remember that,” 14 blinked.

“Ah, where does the time go,” the old hero reflected. “How many times have we met?”

“Don’t even ask me to count. You’ve punched me in the face so many times.”

“I suppose I must have. But you can’t beat a good henchmen. Now everyone has robots. It’s lost the personal touch.”

“Right? Where’s the heart in it?” The two older men stood smiling for a moment.

The moment was cut short by a sinister voice which had been sitting quietly all this time.

“I very rarely have to repeat my orders more than once,” Dark Dragon hissed terribly. “I said, kill them.”

In a moment, the room returned to the chaos of battle.

Stealth Watcher II fired her grappling line upwards. The rafters were broken from Justice Man’s entrance, the electrical current cut out, so she ascended, disappearing into the darkness above. Klaus was sucker punched by Annihilator, the pair resuming their brawl. Sammy started to speed off, while 14 opened fire again. His fellow henchmen continued to surround where Stealth Watcher II had been, while Madam Mechanism turned and fired a device at Wandering Foot, the machine catching him by the ankles and strapping his legs together.

“I call that an Achilles Heel,” she grinned.

“Don’t make fun of the foot,” the hero warned, floating awkwardly like a flying mermaid.

“I’ll make fun of whatever I want. Wandering Foot is a stupid name anyway. Wandering Fist sounds like a martial arts technique. Wandering Foot just sounds like you’ve got numb legs.”

She laughed manically and briefly closed her eyes… which meant she didn’t see Foot flying at her with two bound feet. He kicked her clean off her mechanical spider, hurling her spinning through the air. However, even as he gloated, she landed nimbly like a gymnast on both feet.

“Built in gyroscope, son. Try a little harder,” she jabbed, and primed her weapons.

Nearby, Sammy was speeding back and forth, trying to dodge 14 and his laser rifle. She darted one way, then suddenly duked back. 14 couldn’t react in time, and she sprinted at him, her fist connecting with his chin, with 14 sent sprawling onto the floor. But, a second later, with some groaning, he got back up. Sammy hit him again, launching him back in the other direction. A few seconds later, he scrambled back to his feet.

“Why won’t you stay down?” Sammy demanded.

“Experience,” 14 answered smugly. “I’ve been hit in the face by Justice Man over 500 times. I can take a punch. Now take this!”

14 pounced sideways, grabbed Mechanism’s abandoned device and sent it flying, then fired a burst of laser. Sammy dodged the lasers but step straight into the device, as it turned into a mess of metal limbs and tied her legs together. Sammy reflexively tried to run, but tripped and fell on her face. 14 approached slowly, his rifle primed and ready. He pulled the trigger.

Suddenly, the space between them was filled with a mound the size of a man. The lasers hit blue fabric and ricocheted into the walls. 14 dove for cover as the mound straightened up to reveal Justice Man, the hero having shielded Sammy with his cape.

“You cannot hurt me. My cape is bulletproof,” he said triumphantly, then launched himself at 14. He pulled the gun from the henchman’s grasp and punched him square in the jaw, sending him tumbling across the floor.

“Now that’s a punch,” 14 shouted, before colliding with a wall and falling unconscious.

“I had it under control,” Sammy grumbled. She gripped the leg bindings, then vibrated her hands violently. The bindings rattled apart and she stood, brushing herself down, before running off to help Klaus. Over by 14, Stealth Watcher II dropped from the rafters, bound the man’s hands, and disappeared into the shadows again.

As the rest of 14’s men reached Stealth Watcher II’s previous cover, they of course found her missing. They immediately turned their weapons upwards and opened fire. A shadow moved amongst the beams, and they focused their fire on it, only for it to leap from the rafters and swing down on a long cable. One shot got lucky and cut the cable, but the dark figure was already on a collision course. She landed amongst the troops and began landing blow after blow, breaking guns and arms alike. Soon the crowd lay broken with her at the centre. One by one, she tied their hands together.

“Good work there, Stealth Watcher,” Justice Man said cheerily.

“It’s Stealth Watcher II!” she angrily corrected, but he was already drifting towards one of the other battles.

Wandering Foot floated as aggressively as he could, his legs still bound. Madame Mechanism fired shot after shot from below, but none met their mark. Whenever he could focus, Foot returned fire with a magical blast, but the shots were either shot down or hit the force-field surrounding the villain.

Mechanism charged her cannons and fire two massive blasts. Wandering Foot fled upwards, taking cover in the rafters, where the blasts exploded harmlessly against the beams.

“Need any help?” asked Stealth Watcher II, waiting for him.

“Nah. You help Klaus,” Foot answered.

Watcher II nodded and sped off along the beams. Meanwhile Foot, with his legs still bound, focused and generated a large ball of magical fire between his hands. With a breath to prepare, he rolled sideways and fell.

“Catch this!” he shouted, and threw the fireball.

It roared like a missile as Mechanism fired blast after blast into it. But each shot was just absorbed and added to its growing size. Madam Mechanism braced herself for impact.

The room was flooded with explosive light. When the smoke cleared, Madam Mechanism was still standing, stood on a small protected section of floor in the middle of a blackened crater. Her force-field sparked with energy.

“Nice try, but no,” Mechanism bragged.

“How about this then?” Sammy rushed towards her.

The speedster hit the energy barrier, but rather than bounce off, she began to hit it rapidly like a speed bag. Mechanism just smirked. Then a small watch on her wrist started beeping. The display glowed yellow. Her smile faded. The yellow quickly shifted to red, as the small screen displayed the words “Shield Overload.”

Panicked, she ripped the watch from her wrist and threw it across the room, where it promptly exploded. Suddenly unprotected, Mechanism leapt into the air, jetpack igniting, floating out of Sammy’s reach.

“Now try and fight us,” Wandering Foot called, preparing another fireball.

“If you insist!” Mechanism answered with a smile. She swung her hand and one energy cannon was replaced with an electrified baton like a baseball bat. “Let’s go!” she goaded, and flew towards Wandering Foot.

At the far end of the room, Klaus and Annihilator sparred. Metal fists met metal skin, in both directions, it sounded like an iron foundry on a busy day. Then the robot landed an iron fist under Klaus’s chin, toppling the giant. Annihilator loomed over him, shoulder mounted cannons unfolding and firing into his armour. The sound was similar to steel drums in a firing range. Finally, the guns stopped and Annihilator charged, his drill claws squealing. Klaus rose to greet him, and threw himself bodily against the machine.

The machine monster tumbled, with Klaus landing punch after punch. Armoured fists struck caste-iron plating, denting and clanging the metal. One fist swung, but landed in the robot’s outstretched palm. Annihilator’s claws clamped like a vice. Klaus threw a second punch, which was also caught, Klaus wrestling to get free.

At the peak of Annihilator’s head, a spark jumped between his horns. The spark became a lightning storm which swirled and solidified into a glowing electrical sphere. A pre-recorded laugh track echoed from Annihilator, as a javelin of energy fired. It struck Klaus in the armoured chest and carried him across the room, leaving his gauntlets behind in Annihilator’s claws.

“ARMOUR REDUCED BY 12%. TARGET WEAKENED,” Annihilator rattled synthetically. “I’M GOING TO PICK YOU OUT OF YOUR SHELL LIKE A KING CRAB.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Klaus answered, rising to his feet, his accent thick on his words. “This armour isn’t for my protection. It is for yours.” He raised his exposed hands, which were beginning to glow red. He punched the ground and the concrete split open.

“THREAT INCREASED. BRING IT ON,” Annihilator answered.

They charged each other, both roaring, only for something to leap between them. Justice Man leapt into the fray and knocked Annihilator sideways with a punch. Or at least he would have, had he not missed by a few inches, the knuckles just clipping a bolt with a miserable clink.

The massive mechanical monster looked down, paused, and then lumbered sideways, almost collapsing into the wall. Justice Man stood, beaming proudly, and blinking like he’d forgotten his glasses. They stared each other down, before Annihilator leapt at him and took a wide, telegraphed, swipe. Justice Man hardened his features and focused on the limb. A mild purple glow surrounded the claw and slowed its movement, if only slightly. A moment later, with a hiss and a whir, the arm came to a stop.

“My mind powers are superior to you, metal man,” Justice Man stated proudly.

Annihilator played stock sound effects of struggling. Then it managed to free its arm, even though Justice Man was still apparently holding it.

“YOU WILL NOT MEET SPECIFICATIONS, DESIGNATION: JUSTICE MAN,” buzzed Annihilator. “WE HAVE FOUGHT MANY TIMES, AND NOW AGAIN EVEN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. YOUR WARRANTY HAS EXPIRED, HERO.”

“Well, I’m not done yet,” Justice Man retorted, throwing a punch. It impacted with a loud clang, even denting the metal. A full second later, Annihilator lulled backwards.

“YOU ARE STILL SO STRONG, JUSTICE MA-”

Annihilator didn’t finish, as Klaus’s fist knocked his head clean off. The camera inside its bullet proof orb rolled and looked around in surprise.

“UNFORESEEN RESULT. ERROR. THAT WAS RUDE,” it babbled.

“Do you think I care?” Klaus shrugged.

“Good job, sir,” Justice Man admired. “Caught the mechanical menace off guard.”

“…yes,” Klaus said, gauging if he was being mocked. He wasn’t, so accepted the complement. “You’re… quite impressive yourself, Justice Man,” he added disingenuously. “So much so that would you mind cleaning up the mess here while I go join the others?”

“Gladly. I’ll be right with you in a minute,” Justice Man grinned proudly. 

Klaus discretely rolled his eyes, then retrieved his gauntlets before running off towards Madame Mechanism.

Madame Mechanism and Wandering Foot danced in the air, exchanging energy blasts and magic fire. Both could dodge as well as they could shoot, so the air was filled with the deadly bolts. Below, Sammy ran back and forth, attempting to find a vantage point. Above, Stealth Watcher II observed from the rafters.

As the two airborne warriors danced, Madame Mechanism attempted to zap her opponent with the baton. Back and forth, she dove at him, her weapon buzzing. On one attack, Foot grabbed her wrist, keeping the crackling metal from his skin.

Until Mechanism raised her other hand and fired an energy blast square into his chest.

Wandering Foot fell and landed with a thud, only a scorch mark on his chest to remember the injury. Madam Mechanism hovered above, laughing maniacally, truly milking the moment.

As she laughed, there was the tinkle of metal, and something small fell into her jetpack. After a moment, the jetpack sparked, sputtered, and finally gave out with a burst of black smoke. Mechanism was unceremoniously deposited on the floor, landing heavily on her rear.

Sammy sped over to the stunned Wandering Foot and grabbed the restraints around his legs. With a moment of vibration, they were gone, and Foot tiredly clambered to his feet. Together, they surrounded Madame Mechanism, joined by Stealth Watcher II, who dropped from above holding more electrical charges. Madame Mechanism rose and tried to run, only to meet Krusher Klaus coming the other way. The four heroes cornered her. Finally, she stopped, dropped to her knees, and put up her hands, both back to ordinary gauntlets. Justice Man landed outside the formation and nodded appreciatively.

“Alright, you caught me,” Mechanism submitted. “At the very least I’ll get to tell Uncle Intellitron I got caught by the one and only Justice Man,” she smiled excitedly.

“Hey, we did all the work!” Wandering Foot scowled.

Madam Mechanism stuck out her tongue. Her arrogance was short lived, as Stealth Watcher II threw an electric charge at her and she fell unconscious. The heroes stood over the fallen villain and smiled to each other at a job well done.

They were interrupted by a chair flying at them.

The five heroes all leapt back with varying speeds and stared up at the platform. There stood the tall and imposing figure of evil, a knight, armour ornately designed in coal-black. The helmet was shaped like the mouth of a dragon, with the dragon’s tail winding around his neck then flowing down his spine. The pauldrons were shaped like wings, the gauntlets and boots were clawed, sharp as knives, and the only facial features that could be seen of the wearer were two glowing red eyes which shone out the dragon helm’s mouth. A crimson aura surrounded him, his piercing eyes scarlet, and just the sight of him formed a pit in the stomach of every hero there.

“Dark Dragon,” they all muttered in concerned unison.

The armoured figure leapt at blinding speed, landing amongst the team. With a roar, a wave of fiery energy surged forth, blasting each of them back. Klaus was the first to recover and charged, only for Dark Dragon to catch him by his giant torso and lift him clear off the ground. Wandering Foot was next, running in, only to wind up crushed underneath Krusher Klaus as Dark Dragon threw him.

Sammy zipped towards the dark fiend, zigzagging back and forth. She picked up speed, and with something approaching a sonic boom, punched the knight’s chest at top speed. Dark Dragon didn’t move; it was like hitting a metal post. She span out and tumbled over herself, skidding into a heap of one, clutching her aching hand. Dark Dragon strode over, grabbed her by the leg, and threw her into the forming pile of her friends.

Finally, Stealth Watcher II struck. She threw a handful of smoke bombs which exploded in the warrior’s face. He raised a hand to wipe away the smoke. She launched electrical devices and sparks surged across the surface of his armour, but he brushed them off. Finally, she charged headlong, jumping and launching into a flying kick. She stopped abruptly three feet from her target, Dark Dragon having raised a hand, his red aura surrounding her. He held her floating as she struggled, before lining up his shot and launching her with a flick of his hand into the pile of her friends. With a final dismissive gesture, he released a massive pulse of fiery energy and sent the entire pile crashing into the wall.

“Pitiful,” the villain scowled.

“Stop right there, you felonious fiend!” Justice Man proclaimed, landing heavily, having hovered overhead during the fracas.

Dark Dragon stared down the old man, his eyes casting the hero in a red glow.

“Justice Man,” came the chilling, hissing tone. “It has been many years since we last met in battle. Finally, we can settle this, and decide the fate of this world once more.”

“I will never yield to a demon such as you,” Justice Man said triumphantly.

“As it must be,” the terrifying voice audibly grinned. “Now DIE!”

In a flash, Dark Dragon raised a hand and a red orb formed in his palm. Justice Man leapt back and avoided it by inches, a smouldering crater left where it struck. With speed beyond his age, Justice Man swept through the smoke and punched the demonic warrior in the chest, forcing him back several yards. Dark Dragon kept his feet, scraping the metal floor with his clawed boots, only to be hit by another punch. And another. Soon the two had covered half the width of the chamber before Dark Dragon retaliated. He launched a wave of crackling energy at the floor, but Justice Man flew over it with ease. He then yelped and rolled in the air, narrowly dodging a fiery sphere which carved a hole in the far wall.

“Justice will always triumph, Dark Dragon. I’ve beaten you before and I’ll do it again,” the hero boasted. Nearby, the younger heroes each rolled their eyes, attempting to disentangle themselves from the pile.

“I have toppled empires in ancient days. I have fought armies and gods. Every hero falls eventually, Justice Man, and you are no different,” the demon’s dark voice echoed.

Justice Man only smiled in response. “But you’ll fall first, Dark Dragon.”

Dark Dragon growled, then reached to the waist of his armour. The air at his hip boiled, and from nowhere, a crimson sword formed. The blade was massive, a two handed broadsword with an ornate grip. The demon warrior held it aloft, both gauntlets on its handle.

Justice Man stared back, smiling yet unarmed. He reached back and unhooked his cape, then wrapped it around each hand and twisted it like a wet towel. He held it like a garrotte wire, though the image was not exactly intimidating, as it was a man holding some cloth between two hands. After a moment of tense silence, both combatants leapt at each other.

Dark Dragon swung, searing the air, but Justice Man dodged and blocked with his cape. The improvised shield refused to yield against the glowing blade, even as it carved chunks out of the floor on the back swings. The two fighters exchanged blow after blow, Justice Man on the defensive, while Dark Dragon attacked.

“You. Can’t. Hurt. Me,” Justice Man panted between strikes. “My. Cape. Is. Bulletproof!”

Nearby the younger heroes continued to get back to their feet, now partially distracted by the battle. None of them were in any hurry to get involved or help.

After minutes of combat, Dark Dragon stabbed with his glowing broadsword. It avoided Justice Man’s cape, slotting neatly between his arms from below, aimed straight towards his heart. Dark Dragon pressed forwards murderously, as Justice Man activated his telekinesis, holding the sword from his chest.

Something in Dark Dragon’s expression smiled. Justice Man puzzled this, until the demon pulled back, hooking the cape on the blade like a sling. With the force of a trebuchet, the villain swung and hurled his nemesis across the room. Justice Man cried out and landed in a crumpled heap, groaning from various aches and joints. Dark Dragon marched towards him ominously. Justice Man rose to a sitting position as the villain stood over him.

“Oh, I’ll need a sit down after this,” Justice Man grumbled.

“Rest forever more, my old enemy,” Dark Dragon growled, sword raised.

Justice Man’s gaze narrowed. “Who are you calling old?”

With a burst of speed, he unwrapped the cape from one hand and whipped it, an end striking right between Dark Dragon’s eyes like a cat o’ nine tails. The fabric made a crack like a gunshot, and the unholy gladiator roared, landing some distance away on his back.

Justice Man leapt to his feet, returning his cape to his back, as Dark Dragon rose, snarling like an engine. His sword had dissipated and the beastly warrior stood with his sharpened gauntlets glowing like fire. As Justice Man finished replacing his cape’s clasps, he briefly stopped to rub a pain in his back.

Again, the hero and villain leapt for one another. Justice Man punched, Dark Dragon slashed and breathed fire, and the pair danced in a lethal display of skill.

Meanwhile, in the corner, the younger heroes were standing again, but were still more focused on watching than helping.

“You know, I didn’t expect the fire breath,” muttered Wandering Foot.

“Why did you think they called him Dark Dragon?” asked Sammy.

“The armour?”

Klaus raised a hand. “Do you think that, perhaps, we should help him?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sammy agreed. “Looks like DD is going easy on him anyway.”

“You think?” Foot raised an eyebrow. “It looks pretty tough to me.”

Watcher II readied a boomerang. “So, do we wait for an opening, or do we just-”

“Charge!” Klaus proclaimed.

The four heroes charged towards the fray. Dark Dragon took notice. Without breaking stride, he swung an arm in their general direction and a wall of flame erupted, cutting a foot in front of the team. They each struggled to a stop as the flames died, none of them wanting to cross the new gaping chasm in the metal floor.

Dark Dragon returned his attention to Justice Man, as the hero swung and landed a hefty blow. Dark Dragon stumbled but kept his feet, launching another flame breath. But Justice Man had already moved. With practiced ease and knowledge of combat, Dark Dragon span and caught Justice Man behind him, claws wrapped around his throat. He held the hero aloft, Justice Man struggling to break free. Within the demon’s helm, the pilot light of his breath took form. The glow reached its zenith, and Justice Man stared into it, before desperately focusing his mind. There was a flash of purple.

Dark Dragon screamed.

He released the hero, clutching his helm in pain. He hissed and shrieked, unleashing the flame breath harmlessly into the ceiling. Justice Man triumphantly landed on his feet.

“What is this weakness?!” cried Dark Dragon furiously, his red aura fading.

“Your weakness, Dark Dragon,” Justice Man said in his heroic tone. “I have long suspected that certain kinds of energy can hurt you. It was just a matter of focusing my telekinesis to generate the right frequency of energy.”

“No! It can’t be!” the armoured warrior roared. “This fight is not over!”

Dark Dragon leapt, swinging his claws, but Justice Man floated clear with ease. The demon slashed and roared, but Justice Man fired another telekinetic blast, which cause the knight to scream in pain. As the younger heroes drew closer, emboldened by the turn in battle, Klaus poked at a screen on his arm.

“An energy frequency? I believe I can replicate that,” Klaus muttered. “Let me just try this.”

 He raised his arm and fired an identical energy pulse, striking Dark Dragon in the back. Dark Dragon didn’t scream though. Instead he rose, his red aura returned. He turned to the younger heroes with rage in his eyes.

“Pathetic!” he roared and thrust a glowing hand.

With a flash of crimson, smoke flooded the air. When it cleared, there was suddenly a deep trench right down the middle between the four heroes, two on each side of the chasm. Part of the wall was also missing, exposing the room to the night outside. The four sat in shock, while Justice Man swung in for another pass, incapacitating Dark Dragon with another telekinetic blast.

Finally, after a few more strikes and passes, Dark Dragon fell to his knees, his crimson aura barely even visible. Justice Man landed before the monster.

“I will rise again,” Dark Dragon hissed weakly. “I will not be defeated.”

“You will today,” Justice Man claimed, then punched the villain with a metal clang. Dark Dragon collapsed and lay unconscious on the floor.

Victorious, the five heroes quickly gathered the assorted henchmen and villains and tied them up as quickly as they could. Klaus had cable in his armour, Foot could summon spectral snakes to tie people’s hands, and Watcher II just produced a whole load of rope from somewhere, having apparently come prepared. Soon enough, the police arrived and began carting the henchmen and villains away in as many cars as they could muster.

The police chief, an elderly gentleman with red hair, came forward and addressed the group of heroes.

“Thank you, heroes,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. “Always good to see the new generation at work.”

“It’s not a problem, chief,” said three of the four in unison. Stealth Watcher II just nodded.

“And you, Justice Man,” the chief turned to the caped hero stood nearby. “I thank you for being here to show the new blood how it’s done.”

“It’s not a problem, Chief McElroy,” Justice Man smiled.

“Also, if it’s not too much trouble, could you sign this lunchbox for me?” the chief asked excitedly.

“Very well,” Justice Man chuckled. “Who am I signing it too?”

“My wife,” the chief said nervously. “Just sign it to Chief McElroy… It’s her nickname.”

“Very well,” Justice Man sighed. “After this, I need to go and have a rest. I’m not as young as I used to be.” He rubbed his back.

The four younger heroes looked on in annoyance as McElroy ignored them. The police bustled around them, but few gave them a second glance. Everyone just watched as the supervillains were bundled into a special armoured personnel carrier.

“He got lucky,” Sammy Swift grumbled. “Random energy signatures my butt.”

“I’m sure I replicated that frequency correctly.” Krusher Klaus tapped the panel on his arm.

“Maybe it had to be applied differently?” Wandering Foot suggested. “Like via telekinesis?”

“Well, one thing’s for certain,” came the gravelly voice of Stealth Watcher II. “I’m still pretty impressed.”

Sammy looked at her wide-eyed. “You are?”

“Yep,” the dark hero nodded. “Lucky or not, he’s still beaten each of those guys in the past, and a dozen villains besides. By himself. I mean, there’s a reason me and Foot used to idolise the guy when we were sidekicks.”

“Watcher!” Foot protested.

“What? We did, didn’t we?” she enforced. “How many hours did we spend trying to solve his secret identity to impress him? Tell me you wouldn’t have been his sidekick if he asked.”

Foot floundered and crossed his arms. “Still not as cool as Wandering Fist,” he grumbled.

The four watched on as the villains were brought out and bundled into the massive troop transport. The vehicle doors sealed shut with a hiss, and the carrier trundled off into the night.

Inside, Dark Dragon, Madame Mechanism, Henchmen 14, and Annihilator, sat around with chains on their arms and legs. That was except for Annihilator, who was still only an orb with a camera in it, as his body was being transported on a separate truck.

“Well, that was just like old times,” 14 said almost cheerily.

“I can’t believe Uncle Intellitron got beaten up like that every week,” Madame Mechanism groaned, trying to stretch out her sore neck.

“ERROR. HAPPINESS DETECTED DESPITE FAILURE. IT WAS FUN,” Annihilator agreed robotically.

“One thing I don’t understand is how we lost,” Mechanism muttered. “We’d planned for everything, right?”

“Not Justice Man,” 14 responded.

“THREAT LEVEL WAS BEYOND EXPECTED PARAMETERS,” Annihilator added. “THEY KICKED OUR BUTTS.”

“As usual,” Mechanism sighed.

“The one thing I don’t understand though,” 14 continued thoughtfully. “How was DD beaten?”

Dark Dragon growled at the nickname but did nothing else.

“Mechanism was electrocuted, Annihilator got his head taken off, and I got punched by Justice Man. What took down Dark Dragon?”

“He got beaten by Justice Man using a special energy from his telekinesis. I was watching half conscious from the floor,” Mechanism explained. “The energy was apparently Dark Dragon’s secret weakness.”

“OBSERVATION: ENERGY FREQUENCY MUST HAVE INTERRUPTED DOOM FIELD OF DARK DRAGON,” Annihilator beeped. “THE OLD GUY GOT LUCKY.”

“But… Dark Dragon is immune to all energy attacks, isn’t he?”

The three others turned to the dark creature who had been silent so far. They stared, awaiting some explanation. Finally, Dark Dragon spoke.

“We were beaten already,” came the terrifying voice. “Sooner or later, those delinquent heroes would have overwhelmed even me. But Justice Man is a warrior of honour and power. There is no dishonour in losing to him.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“And, given the choice, I was not going to lose to those weakling, pathetic, dishonourable children, and let their victory over us today feed their wretched egos!” Dark Dragon finished with venom in his voice. “I fell to Justice Man!”

“Hear, hear!” 14 called in agreement, as the others cried in support. “Now, do any of you have an escape plan? I have to get back to Intellitron Resorts.”

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Short Story: To Not Be Alone in the Middle of Nowhere

Genre: Horror

Wordcount: 4488

Description: The wanderer must always walk alone. He must walk alone. Noah walks alone.

To Not Be Alone in the Middle of Nowhere

The wanderer walks alone. His name is Noah.

He awakens in the morning, prepares his food, uses his materials to form paints, and redecorates his arms with symbols. Runes and marks of his homeland. Words with little meaning to anyone else.

He checks the dirt for footprints as he dismantles his tent. The pale earth is smooth and featureless, as always. He checks it again.

Noah packs away his tent, bundling his supplies together onto a sled. He wraps the straps for the sled around his middle, and he walks on, dragging it behind him. He marches on through the dirt.

For hours, he marches. Finally, he stops. He gathers his canteen from his things, satiates his thirst, and then he walks on. A few hours later he does the same for food, and then again to relieve himself. He walks on.

As the sun lowers, he finally stops. He looks about in all directions. He is alone. He is always alone. He sets up his camp and sits by the fire. Then, once the sun has set, he enters his tent and closes the entrance. He tries to sleep, but his ears strain to hear. He clutches the icon hung around his neck. But what can he hear? Intruders? Marauders?

Something worse?

But he hears nothing. For hours he lies there and hears nothing. Finally, he falls asleep, and still hears nothing.

The next morning he awakes. He rises, prepares his supplies, and redecorates his arms. He steps out from his tent.

Something is wrong. His fire has been dashed aside, perhaps by a strong wind. His spear, left outside the tent, has fallen over. His sled has been flipped onto its top.

Noah inspects the earth as he packs away his things. No footprints. No marks. Perfect flawless earth. He is alone. He is always alone.

Noah packs up his things and walks on. He watches the horizons on the desolate plains. Deserts, salt flats, whatever you want to call them, they look endless. But he is calmed by the endlessness of it. The sight of the horizon on all sides. Nowhere for anyone to hide.

As the day draws on, he stops to drink. He is alone. He stops to relieve himself. He is alone. He stops to eat.

There is a shadow. Something small on the eastern horizon. Perhaps he is not alone after all.

He continues to walk, watching the shadow, a lone shape low to the ground. As he finally stops to rest, it grows closer. He prepares an evening meal and gleaming eyes watch him from the dark.

They simply watch.

He finally goes to bed and hears something sniffing at his tent. Claws scratching at the flap. Something gnawing at the entrance. And then it stops.

He grips the icon around his neck, but hears nothing else.

Noah awakes the next day and prepares his paints. He repaints his arms, the motions second nature to him now. Every day since he left home.

He emerges from his tent and finds something odd. The earth is disturbed and his things have been rummaged through. He is not alone out here.

He packs away his things and sets off. He sees the shadow again, waiting on the horizon. It gets closer each time he stops, to drink, to relieve himself, and especially when he stops to eat.

That night, gleaming eyes watch him again. Something waiting in the dark. Noah looks out, trying not to look directly at it. He takes some of his food and lays it away from the camp. He eats some himself, watching from the corner of his eye.

Slowly, cautiously, a coyote emerges from the night. It sniffs the food then eats it. Then it runs off with its prize.

The next day this repeats. The camp is packed away and the coyote’s prints are in the dirt. It follows him throughout the day, closer and closer than before. He can feel it following and knows he is not alone.

He hopes that is what he can feel following.

That night, he lays out food again. He leaves a trail, leading up to where he sits. He sits and eats as quietly as he can. The coyote emerges from the night and licks at the ground, sniffing and snuffling closer. Finally, it stops beside him, sniffing for more food. Noah puts out a hand and pets its head. It snarls, and so he stops. But it does not flee. He leaves it an extra bit of food, and the coyote falls asleep by the fire.

Noah falls asleep in his tent, his ears straining yet again.

But he hears nothing.

The next morning he wakes. He repaints the symbols on his arms and leaves his tent.

His heart drops.

His spear is not where he left it, beside his tent. The coyote is dead, the spear jammed through its neck. Noah can see how this happened. The spear fell over, and panicked at the noise, the coyote ran and impaled itself.

That is except for the mark in the coyote’s fur. The one identical to the icon around Noah’s neck.

But the earth is undisturbed, and there was no sound the previous night.

Noah is alone. He is always alone.

Noah packs his things and moves on. He is nearing the end of the plains, the land ahead green with trees. It reminds him of home.

Even as he marches on, the day he left plays in his mind. He doesn’t want it to, and he has trained himself not to, but a little sweet nostalgia allures him to the memory, forgetting the bitterness of such thoughts on his tongue.

He was warned not to go in there. He was warned not to touch the stone. But a teenager will rebel against his elders, and the others dared him to. He remembers the thrill of climbing down into that cave, the chill of the water as he submerged, finding his prize, and their cries of triumph as he emerged clasping the smooth stone.

And then people were angry. His parents. The grand elder. He can recall his confusion at their rage. He couldn’t understand why they were so upset.

It was just a superstition, right?

There are no coyotes as he sits by the fire. Not now. Instead, he sits and watches the trees before him, their branches rustling in the wind. Beyond the forest is the orchard. And beyond the orchard is the mountain. And the mountain is the place where no one can follow him.

Where he can finally, truly, be by himself.

The next day he rises, repaints his marks, and sets off amongst the trees. He clings to the icon around his neck, watching the branches as if they’d reach out and grab it from him. As he walks he finds a stream, so refills his canteen. He finds berries, and so refills his rations. But this place is not quiet. There is noise everywhere, chirping, skittering, yipping. But he pulls his sled on, through trees and roots and mud.

That night he stops. There is only uneven ground, so it is difficult to set up his tent. He chooses to keep all his things inside the tent, to avoid mischievous monkeys or birds stealing anything. He sits tightly amongst his things, listening to the ceaseless noise outside.

Then it goes quiet. Just for a few minutes. Everything is silent.

And during that time Noah strains his ears again.

Until noise returns and he drifts to sleep.

The next day he rises and repaints his markings. They’re slightly scratched by branches, but it doesn’t take long to remedy. When he opens his tent, he finds a pile of bugs, all laid out like a sigil on the floor. A familiar marking, the same one which hangs around his neck.

But he can see how this happened. He’d been absentmindedly scrawling in the dirt with his spear, the same spear he’d used to retrieve the fruit. Spreading fruit juice like that, bugs were bound to follow.

He cannot tell why they died though. Perhaps the fruit was poisonous to them. Perhaps it’s poisonous to him but he doesn’t know it yet.

Either way, the earth around is undisturbed, as always.

He is alone out in these woods.

He is soon packed and on his way again. The weather is more temperate than it was on the plains. The trees and leaves trap heat, wrapping it in moisture, and making it heavy. But Noah walks on. Around trees, through bushes, across wide little streams.

He sees animals throughout the day. Spiders crawling up trunks. Snakes slithering over roots. Most ignore him if he ignores them. A few flies buzz around him, but they soon find other prey. A mosquito takes fascination with him for a while, but he swats it. Up in the trees above, a little shape swings. A monkey. It leaps from branch to branch, following his path.

That night, he settles and sets up his camp again. He glances up and sees the little monkey, still leaping about. Its bright eyes leer down. Noah eats some fruit as it draws closer. He sees it weighing its jump, ready to steal something. But he can’t sleep another night with his supplies crammed in his tent. The smell of the fruit is too strong, and positioning his spear is a challenge. And still the monkey creeps closer.

Noah takes a stick from the undergrowth and wraps a spare bit of cloth around it. He lights it from his campfire and swings it wildly up at the monkey.

The monkey screeches and yelps. It retreats, hurrying up a tree trunk. Noah waves his torch until the beast disappears. He hopes it won’t come back.

As he readies for bed, he takes some large leaves and covers the fruit. With one last thought, he takes his spear into the tent, propping it up awkwardly inside the entrance.

That night his ears strain against the noisy silence. So much noise it becomes the base for all other sound. Then he hears it. Scampering feet. Little eeks and ooks. The rustle of leaves.

Then the forest is silent again. Truly silent. All that remains is the monkey, rummaging amongst the fruit.

With a snap and a sharp shriek, even that falls silent.

The noise finally returns and Noah falls fitfully to sleep.

The next morning he reapplies his paints and opens his tent. The monkey is dead, its body left strewn across the far tree, battered and broken. Its blood spells a familiar symbol in its fur.

It must have just been a predator, Noah tells himself. Just a predator.

Noah marches on, sled behind him. The trees are already parting, leaving greater room to walk. By nightfall he will almost be at the orchard. Then the mountain.

Then he’ll be alone.

As he settles for nightfall, the trees are already quite wide apart. Wide enough that he can set up his tent without trouble. Wide enough that no animals come close.

As he sets up his tent, a chill joins the air. Something colder than cold.

The air is silent. Not even the noise of the jungle.

CRACK!

Noah looks up, but dives into his tent, hurriedly tying the entrance. Too late, in fact.

A branch the size of a log hits the tent’s roof.

The tent crumples, and the log lands atop Noah. His spear is in his hand, but the rest of him is pinned to the floor. He releases his spear and reaches up to the icon around his throat. Golden metal meets his fingers, and he relaxes. The chill to the air vanishes. The sounds of the woods return.

Using his spear, he levers the log off of him. He slips out, his side bleeding from where a branch cut him. It isn’t deep, so he patches it with mud and some torn cloth from his tent.

He moves the log and rebuilds his tent as best he can. He rechecks the various runes painted on its fabric. Luckily, they’re undamaged. He looks up to where the tree branch fell from.

Something is sat on the branch. A shadowy shape. First a monkey, then a coyote. Then it is a young man, before vanishing completely.

Noah heads into his tent and struggles to sleep.

The next day comes, and Noah almost forgets to repaint his arms. The cut in his side aches. It hurts, but there is nothing he can do.

He packs up his things and marches on.

Within hours, he has passed the edge of the jungle and steps out into lush green fields. The occasional tree is spread around, many littered with fruit. He tries to pluck some, but finds it too high, and his side is too sore to climb. He walks on.

That night he sets up camp in a field. No trees to fall on him, no animals to bother him. His side still aches, and he barely eats before surrendering and going to bed. He doesn’t hear anything that night, not that he is listening.

His hand doesn’t leave the icon around his neck all night.

The next day he awakes, but something is wrong. He is shivering, though the air is still warm. He sweats though he feels cold. The wound in his side burns and looks swollen. Even so, he rises, packs his things, and moves on.

The walk is more challenging today. His bones are tired and his thoughts drift in and out. They drift so far that the tang of nostalgia lures him in again.

The memories play out like a performance around him.

He is at home again, wandering back into the village. The elders are furious. His parents look scared. He is forced to carry the stone by himself, the elders refusing to touch it. There is shouting and ranting. Words like “Banishment” are used. Words like “Death”.

He knows that he has done wrong, but not why.

Finally, the words “The wanderer must walk alone” are uttered.

The chief’s guards arrive, and he is forced to leave.

All alone.

In the orchard, the night is rolling in. But Noah’s mind is too clouded. He walks on into the evening. He walks on into the night. He finally collapses, and in a moment of blurred clarity, he wraps the remains of his tent around himself like a blanket.

The inside is sweltering, his body boiling. His side still aches.

The night is silent.

The next morning he is awoken. Not by the dawn, but footsteps and people. They find him lying on the ground, wrapped in his tent. He is drenched in sweat and his side burns like fire. He looks at it, as do they, and they wince. It is yellowing, in parts even green.

One of them carries him on their shoulder. They are large people, all wearing rough and strong clothes. One of them carries a trident, but with four prongs.

Noah falls asleep as they carry him.

He awakens again in a bed. He is in his tent, but he can tell he did not set it up. The knots are wrong and the flaps are unsealed. But he cannot move. His side is on fire, his body drenched with sweat. He looks around and the runes on his skin are gone.

He looks down. His side is exposed, the mud cleaned off, now wrapped in clean bandages. He remembers being briefly awakened to take medicines.

He hopes they were medicines.

He tries to sit up, but cries out in pain and falls back. The sound attracts someone. A young woman enters his tent, sitting down beside him. She has hair like flax and freckles from cheek to cheek. She smiles with missing teeth, but in a way that is quite charming. She also speaks in a tongue Noah does not know. It is lilting and bright, but not one word is familiar.

She spies his lack of recognition. She tries to mime, pointing at his side, and then showing drinking something. She then mimes for him to stay still.

He nods and falls back to sleep.

Evening approaches, and he wakes to see the young woman. She is offering food, which he gladly accepts. Already he feels better and tries to stand, but she stops him. He is still weak. She produces a bit of paper and a quill. She writes something, but he does not know the letters. But she passes him the quill.

He writes something. He writes that he is thirsty, and would like some wine. He knows she will not understand.

That night, once she is gone, his ears strain at the dark. But this is not a quiet place. He hears horses, and people working late, and drinking in a nearby tavern.

And then, for a moment, it is silent. Silent aside from the sound of something being dragged.

Then all is normal again, and Noah falls unwillingly to sleep.

The next morning he awakens, but is still too weak to stand. He searches for his paints, but cannot find them. They must be on his sled.

Around mid-morning, the young woman arrives to give him food and water. And some wine. He looks at her curiously.

She mimes and writes a few words. One is “traveller” and the next “uncle”. The next is a list of places, one of which Noah recognises. He nods and writes “Hello”. She writes “Hello” in her tongue. They both smile.

The joy is cut short however. There are shouts, screams, yells of anguish. The young woman heads out and returns minutes later looking quite pale. She has brought a book with her. She reads it hurriedly, and Noah spies some of his language in the pages.

She scrawls down two words on the paper. “Missing” and “boy”.

Mere minutes later, the tent flap is thrown open, and a man in very stern clothes looks down at him. A finger is pointed in an accusatory way, loud words are said, and the young woman stands out of the way.

Noah however is too weak to stand. He tries to, but fails, and so the accusations are soon dropped. The man leaves, as does the young woman.

Later that evening, she returns. Noah has had all day to think. He desperately asks for the quill. He tries to warn her. He must have his things. He must have his paints. He grips and shows the icon around his neck as if she will understand.

She does her best to translate. She tells him to stay put. She thinks he is just afraid of the kidnapper, and he doesn’t want to be their next victim.

In a way, she isn’t wrong.

She is then called away by a dinner bell, or so Noah guesses.

And he is left alone.

That night his ears strain at the silence. The town is more sombre, no celebrating with such a tragedy in their midst. But amidst the mournful sobs, there is a moment of silence.

And in the silence, two noises. The sound of two things being dragged.

Noah does not sleep that night.

Noah stirs from his dreadful thoughts as the tent flap is opened and the stern man looks in. He says something, but it is not understood. Noah tries to answer anyway. The man shakes his head and leaves.

Around noon, the young woman appears, but she is dishevelled. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are bloodshot.

She writes on the paper three words. “My sisters. Missing.”

Noah stares at her for a long time. She forces the pen and paper into his hands. There is something new written on it.

“What took them?”

She looks at him, her eyes knowing more than her age would suggest. Insistent for answers.

He writes back. He asks that she help him leave. He begs for his paints and his things. He pleads that he be allowed to get away from here.

He does not answer her question.

She looks at his words, and she looks disgusted. She writes back. He is a coward, trying to escape. She helped him, and he will not help her.

He writes one last time to help him leave, and then all will be well. For her, all will be well. He then writes a single word.

Wanderer.

But it is unclear if she understands. He doesn’t know if the word can be translated or if she does just believe him a coward.

She leaves and does not return. Someone else brings his food that evening.

And he sits and eats alone, before tiredness finally takes him.

A noise in the night awakes Noah. A dragging noise. A lumbering noise. Something large, dragging its feet.

He has been in the same place too long.

He hears it moving, long toes dragging in the dirt. He sees a shadow against the moonlight, a form as tall as his tent. Long fingers hang past its knees. A maw of teeth shifts as it breathes.

And then another noise. A confused cry. A shout of anger and fear. The light of a burning torch.

A young girl screams.

The shadow vanishes and a man cries out in agony. A torch flies and ignites a nearby building. Like a shadow play, parts and fractions play out on the tent. A man impaled on long fingers. A jaw distending from a cavernous mouth. An eyeless head turning its gaze on him.

Suddenly, a hand pokes under the tent flap. A young woman’s hand. Noah struggles to his feet and grabs her fingers, but something else is pulling from the other side. She pleads and cries, but Noah is too weak. She slips from his hands, and her screams fall silent.

With all the strength he has, Noah holds the tent flaps shut.

Something stops outside the tent. His spear is on his sled. He can hear the thing breathing, rasping, hacking breaths. Something so old, so terrible. Noah watches as its long fingers press at the canvas, threatening to rip through. It strides around his tent, its long shadow cast over him by the flames.

Noah falls back and clutches the icon around his neck. He sits there until morning.

Then he is finally alone again.

Noah does not sleep. He rises and in desperation draws the symbols back on his arms with dirt and spit. He leaves his tent and he looks upon the village. He falls to his knees and vomits.

The town is in ruins. Almost a dozen buildings, all burnt or strewn with blood. Bodies lie in the streets, some whole, others ripped in half or more. One has his chest ripped open, chunks of gore dripping into the chasm.

And there, in the centre of town, impaled on Noah’s own spear, is the young woman. Her eyes are lifeless. Her hair is bloodstained. Her body is limp.

He is alone again.

Noah does not stay. He packs his things and marches on. He marches on faster than ever. He leaves his spear where it is, but gathers his sled and his supplies. The mountain is just beyond the village. He is almost there.

But his mind will not rest.

No more sweet nostalgia, a bitter taste floods his mind. He has tasted this pain before.

He recalls as he was driven from the village. Without food, without supplies, without explanation. On the call that “The Wanderer must travel alone”. The only one to stop him was his mother, who handed him an icon to wear about his neck.

She said it would keep him safe. He thinks it has.

He left the village, walking out into the woods. He stopped a mere hour away, weeping and mourning, not knowing what to do.

But then there had been a noise. Something in the trees. He had wanted a weapon, something to defend himself.

But it hadn’t been needed. His friends, those that had dared him to go in that cave, had followed him. They wished to go with him.

He had been so happy that night. And they celebrated. One had snuck a jug of wine. Another had brought a book of foreign places to go. Where they could all go. The book told stories of distant lands, and paradise havens, and a mystical mountain where no one could follow.

And his friends also told stories of The Wanderer. They recited all that the village had told them. Of a creature. Of a stone that had held such a thing in place.

But they had laughed. Laughed into the evening. Laughed until they slept under the stars.

The next morning, Noah had awoken to a cold wetness. As he stirred lying in a pool. A crimson pool. His friends were dead, gutted, their blood mixing around him.

He had screamed so loud. But that was when he had seen it.

Waiting just beyond. Waiting in the trees.

The Wanderer.

And he hasn’t stopped since.

The mountain is cold, and colder as he climbs. Snow crunches underfoot and frost bites at his skin. The sled catches in trenches of ice and patches of slush slip from under him like landslides.

But Noah presses on. He marches up the snowy slope, not able to see the top. For a day, he marches, and as the sun sets he presses on. But he hears nothing. No new noise, but no silence either. Just the flurry of snow.

For another day, he walks without stopping. Finally the peak comes into view. He crests the top and looks down, the world splaying out before him. He can see the village and the orchards beyond. He can see the jungle, and the mists amongst the trees. He can even see the plains, and how they bend over the horizon.

And somewhere beyond that must be home.

Noah sits upon the peak, cold seeping into his very bones. And for once, ever since this began, he feels truly alone.

With shaking hands, he reaches up and he removes the icon from around his neck. He places it in the snow before him and breathes in the cold air.

Suddenly, the air grows silent. Silent apart from the crunch of footsteps.

Noah doesn’t dare look round. He knows it will be there. He just hears those dragging steps as they move up the mountain behind him. Fear colder than the snow clutches his heart, but he doesn’t move. He can’t.

He feels long, sharp fingers wrap around his throat. He’s terrified, but it’s already too late.

And as the fingers wrench, and there’s a snap that could only be his neck, Noah can only think one thing.

He was never alone.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

The first story I wrote in what has become a full short story collection that I hope to one day publish.

Short Story: Last Resort

Tales of Hero City Collection

Word Count: 4952

Comedy / Super Hero Short Story

The life of a henchman is a complicated one, especially after your boss retires from villainy. Unfortunately, the hero can't seem to get it through his thick skull that the boss isn't evil anymore.

Last Resort

The bartender stood behind the bar, cleaning a glass with a cloth. He was wearing a suitably tropical shirt, as the bar faced onto the beach, the waves lapping about thirty yards away, just past the sand and a concrete walkway. Customers milled around, one walking up and ordering a fruity beverage. The bartender smiled and quickly made the drink. Satisfied, the customer went to find a seat.

Ah, this is the life, the barman thought, enjoying the sea air. He glanced down to straighten his name badge. It read “14”. He polished it proudly with a thumb.

Then something caught his eye and his smile dropped.

Walking past was a sturdily built man in a trench coat. His face was mostly covered by a hat, dark glasses, and a fake moustache and beard. The efforts to disguise himself ironically made him stand out like a sore thumb amongst the bikinis and swim trunks of the beach.

Oh hell, 14 frowned. This was going to be one of those days. Still, there was time before it all went wrong. 14 reflected if he was getting paid enough to deal with this. He already knew the answer though. Unfortunately, he was.

14 had always liked his job, not that it had always been easy. But, at this point, he certainly felt like he’d earned his place. He’d scrapped with the best of them. Cut his teeth on the usual scut work. Gotten his share of broken bones. Hell, he’d even been thrown through a brick wall once or twice. That had put him in hospital, for sure, but he always came back, no matter how many superheroes tried to stop him.

You see, 14 was an evil henchmen, and proud of it.

Henchman 14 pulled back from his thoughts and glanced up at the billboard across the plaza. There he was, the boss, portrayed across the display. It was a face a villain could be proud of. Blue skinned, one bionic eye, and a massive grey beard of lightning shaped hairs. It was the infamous face of Mr Intellitron, which was advertising the new 3 for 2 offer.

The days had been when that blue mug would strike fear into the heart of a populace. Giant robots, death rays, and massive airships accompanied by menacing laughter.

Or, at least, 14 assumed it was menacing. He rarely listened to it. For as long as he could remember, it was always being filtered through monitors, walls, or bank vault doors. That was the life of an evil henchmen though. You never got to see the action until it was punching you in the face.

14 stopped from his reverie and looked around. The bulky man in the coat had disappeared. He considered going to tell security, or maybe to try and track the man himself, but another customer approached to order a drink. And the situation would sort itself out… hopefully.

As the customer left, she eyed the drink carefully, as if it might explode. 14 wasn’t surprised. Everyone knew who the resort staff used to be. Most had come with the boss, all former henchmen from the villain days. Not everyone though, and the interviews for new employees had been an awkward process, well-meaning crooks turning up looking for criminal work. Most of them were hired as security or accountants. Honestly, there wasn’t really anyone at Intellitron Resorts that didn’t have some kind of shady past. But they all deserved a second chance, right? 14 wondered how many chances he was on, and how many digits were in the number.

Henchman 14 had started out, many years ago, as just a hired goon. He’d worked his way up to grunt, then he was a crook, then a thug. Promotion was rapid in those days. And for a few years he worked for a crime boss, Mrs Elenor Tramridge, with 14 working more directly for her two behemoth sons, Brickhead and Kneecaps. They were nice fellas, assuming they weren’t trying to break your legs.

Eventually, 14 became a proper henchman, segueing into supervillainy when Tramridge divorced a villain and lost half her goons in the proceedings. So 14 was taken on by Battering Sam, a boxing themed villain. And from there it had started. Henchman work.

Honestly, it was everything he’d expected. Guard that door? Get punched out by superhero. Move that loot? Get punched out by superhero. Go operate that doom drill? Get thrown half a mile by superhero.

Of course, it was still criminal work, illegal by nature, but it paid and no one else was hiring. And 14 had worked for a few villains over the years, most just small-timers, and repeatedly got punched out by crime fighters.

And then there was Mr Intellitron.

Wanting a change, he’d applied for a job doing lab work, which didn’t sound too hard. All he needed to do was carry chemicals and not blow himself up. And, as a plus, he was far enough from the fight that he stopped getting punched in the face. It was a sweet gig. Intellitron would even visit the labs, and he’d shout at his scientists, but he never shouted at the assistants carrying chemicals unless they did something stupid in his presence.

But then the labs started getting targeted by heroes. In response, Intellitron started arming the laboratory staff, where 14 quickly discovered a proficiency with firearms, or at least the auto-aiming lasers Intellitron gave them. And apparently this was enough to impress someone, because he was ranked up to henchman again, and then all the way up to bodyguard. He was part of a small team, twenty men, all to guard Intellitron himself. It was the big leagues.

Unfortunately, Intellitron wasn’t one for names. He gave his bodyguards numbers, one to twenty, which of course made it easier to replace them when they died. But to a henchman it was a mark of respect. A rank. You had a duty. A responsibility. You had a job to do. It was truly honourable work… in a dishonourable sort of way.

Standing at the bar, 14 admired his badge again. He honestly preferred “14” to his real name at this point. Ed was so ordinary and plain, but the name “14” meant something. He was part of something bigger. Part of schemes and plots and ploys. He hadn’t even used his so-called real name in decades, and not just because of his criminal record a mile long. He really wasn’t fond of the name, which wasn’t much of a surprise. It had not been an easy life…

Since his youth he’d been through a lot. His parents had died, murdered by some lunatic in an alley, he’d had few friends, with most of them leaving his life in a dramatic fashion or dying with poignant last words, and he’d been caught in almost a dozen lab accidents even before he became a henchman… And to add insult to injury he’d had monetary issues since the day he could work.

14 sneered to himself. Supers thought they owned the monopoly on tragic backstories, but it was just most people went to therapy rather than stuffing themselves into spandex. But unfortunately, there would always be those who did. There would always be heroes.

And 14 had faced them all, more or less. Intellitron was a big time villain. Sure, he wasn’t as giant as Annihilator, or as powerful as the dreaded Dark Dragon, but Intellitron was still formidable. And those other villains were terrible bosses, with a habit of trying to destroy the world or kill their henchmen. Rumour had it Annihilator only started building robots because his henchmen went on strike.

However, Mr Intellitron was simply about profit and changing the world for the better. Sure, he wanted to subjugate people and occasionally used giant space lasers to destroy those that disagreed with him, but ultimately he wasn’t the worst of the bunch.

But heroes still came to stop him.

And so, over the years, Henchmen 14 had been punched out by every hero going. Big Hitter, Stealth Watcher, The D-Fender, Watch Man, The Wandering Fist, Melancholy, Fist Puncher, Big William, Undead Woman, The Cartwheeler, Elder Wizard, The Unknowable Helmet and even Gun Shooter. He’d been knocked unconscious by them all, but none more than one. None more than the mighty Justice Man.

Flight, super strength, telekinesis, and a bullet proof cape, Justice Man was the whole package. He was also a pain in the neck, sometimes literally. Always delivering heroic speeches about justice and honour, or sneaking through their bases in some ludicrous costume.

Pfft, 14 almost laughed. The self-proclaimed master of disguise, indeed. They always spotted him. Every time. It was obvious, the hero sneaking around in his trench coat. But Intellitron usually had a trap primed, so they had to let him through. Hell, on one occasion, Justice Man’s false beard had fallen off in front of Henchman 8. And when he laughed, Justice Man punched him.

That aside, Justice Man was a decent hero. One of the best even. Fast and strong, he could use his mind powers to pull robots apart, and he was able to hide under his indestructible cape to protect himself. And he beat Intellitron every time. Sure, the boss would make enough to keep paying the workers, but they’d often end up in prison by the end, but always ready to break right back out and start the whole thing all over again.

Ah, those were the days.

14 wondered where the so called “Master of Disguise” had gotten to. Any minute now, the hero would surely make his presence known. 14 wondered if he’d wind up getting punched in the face again. In some strange way he almost missed it.

Then he recalled having to eat meals through a straw. He looked back at the Intellitron sign, motorised so the villain was laughing over the wonderful deals. That was when some bodyguards ran past, heading towards the flume ride. Someone else had spotted the hero.

14 sighed. Some things never changed… Some things certainly did though.

It had begun when Intellitron had needed a new lair. Some hero, possibly Gun Shooter, had discovered Intellitron’s flying fortress and a team of heroes had blown it out of the sky. Months later, after everyone escaped prison again, the search for a new base began. Just a few weeks after that, Intellitron picked out a nice remote volcanic island, with lava moats and caves aplenty, with dozens of places to install traps and death pits. Classic.

The only problem was how noticeable it was. His previous lair had been near the edge of space. Difficult to spot. This was an island. A deserted island. Heroes would be watching and notice, especially Watch Man, given how much he watched things. To counter this, the boss came up with a genius solution… Actually, one of the henchmen had, but Intellitron robbed banks, it didn’t surprise anyone that he stole ideas too. The decision was made to build the lair underground, a holiday resort atop it to explain the traffic out to the island. Perfect.

Well, almost perfect. In hindsight, just putting everything underground might have done the trick. The resort on top just made it more conspicuous if anything.

Still, it worked. People flocked to the resort and henchmen became holiday staff. Mr Intellitron hid in the shadows, cooking up evil schemes and smuggling weapons to the main land on the passenger ferries. His crimes continued, he was arrested multiple times, as were his men, but the hideout wasn’t discovered. And everything had been good.

But then came the turning point. The day it all changed.

After-hours one night, the henchmen gathered and realised they hadn’t heard from Mr Intellitron for several days. His most recent plan, to take over the city with water-borne, microscopic, mind control robots, had failed when he discovered the robots dissolved in anything warmer than ice chips. A bit of a setback, but even so, within a day or two Intellitron usually would have a new scheme ready.

But this time no one had heard from him in nearly a week. The henchmen had to do something. They picked names from a hat to decide who would check on him. When they couldn’t find a hat, they used a twenty sided dice and 14 was chosen.

That night, 14 had knocked on the gigantic metal doors, the ones covered with murals of gears and electronics, which apparently no one thought was suspicious. When no one answered, he’d gently pushed the doors open and entered.

He still remembered their conversation, seared as it was into his very soul.

* * *

Mr Intellitron was sat in a great throne behind his desk, his blue skin and bizarre beard cast in the dancing light of the fireplace. Papers were littered over his desk, and the man himself was sat with a brandy in one hand, staring into space. If the brandy hadn’t been gently swirling, 14 would have feared he was dead.

“Sir?” 14 asked, his voice quivering.

No response.

“Mr Intellitron? Are you alright, sir?”

Still nothing.

“You’ve not given us any new orders, sir. Are you alright?”

Intellitron stopped and looked at 14, who still stood near the door. The villain’s bionic eye whirred and focused. He stopped swirling the brandy, placed it on his desk, and gestured for 14 to shoo. There was no energy to it though, the wave being far meeker than his usual commands.

“Sir? What’s wrong?” 14 asked, holding back terror at defying the instruction.

Intellitron stared into the fireplace.

“Is it something we did, sir, or some hero, or do you just need more time to-”

“We’re making money…” Intellitron cut him off quietly.

“Pardon, sir?”

“We’re making money. This resort is actually bringing in a profit,” the villain said, his usual malevolence tinged with something akin to confusion.

“That’s… great, isn’t it sir?”

“Yes. It is.” Intellitron picked up his brandy again. He didn’t drink it, just swirled it in his hand.

14 was worried. Something was clearly wrong, but he couldn’t talk out of turn. But he’d come this far…

“Is that a bad thing, sir? I mean… the men will certainly be pleased to know they’re getting paid.”

“We’re making a lot of money, 14,” Intellitron stated, glancing at tax forms on his desk.

“Alright?”

“We’re making more money than ever, 14. More than I’ve ever stolen. More than we ever made through villainy!” Mr Intellitron continued, his own confusion growing.

“What do you mean?”

“More than robbing banks. More than building robots. More than fighting heroes week to week. This resort is more profitable than anything I have ever done!” he snarled, his anger rising by the sentence. He stood from his chair to pace. “We have enough money to build anything we want.”

“Then what’s the problem, sir?” 14 asked, utterly baffled.

“What do I use it all for?”

The room fell silent. 14 thought. Mr Intellitron had always wanted to change the world. He used stolen money to build new inventions and weapons. But he built those weapons so he could steal money from the banks… so he could build more weapons…

They had always known their plans were a bit circular. Every villain had that problem. Fight the hero, get beaten by the hero. Occasionally a hero would get killed or the villain would die, but any endgame was difficult to plan for when you were likely getting punched by Justice Man before you got there. Most villains were passionate, if irrational. Following a dream but not a plan. Like dogs chasing cars…

But with money, there was no need to steal. No need to scheme. No need to rob or wreck or ruin. There was no goal.

And no endgame either. No purpose. No point.

“Why am I doing this?” Intellitron said worriedly.

And 14 couldn’t answer him.

* * *

And that had been that. There had been a few more vain attempts at villainy, half-hearted plans to steal high class tech, before they realised they had no use for it. They kidnapped the mayor, then realised they had no need for the ransom. They prepared to take over the city, but then couldn’t decide what they wanted to do afterwards. It was all so… pointless.

And so it ended. Mr Intellitron filed his papers with the Villains Bureau and retired from the world of villainy. The secret underground lab became the underground storage complex. The volcano command centre became the geothermal power station. The submersible escape tunnels became the oceanic marine tours. It was over.

Mr Intellitron turned from building weapons to building rides and theme park mascots, as all henchmen became official employees. Of course, the transition to the public eye had been tricky. But after six months without any evil incident, most people just decided to live and let live.

Except for Justice Man. He really had some trouble with the concept.

14 thought for a moment, then abandoned his post. He knew where the hero would likely go.

The park plaza was very busy, as a massive crowd surrounded the central stage. 14 hurried through, glancing around, but it wasn’t difficult to find the caped crusader. He was standing at the back of the crowd trying to look inconspicuous. Of course, in doing so, all hunched and shady looking, he stood out like there was a neon sign pointed at him. His fake beard was crooked for a start.

14 wandered over to him. The hero was wearing his long brown trench coat, an artificial nose, beard, moustache, and glasses. 14 reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir?” he began. The hugely muscled man span round in his tiny trench coat. 14 didn’t bat an eye. “May I speak to you for a moment, away from the crowd?”

“I am waiting for the floor show,” Justice Man answered in a ridiculously high pitched accent. “Go away.”

“Sir, if you would just come with me.”

“I am waiting for the show,” Justice Man repeated. He shifted his beard uneasily.

“I know it’s you, Justice Man,” 14 stated simply. He had waited years to do that. “Could you come with me?”

Justice Man was shocked. His face fell and he gawked so hard his beard fell off. This was quickly followed by the moustache and glasses. The nose stayed put.

“Inconceivable!” Justice Man muttered, the accent dropped for his natural deep heroic tones. “How did you see through my disguise?”

The nearby crowd turned to see the hero standing in their midst. A few muttered about it, but most were unsurprised.

“Just lucky I guess,” 14 sighed. “Could you please come with me, sir?”

“I’m on a mission, civilian,” he responded, trying and failing to whisper.

“I realise that, sir, but would you please come with me for a moment?” 14 could tell Justice Man wasn’t moving. “It’s of vital importance,” he added sternly.

“If I must,” Justice Man relented.

With that, they wandered a distance from the crowd. The stage was still in sight, but they had moved to a more secluded area, where the only bystander was a hot dog vendor with a Number 6 name badge. Henchman 6 saw Justice Man and quickly made himself scarce, as 14 and the hero stood near the cart.

“Ok,” 14 prepared himself.

He looked at the powerful figure before him. The chiselled features, the dark orange and blue outfit beneath the coat, the fists that he remembered all too well. In this light, the hero looked almost like famed philanthropist Justin Mann. Henchman 9 had always had a theory that they were the same person, but that was impossible. Justin wore a cowboy hat, while Justice Man was bald. Also, they were seen together, once, seven years ago. 14 remembered because that was the same week The Doppelgänger had first appeared on the scene.

“Ok,” 14 repeated to himself.

“Now look.” Justice Man cut in. “I know I have many fans, but I am quite busy.”

“I’m not a fan,” 14 said calmly.

“Oh, don’t be shy. Now that you’ve met me, you can see what a true hero is like,” the hero beamed, finally removing the fake nose. “I mean, people need role models,” he smiled broadly.

“We’ve met before, but that’s beside the point.” 14 tried to look as official as he could. “I wanted to make sure that you weren’t intending to make a scene, Justice Man.”

“I’m here to protect innocent people from evil. People like you,” the hero smiled again.

“Look, I know but…. Wait. What do you mean people like me?” 14 halted. Something squirmed inside of him. “Do you not know who I am?”

“Should I?” Justice Man asked genuinely.

“You should! You’ve punched me enough times!”

“Why would I punch you, civilian?”

“Because I am... I was an evil henchman!” he growled, anger bubbling over inside him.

“For who?”

14’s anger burst.

“For Mr Intellitron, you half brain! I can’t believe you don’t remember me! I was the one who hit you with the magma ray three years ago. I was the one turning the crank when Intellitron lowered you into a tank of poisonous sharks. You’ve broken 12 of my bones, thrown me out of 9 buildings, and punched me in the face over 500 times! How can you not remember me?”

“What’s your name?” Justice Man responded nonchalantly.

“Henchman 14!” 14 spat bitterly.

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Before either could say anything else, a loud shriek came from the crowd. Justice Man turned and flew, determined to save whoever was in distress. 14 however knew the floor show was starting and walked angrily after the superhero.

The way the show worked was a woman came on stage, acting all innocent and prattling about how it was a wonderful day where nothing could go wrong, then the stage lights would come down and from the shadows Mr Intellitron, or his stunt double Phil, would appear in the boss’s latest mechanical monster, laughing manically. The woman would do a fake scream and a fake hero would come out and save the day. Simple, corny, but it always drew the crowds.

It was, of course, the scream of the actress which had caught Justice Man’s ear. 14 pushed to the front of the crowd, just as the hero landed on stage between the robotic monstrosity, today resembling a kangaroo, and the actress. The crowd crooned excitedly.

“Stop, villain!” Justice Man called. The robot kangaroo loomed over him, hissing and whirring. The actress, Melissa, just looked annoyed that her line had been stepped on before her dramatic “Save Me” speech.

“You cannot stop me, hero,” rattled the metallic voice of the robot. A dome on its cranium was translucent and a figure could be seen inside, deliberately hamming it up with theatrical arm flailing. “I will kidnap this woman and rule the world!”

“Not if I stop you,” Justice Man answered, standing as heroically as he could.

Melissa seemed to realise that something was off script. A man in the crowd, who 14 recognised as stuntman Phil, was dressed as a generic superhero and looking nervous. Intellitron was the one in the robot today.

“Save me, hero,” Melissa warbled, before running off stage towards Phil.

And with that, Justice Man leapt into the air and prepared to clobber the giant mechanical marsupial. For a minute or so, it was like old times. The giant robot leapt about, dodging and weaving. Justice Man landed blow after blow, avoiding the giant mechanical feet. Lasers fired from the kangaroo’s eyes and briefly stunned the muscular hero, only for him to recover as Intellitron laughed theatrically. Finally, Justice Man leapt and gripped the robot with his mind powers, tearing the head from its shoulders and dumping it on the floor nearby. As Justice Man landed beside it, the dome slid open and Mr Intellitron flopped out melodramatically.

The crowd roared in applause. Beside the control dome, Intellitron wailed mournfully at being defeated, as Justice Man glared down at him. Henchmen 14 knew that look. It was the look just before someone got punched.

Fortunately, that was when Melissa came back on stage.

“My hero,” she marvelled, clinging to his arm almost to restrain him.

Justice Man turned to see her, and in response he posed as heroically as he could. Melissa stared up at him admiringly, then glanced nervously over to Henchmen 14, then meaningfully to a point in the crowd. 14 followed her gaze and spotted Phil and a group of heavily armed security, waiting for a signal. The signal didn’t come.

“Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr Intellitron called proudly, clambering out of the robot dressed in a cliché scientist’s outfit, with random cogs and gears glued on for good measure. “Thank you to every single one of you. This has been a wonderful performance. And a special thanks goes to our hero…” He gestured to the caped crusader, only to freeze as he saw him for the first time. “…Our good friend, Justice Man,” he played it off.

The crowd burst into further applause. Justice Man looked ready to interrupt, but Melissa stepped in first.

“Please come back for our 4 o’clock show and our 7 o’clock show. There is also the 10 o’clock show, but that is for teens and upwards,” she called out to the crowd. Mr Intellitron waved happily, and Justice Man stood confused. 14 decided it was time to get involved. He ran over to the burly hero.

“You see, Justice Man? Nothing evil going on,” 14 reassured. “Just a stage show. Now, if you could be on your way…”

“Hold on, 14,” Intellitron called over. It was said politely, but that metal tinged voice still made 14 shudder. “I want to speak with our guest.” Even with villainy behind him, the way he said “guest” made it sound like “prisoner”.

“I will put an end to your evil reign,” Justice Man spouted. He still looked confused. “I will not rest until your evil has been locked away for all eternity.”

“And that’s respectable,” Intellitron accepted. “But there’s nothing evil going on here. Not anymore.”

“You say that, but you have evil robots.” He pointed at the wreckage.

“So does every theme park,” Intellitron smiled.

“That one had death beams!”

“Stun beams,” Intellitron corrected. “They didn’t kill you, did they? I can’t afford to kill my actors.” He glanced over at Phil, who was chatting with someone, angry about missing his performance.

“You were trying to kidnap a woman!”

“Her? That’s Melissa. She’s been acting here for 2 and a half years. I heard she also does theatre in the city. She’s perfectly safe.”

“But…” Justice Man was drawing a blank. His voice had lost some of its heroic depth. “This is your evil lair.”

“It’s a holiday resort,” Intellitron grinned. “Look, Justice, can I call you Justice?” Justice Man didn’t respond. “Justice, I understand that it must be difficult for you to trust me after our history.”

“You put me in so many death traps,” Justice Man reminisced.

“And what villain hasn’t? But you need to let this go. I’m not up to anything. The police, FBI, CIA, NSA and even the CSI have each been all over this island with a dozen fine tooth combs, not to mention the IRS. It’s all clean and above board. We even have The Wandering Fist as a guest hero every few months. I’ve put evil behind me.”

“And why should I believe you?” Justice Man said suspiciously. Intellitron seemed to mull the question over for a minute. Luckily, 14 had the answer.

“Because, in all the time I’ve worked here, I haven’t gotten punched once. If we were being evil, I would definitely have gotten punched by now. Or thrown through a brick wall. Or sent flying on a doom drill,” 14 stated, glad to be rid of such perils. “It’s the best paying job I’ve ever had, the safest job I’ve ever had, and by far the most legal job I’ve ever had.”

Justice Man looked at 14 and thought. He looked around at the park and all the happy people. He could see some people were forming a queue to get autographs from either Intellitron or Justice Man, or both. Finally, the hero relaxed.

“Alright…” he muttered. “But I’m keeping an eye on you, Mr Intellitron.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, old friend,” Intellitron smirked. “Though, if you do turn up again, could you be a bit more theatrical with the show? I normally try to make it last a bit longer.” He turned to the destroyed robot. “And go a bit easier on my machines? That will be hell to fix.”

“We’ll see,” the hero smiled, his gallantry returned. “Now, to meet with my adoring fans,” he proclaimed, wandering over to the growing line of people. Intellitron and 14 just watched him for a moment.

“That was a nice speech there, 14. Short but effective,” Intellitron complimented. “It’s good to know you enjoy your work.”

“Thank you, Mr Intellitron,” 14 said nervously. “I’ve been working on it for a while.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Me and the other henchmen have an ongoing pool over how long it takes before Justice Man thinks you’re evil again. Gives you time to plan how to get rid of him.”

“And who won this time?”

“Henchmen 12. I was just shy by a couple of weeks.”

“Oh well,” Intellitron patted 14 on the back. “Better luck next time.”

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Short Story: Repellent

Here is my Halloween Short Story offering. I hope its creepy enough for you.

Trick or Treat, everyone!

Short Story: Repellent

Wordcount: 7871 (Kind of a long one)

George was not having a good week. Between debts and his absentee dad dying, he wasn't really sure what to do with himself. But then he learned he'd inherited a house. A perfect getaway.

Colony Manor, in the middle of the woods.

Repellent

George drove up the road, veering up the narrow path through the woods. It had been… a rough couple of weeks. Various debts, a few loan sharks, and an angry ex-girlfriend had all decided to pile in on his life all at once, all asking for money or a pound of flesh. And, just when it couldn’t get much worse, his dad had died.

Now, George wasn’t exactly close to the old man. An old beekeeper, he’d always been more fond of the bugs than his own son. Mum had been the affectionate one, and that one-sided marriage hadn’t lasted into George’s teen years. Even so, his death had been a bit of a shock.

It had also been a bit of an out for George’s troubles.

George had been contacted by his dad’s attorney, or the executor of his estate, or something. All he remembered was the man was called Mr Harold Ives and he had some interesting news. While Dad was dead, he’d apparently owned an old house in the country, in turn inherited from some other long lost relative. And now it belonged to George.

Mr Ives had been very helpful, and even helped arrange the moving company to move him out there. And what better way to escape his debtors. The house, named Colony Manor, was miles outside the city, more than half an hour’s drive. It was perfect, at least until things had calmed down.

George looked up the road, but still couldn’t believe his eyes. Colony Manor had to be at least five floors, built out of old dark wood, and with windows and balconies all over the building. There was a wall surrounding the grounds, which was about two stories by itself, and the grounds had to be at least an entire acre wide. It wasn’t just a manor, it was a mansion!

George pulled up, got out of his car, and craned his neck to look up at the house. His new house, his mind delightedly reminded him. He produced a key from his pocket, a big brass one, and opened the gates. He’d have to park his car inside later, because right now he had to have a look around. He approached the front door, and produced a small door key from the same ring as the brass one. He turned it, but the door was already unlocked. He pushed it open.

“Hello?” he beckoned.

“Ah, Mr Honeydew,” a voice greeted back.

“Um… It’s just George,” he replied, spying the man coming down the stairs.

He was a tall man with a sallow complexion, grey hair, and a grey suit. It was one of those suits with a different coloured material up the back, which always reminded George of a beetle’s shell.

“Mr Ives?” George guessed.

“Correct. And you are George Honeydew. My condolences concerning your father,” he said sweetly.

“Yeah. Thanks,” George dismissed. “So, is everything in place after the move?”

“It is, but I must say, you didn’t have much to move.”

“Well…” George agreed. He’d have likely been able to fit everything from his old flat in the back of a car. “I do see this place is fully furnished though?”

“Oh yes, all under your name,” Ives smiled. “Now, I see you’ve got the keys. I had the movers gas up the generator, seeing as we’re a bit far for electrical cables out here. I also had them stock the furnace, it’s one of those old coal ones, you understand. I believe the previous tenants mostly relied on the various fireplaces, but I leave that up to you.”

“And, do you know why my father never mentioned this place?” George asked.

“I’ll admit it was a bit of an oversight with the paperwork,” Ives said unhappily. “He only inherited it a few years before he died, and something must have gotten lost in the shuffle. I’m not sure he ever knew he owned it.”

“Huh…” George looked up at the impressive house, reevaluating a lot of things. “So, what about entertainment?”

“What?” Ives was already heading for the door. “Oh, right,” he realised. “There isn’t any internet, but I’ve organised someone to come within the week. In the meantime, there is a TV which gets good signal, a fully stocked library if you’re a bookworm, and a couple of games rooms including some pool tables. It’s all yours to discover.”

“It really is…” George kept staring at the furnishings. “And if I really get bored, I can always go on a nature walk.” He gestured vaguely to the woods outside.

Ives turned a sharp smile on him. “Oh, I wouldn’t. Mosquitoes are terrible this time of year, and that’s not even talking about the bears. But there’s plenty of room for guests here, so that’s always an option. Now, I must be off. But please, if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to call. You have my number.” As Ives reached the door, he pulled a large cigar from a pocket and lit it. Even from the first puff it stank, but George tried to restrain his disgust. He waved Mr Ives off, and then settled into his new, wonderful house.

And Ives had been right. There were two games rooms, a TV room, three fully furnished bathrooms, six bedrooms, two with on-suites, a library as large as some ordinary houses, a portrait gallery, and a fully stocked kitchen. The furnace and generator were in an old janitorial room on the ground floor, and while there was a basement, the door was warped and nothing George could do could budge it. He put that on the list of things to ask Ives about next time they spoke.

For the rest of the day, George spent his time exploring the house, cooking some food, and then spent the evening in front of the TV. As he went to bed, he picked one of the upper floor bedrooms, enjoying the view over the woods below. The moon was out, the trees were lit with the cold light, and everything was silent.

Then he stopped. A shape caught his eye. Dark and indistinct, but poking out of the trees. A person, maybe? At the tree line nearest his garden wall? All the way out here? George rubbed his eyes, and the shape was gone.

He suddenly remembered he never brought his car in. He’d also forgotten to lock the gates, not used to remembering those yet. He stared a while longer, but there wasn’t any more movement. Finally, as his eyes grew tired, he gave up and went to bed, keeping a fireplace poker nearby just in case.

* * *

The next morning came, and fortunately nothing seemed out of place. George checked his car, and it was untouched, so he brought it inside the gates. He took a walk around the grounds, finding a few greenhouses and an ornamental garden, but no signs of anything disturbed. There was a long forgotten compost bin, which stank to high heaven and was swarmed with flies, but it was nothing he couldn’t deal with in the future… or more likely hire someone else to deal with once his money troubles were over.

Maybe he could rent out rooms in the house? The thought was unappealing, but he had some friends back home who might want a place to stay. Or at least some friends. Not many who weren’t involved in his money troubles… and trying to sell a place in the middle of nowhere with no internet would be a hard sell. It did have a phone, and a phone line, but he wasn’t entirely sure how it was hooked up. Maybe it was a satellite phone or something?

George finished his search and headed back inside. He wandered back upstairs to look out his window, staring down at the trees below. Below, and behind, and in front, and to the sides. There were trees in every direction besides the main road, which was still quite overshadowed. He looked down to where he thought he’d seen movement during the night, but there was nothing. Some ways into the woods however, he thought he could just see a plume of smoke…

DING DONG!

George struggled not to yelp, holding his hand to his chest to keep his heart in his ribs. It was just the door. Hurrying down as quickly as he could, he found Mr Ives waiting. Already inside.

“Sorry for letting myself in,” he greeted, “I’ve still got a key, and thought it better than waiting out in that cold. I also thought that if you had guests, then you wouldn’t really notice another body around.” He smiled up at George.

“No, just me,” George decided to breeze past the intrusion. “I don’t really have anyone to invite here.”

“Really?” Ives sounded genuinely surprised.

“Nope. I’ll have to keep this old house warm all by myself, for the time being.”

“That’s a pity. Old houses like this are built to be swarming with people,” he said sadly. “Oh well.”

“And, why are you here, Mr Ives?” George asked.

Ives took a second to recall. “Oh? Oh! Yes. I was just coming to check and make sure everything is going well. It’s a little out of the way, but I just had to check in. Company policy.”

“I see.”

“So, is everything alright?”

“Well…” George thought a moment. “A couple of things. First, that compost pile out back is disgusting.”

“I had noticed that,” Ives recognised. “I can give you a number for a very good gardener.”

George considered his finances. “Leave the number with me, I’ll get round to it.”

Ives pulled out a notepad and scribbled it down. “Anything else?”

“I can’t get the basement door open.”

“Oh, that.” Ives waved a hand. “It used to be for the heating and everything before it was moved upstairs. Nothing’s down there anymore.”

“Alright…” George accepted. “One last thing then. Are there people living around here?”

“What do you mean?”

“In the woods? Squatters, or homeless people, or anything like that?”

Ives quirked an eyebrow. “I suppose it’s possible. I haven’t seen anyone myself, but I can’t rule it out. Still, they’re likely harmless. And if not, the police are a phone call away. Besides, you can always lock your front gates, and I believe I saw a shotgun upstairs in the third bedroom.”

“That’s… comforting,” George lied.

“If that’s all, then I shall be off. I have a busy day ahead.” Ives headed for the door, pulling out another cigar. George followed him outside.

“Wait, where’s your car?” George realised. There was no sign of one.

“I left it down the road,” Ives said passively, puffing clouds from his cigar. “I didn’t know if your gates were open, and I don’t like parking in front of them. I don’t like to be in the way.”

George peered down the road, and could just about see a vehicle. A shiny little thing coloured a lot like Ives’ suit.

“Alright then. I’ll call you if there’s any problems,” George bid.

“Please do, and consider the idea of getting some guests up here. Places like this can get awful lonely.”

Ives left and George headed back inside. He returned to his window, and could just see Ives heading to his car. The plume of smoke was gone, if it had ever been there, and the woods looked as quiet as ever, besides the light haze of bugs flying over the treetops.

The rest of the day rolled past, with George spending it mostly by his TV, and a short amount in the library. Every so often he’d stop at a window and look out, checking for movement. There’d be the occasional shifting form between the trees, but from this distance they could just as easily have been branches moving. As evening marched in, and while he was getting snacks for his next TV show, he heard a buzzing not unlike an engine. He stopped by the window again.

Something was off. Amber light spilled over the land in front of him, but that wasn’t unusual. The trees looked normal, the road looked normal. It was his garden that looked off. A nagging difference. He’d only had it a short time, but he was already beginning to memorise it.

One of the greenhouse doors was open.

George had checked each of them when he checked the garden, only finding sweet smelling flowers with automated sprinkler systems which had somehow survived all this time. He suspected Ives had done it. But checking each one, he’d locked them afterwards. And now the door was swinging on its hinges. Again, part of him suspected Ives, checking up on the plants. But… what was that?

In the amber light, he couldn’t be sure… Was that something moving around inside?

He hurried from the window, headed for the third bedroom, got the wrong one the first two times, found the shotgun, and hurried downstairs. He stopped at a window on the way down and…

…The greenhouse was empty. The evening light had faded, and in moonlight he could see through the glass. It was certainly empty.

He replayed the moment, but began to question what he had really seen. Maybe it was just the sprinkler system. The shadow hadn’t looked human. It had been more… wriggly than that. Maybe it was just the pipes.

With one last wary glance at the night, he gave up on his shows and headed to bed, the shotgun at his side the whole night.

* * *

The next day began quietly. He rose with the sun, and went down to have breakfast. But thoughts nagged at him. The house felt quieter than usual, which should be impossible. The heating was low, the furnace not great, and Ives had left only a small amount of coal. He’d have to go into town sooner or later, but preferably later. First, he had to settle his most nagging thought.

Grabbing his shotgun, he headed out into the garden. There was the greenhouse, its door swinging on its hinges. The padlock lay broken on the ground, and the glass of the door was cracked.

“Shit…” George muttered.

This wasn’t an accident. Someone had broken in. The flowers were destroyed, dirt everywhere. No boot prints or other markings, but who knew why they’d broken in. He couldn’t be sure there weren’t poppies or something in there. He half recalled poppies were involved in making heroin.

Clutching his gun, he moved back inside and found the phone.

“Hello, 911. How may we direct your call?”

“Police please.”

“Please hold.”

…

“Hello, this is Officer Hooper. How can I help you?”

“I think someone broke into my property last night. Could you send someone over to investigate?”

“Alright, sir. Can I have your address?”

“I live out at Colony Manor. It’s out in the woods, by-”

“Hold on, sir. Did you say Colony Manor? I’m not even sure that’s in our jurisdiction.”

“Well, this is where my phone dialled out to.”

“Hmmm…” the officer considered. “Hold on a moment, sir.” The policeman set down the phone, but didn’t put it on hold. George could still hear him as he called over a colleague.

“What’s the problem, Hooper?”

“Some rich knob up at Colony Manner. That’s like an hour outside the city.”

“Just go look, Hooper. Take someone with you.”

“Right, boss.”

The officer picked up the phone again. “We’re on our way, sir.” Then he hung up.

George sat and waited. Fifteen minutes later, he couldn’t just wait. The house was old and creaky, but every creak sounded like someone could be upstairs. It was a big enough house. There could be someone here and he might not even know it.

With that terrifying idea in his head, he grabbed the shotgun and started to search.

Room after room, he checked thoroughly, moving as quietly as he could to not alert the intruders. Room after room, he checked to see if anything had moved. But he honestly couldn’t recall where everything had been before. By the end, only the TV room and the kitchen could be confirmed as untouched.

After 45 minutes, fear had given way to irritation. The police were taking their time, and the search was fruitless. He’d started at the top and worked his way down, but found nothing. Now he was back by the phone in the entrance hall, right beside the stuck basement door. As a matter of curiosity, he gave the door a pull. It wouldn’t budge.

There was something though. He couldn’t see through the gaps, but a little air was getting through. Musty, stale, and grim air. Air with a hint of… something sweet? Sickly, saccharine air. Like the flowers outside, or maybe the smell of rot.

With a wince, he picked up the phone again.

“Hello? Mr Ives? It’s George.”

“Ah, Mr Honeydew. What can I do for you?” the bright voice of Ives answered.

“There’s a funny smell coming from the basement, and I still can’t get down there. You wouldn’t happen to know how to fix that.”

“How to fix it…” Ives thought aloud. “Well, it’s a little awkward if I’m honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what you’re smelling is likely… mould.”

“Excuse me?”

“There was a slight mould problem, or so I’m told. It’s partially why everything was moved upstairs. Have your guests been complaining?”

“Still no guests, and no. I think I’m going to have to get someone to look into this,” George sighed. Part of him wanted to complain, but another reminded him he’d technically gotten this house for free. As he considered his options, there was a knock at the door. “Thanks anyway, Mr Ives.”

“Anytime, George. Anytime.”

George hung up and let the police in. They didn’t seem best pleased, but they heard him out. They investigated the greenhouse and agreed it had been broken into. But, aside from that, they couldn’t find any evidence. With George confirming there was no one else in the house, and with a quick sweep of the garden, they left, not even giving a customary “Call us if you see anything else.”

George spent the rest of the day in his usual routines, and occasionally checking the windows. Tomorrow he would head into town. He was running low on food anyway.

* * *

A buzzing noise woke him up. Like a car engine, or more like a bike. It was nighttime, with him having fallen asleep watching a TV show. The TV had automatically turned off so the house was quiet… No. Almost quiet.

George went to the window and stared out into the dark. Clouds dappled the moon, but there was still some light. Amongst the shadows, shapes moved. Something along the road.

There were figures running towards the house.

George panicked. His heart was gripped with ice as the distant figures grew closer and closer. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like they were armed, swinging their arms wildly.

He ran to his shotgun and carried it downstairs. He stopped near the front door. He could hear yelling, like a charging battle cry. They were just outside the garden.

George remembered he hadn’t locked the gate again.

Retreating from the door, he readied his shotgun. The first figure hit the door, smashing a shoulder against the wood. He had locked it, luckily. But the figure kept bashing, screaming, roaring. This man, judging by the voice, was coming in sooner or later.

George had an idea. If he was getting attacked, he’d take the advantage.

Sneaking up to the door, he unlocked it with his key. He waited for the man to ram the door again, nearly buckling the wood, and readied his hand on the handle.

The man charged again and George opened the door.

The man stumbled through, toppled onto his front, and rolled across the floor. He rose like something rabid, frantic, his eyes wide and crazed.

“Whatthehell!” he snarled, advancing on George. “Whatareyoudoinginhereyoulittle-”

BANG!

George hadn’t meant to, but his finger had shaken on the trigger. The man had stepped a little too close and the finger flexed. Suddenly there was a hole in the man’s chest where some shirt buttons had previously been.

George looked outside, but there was no one else. There had just been one man. Seeing what he’d done, he called the police.

* * *

It took the police two hours to arrive. Two hours with a corpse in his lobby. He’d taken a cursory look, as much as he could handle with the gore, and guessed he was some kind of wild survivalist. Less a homeless lunatic, more likely a man out of his mind on some drugs.

When the police arrived, they assessed the scene, heard George’s story, and even traced down the road to where the man had first been spotted. Even so, they did not seem happy. Middle of the night, a man killed, and getting the call from the same owner of the really posh house. Simply put, they took against him. Even so, his story was sound. They could see the damage to the door, the tracks outside, and the timeline fit with when they got the call. With that, they took the body and headed back to the station.

A coroner who was with them did stop before they left.

“One more thing, sir,” he asked, clearly doing his best Columbo. “There were certain injuries on the body that your story didn’t cover.”

“What do you mean?” George asked.

“Bite marks. Some insect bites, but some bigger ones too. You wouldn’t happen to have dogs or anything, would you, sir?”

“No. I don’t have any pets,” George answered.

“I see, sir. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions.”

George watched them leave, and a thought surfaced in his unpleasantly stressed mind.

What if that man had been running from something else when he shot him?

George awoke late the next day, sleep deprived and stressed. There was blood on his carpet where the man had died, as if he needed some reminder it wasn’t a dream. It was enough of a reminder that he didn’t want to stay in the house today. With a tired step, he headed out, going to get in the car and-

Where was his car?

He stared at the empty space where his car should be. There were grooves in the soil where the tires had been, but no car. Had the police impounded it last night? No, he recalled seeing it as the police left. But now it was gone.

He went to the phone, called the police again, but could tell from their tone that they weren’t sending anyone. Not quickly anyway. His car had been stolen, and they would keep an eye out for it. That meant it was gone.

George walked back to the gates, weighing up if he could walk into the city. It seemed a flat no was the answer. Maybe he could call a cab? No. The fare would be insane. Maybe he could call Ives? No. He had already asked the man for enough.

He would just have to get by… somehow. Maybe he’d call Ives tomorrow instead.

As he turned to head back into the house, he eyed the tire marks again. Then he paused. Tire marks, but no tire tracks. Just stationary marks. If the car was gone, then somehow, it hadn’t been driven away. It had just… flown off.

George didn’t know what to make of it.

* * *

It was only an hour before George broke and called Mr Ives again. Not because of the want for a lift however. Over the course of the hour, he’d repeatedly heard that same buzzing noise again, like a motor or an engine. Each time he ran to a window, expecting to see his stolen car driving down the road, but each time there was nothing.

It was as he was headed to the phone that he heard it again. It was coming from below. From the basement.

“Hello, Mr Ives?”

“Ah, George, good to hear from you. How have you been?”

“Not great. But what I wanted to ask about was the basement again. I can hear strange noises down there. It’s like a motorised buzzing, like an engine or something?”

“Oh, that,” Ives fielded casually. “That’s just the remnant of the old heating system. Not all of it could be removed, so it does occasionally make a bit of noise. Sorry if it’s bothering you and your friends.”

“Still alone up here, Ives. Well, mostly. There was some kind of survivalist at my door last night.”

“How dreadful. Are you alright?”

“I am, at least,” George said grimly. “I don’t want to talk about it though. I did want to ask, could you come and give me a lift into town. My car appears to have gone missing.”

“That’s… odd. But unfortunately, I can’t. I’m swamped with paperwork, and will be for the next few days. Sorry, George. You’re on your own.”

And he hung up.

George spent the next hour fielding what he’d heard. He heard the pipes buzzing, and it began to ache in his brain. He stationed himself on an upper floor, but it hardly stopped the noise. He found himself staring out the windows to ignore it, and failing. As he stared however, he stared where he thought he’d seen the smoke the other day.

If the man he killed was a survivalist, then that must have been there camp.

He thought it time to check on the neighbours, if it would get him out of the house.

* * *

It was twenty minutes’ walk to get there, and then another ten to navigate through the trees in the guessed direction. He’d seen a plume of smoke, he was sure of it, and so the camp would have to be approximately there.

And, as he rounded a large oak, he did find the camp… mostly.

It wasn’t quite the scene he’d expected. A survivalist camp, he’d been expecting a few tin pots, some bags, and a couple of tents maybe. But there was a caravan, four tents, benches, and a rather professional looking campfire, one with a proper rock border. There was also a fence surrounding the area, and a sign with a rental lot number on it.

“A campsite?” George muttered to himself. He’d been camping once or twice with the scouts as a boy. He hadn’t enjoyed it. This was clearly a commercial one.

His first thought was, he’d shot an innocent man. This was swiftly countered by the memory of the man manically trying to barge down the door.

Second thought, where was everyone else? Abandoned equipment, too much for one man, and the caravan left behind. And why hadn’t Ives mentioned it? Surely he had to know.

George decided he needed answers, but since he was alone, they would have to come from him. He inspected the area, drawing on every detective instinct he had from watching crime dramas.

To start, he inspected the car. It was covered in leaves, bird crap, and another six inches of leaves around the tires. It hadn’t moved in a few days. It also hadn’t left and come back. The leaves in front of it weren’t embedded in the tire tracks, just sitting neatly on top.

Seeing the tire tracks, he looked for how it had gotten in. There was a narrow, but passable road between the trees. And footprints. It hadn’t rained, and the earth was hard and cold. There were three sets of tracks, all heading off towards the road. They almost bounced off the side of the car, as if they’d tried to get in but given up.

A dark pit of dread settled in George’s gut. They’d tried to run. From what?

Thinking back, he thought he’d seen two others that night, running with the dead man. But when only one arrived at his door, he thought he’d imagined it.

Trailing back, he followed the tracks. They led out to the road, where they were lost to the tarmac, but that wasn’t a surprise. Instead he followed them back. They bounced off the car, and then converged, the trio having been scattered across the camp when… whatever happened actually happened.

He followed one trail. Two actually, as apparently a pair had been hanging out by a bench. The third had been by the fire. There was an abandoned bucket beside it.

“Last thing he did was put out the fire,” George assessed. The trail then led back to a chair, now tipped over. Sitting by the fire, someone got up and put it out… then started running for their lives?

It still didn’t make sense. George looked about, trying to put the pieces together, inspecting the ground. He stopped and stared.

There was a fourth set of tracks, and perhaps a fifth? The fifth, so called because it didn’t match the others, led into the clearing, towards the fire, and then just… stopped. The shoe-prints were thin and fancy. There was also a glass jar beside the end of the path, something sticky visible around its open rim. George could smell the sweetness of it without bending down.

Unable to make that fit any mental picture, he turned his attention to the fourth. He grouped this one with the others, wearing hiking boots and trailing back to a chair. But this one didn’t run to the car. It ran to the caravan, and didn’t look like it left again.

“Hello? Anyone in there?” George called loudly. The blinds were down, and he realised he’d been pretty quiet since he arrived. Someone could just be inside. “Hello?” he walked up and knocked on the door.

Something inside buzzed.

“Is anyone in there?”

No response. Just more of that buzzing and a strange clicking.

Taking his chances, he reached out and opened the door. The lights were off, but he could just spy a switch beside the door. He poked his head in, doing his best to look neighbourly, and with one hand switched on the light.

There was something in the caravan. There was a lot of something in the caravan.

There were bugs. Beetles, at a guess. Little, shiny, green and bronze beetles, each the size of a mouse, with pincer jaws and spiny little legs. And there were hundreds of them.

George backed away, trying not to make too much noise. His skin itched looking at the swarming mass. He’d seen a nature documentary once which featured a section on army ants in the jungle, where when they slept, they all bunched up into a living wall under some log. The documentary had called it a bivouac. A swarming, scuttling, writhing mass of ants, as much a fortress as a swarm, that come morning would swarm out across the forest floor and kill and dismantle everything in its path.

And anything that wanted to live would be smart to get out of its way.

George backed out of the caravan, keeping his eyes on the dormant swarm. As he stepped down, the caravan rocked, just slightly. The bivouac pulsed, buzzing angrily.

As it shifted, something moved. An arm poked out. A skeletal arm. The remains were buried somewhere inside the writhing mass. George leapt from the caravan and ran.

Like someone had poked… well, an ant’s nest, he began to spy the little beetles everywhere. Little green and bronze shapes, scuttling in the dirt and under leaves. Most were the size of mice, though some were as large as rats. Many of them opened their shells, revealed wings, and flitted about. A couple dozen were swarming over the broken jar.

George hurried back to the road, swinging his shotgun, ready to fire if any of the little things came after him.

As he left the treeline, he finally began to relax. Not by much though. He’d never heard of another species swarming and grouping together like that, and those beetles were huge. The words of the coroner flashed through his mind, asking if he had dogs.

“Bite marks,” he muttered. He shook his head. Sure, the bugs were big, but not that big.

The skeletal hand flashed through his mind.

He shuddered, hurrying up the road. Meat eating beetles. The police had to already know though, right? They investigated the man’s death… unless they just went back to the city.

Against his will, he imagined getting swarmed by those things. Tiny biting mouths, no escape, the little things pouring into a caravan…

He walked faster, to the point he almost fell down a cliff. The road up to Colony Manor was winding, with a few sheer ledges off the side, and he’d almost walked straight off one. He stopped, regained his balance, and set off…

Something red glowed at the bottom of the cliff. Between some rocks was a little red light. A break light.

It was George’s car.

George stared a moment in disbelief. Looking about, he found a way down, half clambering down the cliff. He could see from above there was no hope of retrieving it, not without a crane, but he’d left a few possessions in there, including his wallet. He mantled down the rocks and stopped at his car door.

The windows were broken, the axles shattered, and one wheel was missing. A write off. Still, he reached in through a broken window, managed to open the glovebox, and pulled out his wallet, a few other documents, and then reached in to retrieve his keys from…

They weren’t in the ignition. Of course they weren’t. They were still in his home.

Then how had it gotten here?

The detective part of him sparked to life again. No keys, the electronics looked fine so it wasn’t hotwired, and no screwdriver or anything in the ignition. The thieves could have pushed it down the hill, but the parking break was still on.

George paused. The parking break was on. How did they move it at all?

Unless something big picked it up and carried it, he joked to himself.

Strangely, he didn’t find that particularly funny. The idea itched in his brain. The car had come down the cliff, sure, but then… It was sideways. It wasn’t a long cliff either. If you’d have rolled it off, even at an angle, it would have gone straight or wound up on its roof.

As he thought, thinking down dead-end after dead-end, he breathed to calm down. A sweet smell met his nose. The same as the jar at the camp and… the smell from his basement.

Feeling distinctly ill at ease, George clambered up the cliff, and scurried back to his house.

* * *

The house was cold when he got back. Lights were off, the evening was coming in, and a chill lay over the house. But it could wait. George weighed his options. Call the police and have them ignore him again? Call Mr Ives and… have him do something. Just run and try and get back to the city by himself?

None of the options appealed. The image of the hand in the caravan rattled in his head, and even now he questioned if that was what he’d really seen. It could have been anything. Maybe an odd fork, or some equipment or… or…

It could have been a human hand.

George pressed his face into his hands, panicked and not sure what to do. He blew out a long breath, only to watch it crystallise on the air in front of him. God damn, it was cold!

Rubbing his hands together, he hurried to inspect the boiler. It was downstairs at the back of the house, just above and behind the basement. As Ives had described, there was an old furnace and a generator, the generator fuelled by petrol. The furnace was fuelled by coal and had gone dark.

George approached a coal scuttle and reached in with a provided trowel, heaping a few scoops into the maw of the furnace. He inspected the workings and found a few buttons which should, in theory, ignite it. He pushed buttons, pulled a lever, and then began inspecting the pipework. Finally, with one last crank, the furnace sputtered to life and began to emanate warmth.

…and then it groaned, croaked, and died, going dark again.

George looked closer. There were pipes which carried warm air throughout the house. There was one that was clearly a chimney. Then there was a last one which seemed to feed in oxygen, the pipe clearly leading somewhere outside. George tracked it into the floor, where it disappeared below, into the basement.

George fumed. He was stressed, and cold, and increasingly angry. Why had he come here? Why had he come to live at this blasted house?

Blasted…

The idea formed, and George left the room, heading back into the hall. He retrieved the shotgun, and throwing caution to the wind, aimed it squarely at the hinges to the basement door.

Two blasts followed, then he was out of ammo. But the door was in splinters and the rest could be pulled loose with ease.

The saccharine scent of mould washed into the lobby. Sickeningly so, it stuck in the nostrils and caught in the throat. Nausea rose in George’s gut, but he held it back. Finding a torch, he headed down the stairs into the basement.

George shone the torch. There were no electric lights down here, just little candle holders on the wall. The stairs were stone, as were the walls. The stairs descended a whole floor, then turned and opened into an enclosed, pitch-black room, which had a single pipe running along its ceiling, the furniture and equipment having been removed long ago.

George inspected the pipe. Something was dripping from it. A viscous, amber liquid. He would have guessed honey, bees having built their nest in the pipe, but a drop on his fingers smelt foul. He wiped it frantically on his trousers as his fingers began to sting.

He turned the torch around, trying to work out what to do about the pipe. It sat meshed into the clean stone ceiling, so it would be difficult to remove or…

Clean stone. The words lingered in George’s mind. Ives had said there was mould.

He turned the flashlight, looking for any signs. Black speckled marks, green growths, mushrooms. There was nothing. There was just the pipe, one long forgotten cupboard and…

Something in the middle of the floor. He’d initially taken it for a rug, but it wasn’t. As his torch settled on it, he saw it was actually a hole.

As he approached, he could tell it was the source of the smell. It was so sweet to be almost rancid, burning at his eyes like an onion. He shone down his torch. He then flinched backwards, yelping in terror.

It was an insect. A massive one. Six legs, green and bronze, and almost four feet long, it sat down in the pit. Still. Impossibly still. George dared to walk closer, and could see a split running up the thing’s back. A moult? Something that size?

George shook his head. He didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t believe it.

But he dared look again. There was more. Underneath it were clusters of lumps, like little groups of pimples. The word “clutches” crept inevitably to mind. Eggs.

The mental image of the eggs hatching put George’s stomach in his throat. The way the carapace above was cracked and broken, it reminded him of a lobster on a plate. A meal for the little ones?

Morbid curiosity was all that held him, when finally his eyes caught something else. One side of the pit was hollow. A cave, or a tunnel, which led out. Out under the mansion. Out into the woods.

George had a terrible idea he knew which direction that tunnel was headed. Finally, his stomach and mind won out, and he ran upstairs to be sick in the sink.

He had to get out of here.

He went to the phone and dialled Mr Ives. No answer. It was a landline, he was likely away somewhere, and it was late in the day. Still, George decided to give it one last go. He fished out some paperwork from a bag and found his father’s attorney’s number.

“Hello?” a tired voice greeted. “Please be quick, I was just headed home.”

“Sorry to bother you, Mr…” George read the name from the papers. “Mrs Quentin. My name’s George Honeydew?”

“Oh? Oh! You’re Barry’s son,” Mrs Quentin recognised. “How can I help you?”

“Yeah, it’s this house he gave me. I think I need to sell it. Like, immediately. I don’t know if legally I have to live here for an amount of time first, but-”

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” Mrs Quentin asked. “What’s this about a house?”

George felt his gut twist. “The house my dad left me. Colony Manor?”

He could hear Mrs Quentin tapping her fingernails. “Mr Honeydew, your father didn’t leave you any property. I should know, I helped execute his will and complete a full assessment of his assets. As I recall, he gave you and your mother very little.”

George’s gut twisted more. “I was told he didn’t know he had it. A man named Harold Ives said he’d inherited it, but that he had likely forgotten. Inherited it from some distant relative?” he clarified. It sounded absurd coming out of his mouth.

There was a pregnant pause. “Mr Honeydew, how much do you know about your father’s background?” she asked carefully.

“Um…” George searched his memory. “Not too much, honestly. He left my mother when I was eleven.”

“Right,” Mrs Quentin understood. “Well, I’ve never heard of this ‘Harold Ives’, but I can assure you that there wasn’t a spare property under your father’s name, inherited from a distant relative. He didn’t have any family save from you. He was an orphan, raised in the foster system.”

The twisting in George’s gut reached up to his heart.

“I don’t know who you spoke to, Mr Honeydew, but you really should-”

The line went dead.

George stared at the phone. He tried to hit the buttons for a dial tone, but got nothing. There was a sound, buzzing like an engine, maybe a car pulling up. His heart went cold and his courage failed him. He ran upstairs to retrieve a fire poker or anything else for a weapon. He made it to his bedroom and closed the door, picking up the poker, and stopping at his bed.

The buzzing was everywhere. Outside, above, below. It even felt like it was coming from inside his own head. It enshrouded him. He went to the window to look, and could tell there was a direction to the sound. It was coming from behind the house. Out in the woods.

A dark part of his brain guessed it was the direction of the tunnel.

He looked out, and despite it being night-time, it was like there was a heat haze over the trees. A shifting, changing, glinting mass. Glinting not like diamonds, but more like plastic or laminate. And the buzzing only grew louder.

With a slam, something smashed against the window. George fell back and looked up. He tried not to scream.

It was a giant beetle. Easily the size of his car, it scuttled heavily over the pane, its barbed feet scratching at the glass. Its shell was green, but its mandibles and underside were a dark bronze. And the mandibles were enormous and jagged, with a dozen tiny grasping limbs at the centre in place of teeth. The creature couldn’t turn its head, but an eye like a black marble swivelled in its socket. Its shell opened, and like a plane taking off, it buzzed away into the night… or more appropriately into the swarm. The gathering heat haze.

The dozens of other monstrous bugs which were now flying towards the house.

Survival instincts took over, and George sprinted from the room. Just in time, as he heard glass smash behind him. He sprinted downstairs, heading for the door. He’d run. He had to get out. He had to make it back to the city.

He sprinted for the front door, only for it to swing open as he approached.

Mr Ives was standing there. George stopped.

“You know, it is a shame you didn’t invite anyone up here,” Ives smiled, smoking a stinking cigar. “A feast was expected, but I guess a snack will have to do,” he grinned. From behind his back, he produced a jar filled with a viscous amber liquid. “My sincerest apologies, Mr Honeydew,” he said insincerely, still smiling, before throwing the jar into the lobby.

The jar shattered, the sweet stink filling the room. The bugs followed. They ignored Ives in his smoke cloud, and a half dozen surged into the lobby. One ate the jar whole, glass and all, while the others spied fresh meat and began scuttling towards George.

George sprinted back, running to the only room ahead, the kitchen. As he passed the basement door, he heard buzzing coming from below, mandibles coming up the stairs. He threw himself into the kitchen, and in a panic threw everything he could in front of the doors. The table, the chairs, the fridge.

Chitinous shells pounded at the door, buckling the wood, but not breaking it. There were windows, but the bugs didn’t seem concerned by them. Not the big ones anyway. He couldn’t see out for the smaller beetles, clouding over the windows.

As he looked about, the lights went out as the power failed. He heard the bugs scuttling through the house looking for food, wood creaking, legs breaking banisters.

And George bundled into a corner, not sure what to do, as the insects battered against the door.

* * *

Three days passed, and George was starving. He’d run out of food on day one, but the swarm showed no signs of abating. Little ones swarmed his windows, morning, noon, and night. The bigger ones would batter at his door if he ever made a noise above a whisper.

But he had a plan.

The last thing the camper had done was douse the fire. Ives always smoked those sickening cigars. Smoke. Smoke drove them away. He just needed smoke.

All he had was a dining table, a tablecloth, a broken fridge, and anything else in the kitchen. The power was out, so no electricity to start a fire, but he could find some flammable cleaning chemicals. All he needed was a spark. And there were matches for the gas hob.

Wrapping the tablecloth around the end of a table leg, he held it ready, a torch doused in chemicals. It would never last. It would never hold until he reached the city. But there wasn’t a choice. He had to go.

As he struck the match, a thought occurred.

If the bugs couldn’t get to him, where would they go?

The city wasn’t so far away.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Short Story: Three Bears

Word Count: 1086 (A short one)

(This one has more a creepypasta vibe)

Hi, my name is Jess, and this is why I don't throw Halloween parties anymore.

Three Bears

Hi, my name is Jess, and this is why I don’t throw Halloween parties anymore.

Three years ago, when I was 21, me and my friends were getting ready for a massive Halloween Party. I was hosting, and was going to turn my family’s house into a spooky mansion. In practice, it wasn’t that difficult. The old place is quite fancy, all marble floors and white painted walls. My parents are pretty well off.

So, a few fake cobwebs, some pumpkins, and my parents being away for the week, and we were set. Put the lights low and music loud, and we’d have ourselves a party.

I started making plans. Food, drink, the whole nine yards. I even decided to have themed costumes between me and my closest friends, Adam, Kerry, and Billie. We’d go as Goldilocks and the Three Bears and it would be awesome. Adam would be Daddy Bear, he always was the football type, plus he’s the only boy. Kerry would be Mummy Bear, because she’s older than me and Billie. And Billie would be Baby Bear, because she used to be a bit of a cry-baby. I tease, I do love her. And of course I’d be Goldilocks, duh.

Anyway, a couple nights before the party, Adam and Kerry bail on me. They tell me they’re going as something else, so I’m stuck high and dry as Goldilocks. But Billie, she’s ready and raring. She’s a good friend, always has been, but if I’m honest I wouldn’t say she was my bestie. She might even be more Kerry’s friend than mine. Anyway, she tells me that she’s made a bear costume and everything. She gives me an early preview and it looks good, great actually, with a proper head and body like a mascot costume. I wish the others had stuck to it.

So, plans are made, and everything goes ahead. Night of the party, I’m in my Goldilocks getup, and I start welcoming people in. Adam arrives and he’s dressed as a Ninja Turtle. Yawn. Kerry arrives and she’s dressed as Lara Croft. She’s totally trying to impress Adam. Then the party gets into full swing. But I don’t see Billie.

I’m circling the party, when I see Billie walk in. Everything’s a bit crowded, so I can’t get over to her, but I see she’s brought booze and some snacks, which is cool. I catch her staring at me, but I can’t hear her. With the music and that mask, I don’t think I could have heard her if she screamed.

Anyway, the night rumbles on. Everyone’s having fun, there’s a small fight, and I’m getting a lot of compliments on my costume. The dress is a little low cut, but who cares. I keep meaning to go over and talk to Billie, but can never quite get the chance. As the host, I’m just too busy chatting most of the night. As I’m chatting though, a few people bring up the “weird guy in the bear costume”. I tell them it’s just Billie. They don’t know Billie in the first place.

Later in the night, I hear more people complaining about her. She apparently smells terrible, and they’re a little creeped out by how she’s acting. But Billie has to be roasting in that thing, and she never was the most socially adept. Chess Club Type and all that. She mostly hangs out with us because she doesn’t have many other friends.

But the party keeps going. Around 9:00pm, I lose track of Billie. But I’m having a blast. Drinking and dancing are in full swing, I’m drunk, and then I see Kerry making out with Adam. I knew they were hot for each other.

Around 11:00pm, the party is winding down. We want to go through the night, but it’s a suburban neighbourhood. My parents would kill me if we got complaints from the neighbours. Not kicking anyone out, I slow the music, and the drinks are running out. But, somewhere in my drunken buzz, I realise something. There’s still no sign of Billie. But, remembering how easy it is to talk to people nowadays, I pull out my phone.

“Hey, girl. Where you at? I haven’t talked to you all night?”

“Sorry. Things came up. Tell you about it tomorrow. Don’t want to ruin your party.”

“What? You left already? Weak. BTW these cupcakes you brought are gross.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Billie, why are you playing? I can see you. I’m waving at you right now.”

“Jess. If I am at that party right now, you need to call the police.”

I lost track of “Billie” again as I stared at my phone. But I knew the real Billie would joke like this. I needed to call the police. I just didn’t know what to tell them. Fortunately, they arrived anyway. Billie had called them herself.

The police arrived and I talked to the officers. Needless to say the party was over. The police explained that Billie had been mugged during the day, knocked to the ground, and the mugger had taken everything she was carrying. Her money, her makeup, her bags.

Her Halloween Costume.

When the police interviewed the other guests, some described “Billie” as having a man’s voice, while others weren’t sure. The food they’d brought was seemingly homemade, with someone finding a hair in one. The cakes were also odd and grainy, so the police tested them, but found nothing, and nobody got sick. The house and surrounding area were searched, even getting sniffer dogs involved.

The costume was found half a mile away under a bush. There was no sign of its occupant.

Billie made a full recovery, with only a minor concussion. She told me about the mugging, and how it had happened so quickly. He just came up behind her and whacked her. Billie’s been pretty jumpy recently because of it, and Kerry and Adam keep talking about creepy it was that this man was there that night. For me though, that isn’t the scariest part.

The part that creeps me out is that Billie didn’t have an invite or anything. She didn’t need one, I invited people by word of mouth. But there had to be a dozen Halloween parties going on that night, all across town. Mine wasn’t even the closest one to where Billie was attacked.

How did that creep know to come to my house?

Anyway, that’s why I don’t throw Halloween Parties anymore.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Short Story: The Runner

Word Count: 1304

If you see someone chasing after your car at night, perhaps you should think about driving faster.

The Runner

Imagine you are at the edge of town, with the desert on one side and the bright lights of civilisation, gambling, and a good time behind you. Who knows why you’re there, but as you stand on the edge of the darkness you hear something. Fast footsteps coming towards you. You look around and see some figure running out of the darkness, so being the brave and sensible person you are, you turn and leg it back to some building. By the time you look back, whoever they were has veered away and disappeared.

You might have just encountered The Runner.

Also known as Speedy, The Running Man, and The Hunter, The Runner is an unusual sight in certain regions of the world. It is sometimes seen around desert cities, typically Las Vegas and similar locations. At night people report what appears to be a strange naked man running at a high speed in darkened areas. This can be running towards some isolated individual, stood away from the lights of the strip, or sometimes it can even be seen chasing after cars.

And should it come after you, you’d better hope you can get to safety.

Perhaps the most infamous story of the Runner belongs to Ethan and Marc. These were two young men who’d come to Vegas for a long weekend of fun and gambling. Of course, eventually their trip had to end, so they got in the car and went on their way. As they left the lights and began to approach the desert roads, Ethan happened to notice something strange. There was an odd looking man, standing obscured behind a lamppost. As Ethan looked back, he noticed the man had leapt out from his hiding place and had started running at an incredible pace, chasing the car. Weirded out, but amused by this, Ethan informed Marc, who was driving. The two assumed the man must have been some drug addict, with Marc saying in his own words, “It’s just some crazy crack head.”

As the car passed the last of the Vegas lights and entered the darkness of the desert, they paid the incident little mind. Not until Ethan looked in the side mirror. Just visible in the minimal light of the car and the moon, was a running figure. Ethan, now starting to get worried, continued to watch as the mysterious runner not only kept pace with the vehicle, which was doing forty or fifty miles per hour, but was actually gaining on them.

Informing Marc, the two became concerned, until Marc, still filled with the joy of his holiday, pointed out that it might be funny to film the man, so they could post it to YouTube. Ethan agreed and began filming the strange man on his phone, still entirely under the belief that he was just some drugged up lunatic, and they were safe in their car.

As he watched the man grow closer, almost coming up to the side of the car, he used his camera’s night vision to get a better look. The man was medium height, and appeared to be naked. In the lens of the night vision, details were unclear, but he also appeared bald and neither facial features nor his sexual characteristics could be seen. He did not appear particularly muscled, but was running in a classic runner’s pose, pumping his arms as he went. As Ethan looked, he noticed something strange in his camera. In the light of the car, the strange man’s eyes glinted like cat’s eyes reflecting the limited light. However, human eyes don’t do that.

Suddenly feeling a deep sense of primal fear, Ethan warned Marc that they should drive faster. Marc, seeing Ethan’s fear was about to agree, when he too saw the running man, who was now level with the backdoor windows. In the dim light of the car, the pale flabby skin of the man was visible, though much of him was still in shadow. The figure kept running until it reached Ethan’s window, where both men finally saw its face. While it looked mostly human, its mouth was strangely wide and clenched shut, but that did not distract from the brown of dried blood that was caked across it lips, chin and hands.

Both men panicked and Marc pushed down on the accelerator, and began to pull away from the strange figure, but this advantage didn’t last them long. As Ethan looked back he could still see the figure sprinting, now running at about sixty miles per hour, while not even seeming to breathe. As they watched the Runner begin to gain on them again, Marc put the pedal to the metal and went all out. Finally, the strange man disappeared behind them and into the darkness. Marc and Ethan began to feel safe, watching the darkness closely for any sign of their pursuer, though their blood ran ice cold when something began to emerge from the darkness again.

At the edge of their vision, The Runner had appeared again, though now it seemed to be struggling to keep pace, leaning forwards as it sprinted. Marc kept driving top speed, which was 100 miles per hour. Again The Runner appeared to start to fall behind, but as it did it leant further forwards, until it was near parallel with the ground. Then, with a frightening leap, it dropped to all fours, it’s movement somewhere between the scuttle of a spider and the gallop of a horse. As both men watched the frightening thing, a noise caught their attention. It was the engine. A grinding and groaning from under the hood, and soon enough the car began to slow. While the engine still worked, it was clearly not built to actually travel at that speed for long periods, and thus slowed as the engine strained.

As they slowed, the frightening runner rose back to two legs again, and continued to gain ground. As the two men watched in horror at the approaching monster, a light of hope finally appeared. The glow of a small roadside hotel ahead. Marc kept up his speed, planning to head for it and run inside. As they drew close, the engine close to failing, the lights of the hotel parking lot began to reach them. As soon as it did, The Runner veered away, running off into the desert and out of sight. Marc finally allowed the car to slow, and brought it up to the front door of the hotel, despite ample parking elsewhere. Neither man would leave the vehicle, not until the hotel manager appeared, and seeing their frightened faces, seemed to understand, telling them that “It was gone.”

The two spent the night in the hotel, hearing a few stories of The Runner, and how it never followed people to civilisation. In the morning, the two men set off again, with a kind escort from the hotel handyman in a second car. During daylight there was no sign of their pursuer, but even so neither Ethan nor Marc have been back to Vegas since.

So, if you happen to find yourself in Vegas, and see some strange figure chasing in the rear view mirror, then I have a single piece of advice for you.

Go back.

Turn around and find a police officer, but whatever you do, do not stop. In every given report of The Runner, as soon as the car or person has entered a populated area, even if it’s quiet, it will stop chasing and run away.

And, with over thirty separate reports of these events over the years, you have to wonder why there aren’t any stories of what happens when it catches you, and why, every so often, an abandoned car is found by the roadside, and the owner never found.

Good night.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Short Story: House Number Seven

Title: House Number Seven

Wordcount: 707 (Quite a short one)

Someone new has moved onto the street.

House Number Seven

A month ago, someone moved into house number seven. Now, our street is a quiet little place, all fresh cut lawns and white picket fences, where everyone knows everyone. Up until six months ago, the house was occupied by Mr Johansen, but unfortunately the poor man had to go.

His replacement was a strange old man. Dark clothes, a scraggly beard, long hair. Through gossip, we learned his name. Nate Garrot. He was a quiet, strange old man, who kept to himself, and just worked on his garden. We’d see him at all hours of the day, anywhere from dawn till dusk, working away, turning the soil, digging things up with that shovel. He occasionally went away for weekends, but would never tell us where when we asked. Other than that he was always in that garden.

Mary, his neighbour at Number Five, apparently tried to talk to the strange man. She says he looked at her like the devil, and the moment she came within a foot of his begonias, the coot snipped at her.

Needless to say, she wasn’t pleased.

About two weeks ago, the sheriff turned up. Now, he isn’t actually the sheriff, just a local sergeant, but he only lives a street away so he’s always popping around to see us. Well, by then a few of us had spoken to this odd Mr Garrot, so we asked The Sheriff to go talk with him too. Sergeant Fester, for that is his name, came back smelling of whiskey. The Sheriff never did have the best constitution when it came to bribes.

And there he is, Mr Garrot, tilling his garden as always.

Things weren’t like this with Mr Johansen. Now, he was fun, once upon a time, turning up to bake sales and church fates. Maybe a bit too jolly at times, with his drinking. But then young Carly Johansen died. Doctor Wilkes, he’s married to Mary, told him it was an overdose. He wasn’t very joyous after that. More somber, and at one with god.

This Mr Garrot doesn’t seem a god fearing man. He curses, and blasphemes. And then, once in a while, we’ll see him come out and bury something in his garden. He never explains what when we ask.

A week and a half ago, The Sheriff was around again. It was bad news this time. A boy had gone missing. We all said we didn’t know where he was, but we suspected Mr Garrot. Him and that garden.

It was little Jason Tyler who’d disappeared. Lives at Number 12. Always snooping around people’s gardens, and knocking over post boxes. You could imagine him falling into Mr Garrot’s dug holes. His mother’s a tramp too, but at least she stays indoors. Her paramours meanwhile…

The Sheriff began an official investigation. He took Mr Garrot down to the station and asked him all sorts of questions. Meanwhile a few other officers searched his house, his shed, and that hideous greenhouse he has. Then they searched the front garden.

And right enough, there he was. Jason Tyler. Buried just a few feet down, with a trowel jutting out of his neck. Well, Mr Garrot was arrested and set to be locked away.

But a day later, he reappeared. Back on the street. He wasn’t sitting in his garden anymore though. That was still a crime scene.

Mary got talking to him, and he explained what happened. The police questioned him, but he claimed he was innocent. A likely story. But when The Sheriff asked him where he was when the boy died, he revealed he was away that weekend, visiting his son. The trowel wasn’t his either, and he could even produce his own when pressed.

With no further evidence, he was released, pending further investigation. We all still think there’s something wrong with him though. Not our sort, not for our street. And now Mr Garrot keeps looking at us, those devil’s eyes scrutinising. It’s sad really.

Mr Johansen was much the same when he found the nightshade in his daughter’s weed stash. And there she was, thinking we couldn’t smell it on her.

Well, I doubt Mr Garrot will be living here for much longer either.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

My first ever Fanfiction. And it's of Discworld.

Because of course it is.

Discworld Fanfic: The Other Trouser Leg

Based on Jingo, it tells the story of the other Vimes.

Wordcount: 3065

In Jingo, Sam Vimes' Dis-Organiser begins to malfunction, getting confused and giving him the schedule of the Vimes who stayed behind in Ankh-Morpork. He hears the horrors of what could have been. He hears as the Dis-Organiser reports the deaths of his men.

But, in theory, another Vimes would have gotten his schedule. A Vimes who was having a much worse day.

Please enjoy this tragic fanfiction.

The Other Trouser Leg

Vimes wandered down the street, puffing on a cigar. It wasn’t his usual walk. And even if it was, it hadn’t been for a while. The ceremonial truncheon in his belt saw to that. But someone needed to make sure this all didn’t go to-

Bingley-Bingley-Beep

Vimes groaned. “What is it now, you blasted thing?” he swore as he pulled out the Dis-organiser.

“6:34am Meeting with 71-Hour Ahmed in ruins of Tacticum,” the demon wittered, though it sounded unsure of itself.

“What are you on about?” Vimes stared at it. “I’ve never even heard of Tacticum, and why would I be meeting with that madman Ahmed?”

“Um… I don’t know…” the demon confessed, then went back inside the box.

Vimes put it away and got back to what he was doing. Organising the supplies to build defences. Someone had to, and Vetinari was gone, Lord Rust was abroad, thankfully, so there was only The Watch Regiment left to oversee things.

Captain Carrot, meanwhile, had essentially left by himself to get Angua. He’d come back to inform everyone of the mission, unlike any other valiant rescue in history, but Vimes had let him go. He’d wanted to follow. He’d been moments from sodding this whole war effort and leaving. But someone reminded him he was needed here. He was Commander of the Watch, and both Sybil and Carrot said he needed to delegate more.

So he had. Carrot would rescue Angua. Meanwhile he’d stay and look after Ankh-Morpork.

The decision didn’t sit right though. He should have been in the thick of it. Going after his corporal. Going after that bastard Ahmed. And the damned Dis-Organiser hadn’t been working all day. Less than usual. It was like it was giving him someone else’s appointments.

It was strange too, because Nobby and Colon had gone missing. So, with all his best men down, though best felt like an odd term, he had to take up the command himself.

So much for delegation.

“Alright!” he yelled to Detritus, who was carrying an entire cart of lumber rather than pulling it. “You, put the wood over there. We can make barricades along the roads.”

“And what should we be doing, sir?” said the smooth voice of Constable Visit beside him.

“Keep fighting to a minimum before the actual fighting starts,” Vimes commanded. “People might not be happy we’re blocking up their streets. And you, Littlebottom.” He looked around, then looked down.

“Yes, sir?” she answered.

“Make sure the barricades are being built. We put some of the dwarves on it, but you know how ornery they can get.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed and hurried off.

Everything was going to plan… and that worried Vimes a little.

* * *

The barricades and many other defences were built. Fences and walls and barriers. It all looked a bit ramshackle, it was Ankh-Morpork workmanship after all, but hopefully it would hold.

Vimes wasn’t massively hopeful. All the same, men and women milled about, weapons readied, as Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler went about selling sausages to the troops. Some of them were even nervous enough to buy one.

Bingley-Bingley-Beep

Vimes groaned, but took out the Dis-Organiser anyway. “What is it now?”

“7:00am. Charging the armies of Klatch and Ankh-Morpork,” the demon said, stuttering slightly.

“But we’re Ankh Morpork. Why would we be charging ourselves?” Vimes asked, hoping to make the demon see sense.

It didn’t. The imp merely flapped its mouth a moment, scrunched up its lips, then gave up and vanished.

“Bloody thing,” Vimes cursed.

“Commander!” came a cry from the docks.

Vimes hurried down, not quite running, not quite strolling. It didn’t do to show how nervous he was. He even lit a cigar to show how casual he was being. Remarkably, it wasn’t an attack. A boat had pulled up to a jetty by the river gate. A boat with two occupants.

“Good morning, Commander Vimes,” Captain Carrot greeted brightly, stepping off the boat. “How goes everything here?”

“Captain?” Vimes stared in befuddlement. “What are you doing back?”

“Oh, mission accomplished, sir,” he said officially. Behind him, Angua stepped off the boat.

“But… how?” Vimes spluttered. “She was on 71-Hour Ahmed’s ship, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, sir. But when I got to Klatch, she was waiting by the shoreline. Says a metal spike poked through the bottom of the boat, she broke free, then she swam to shore. Ahmed’s people never came after her.”

“Wish he had, the little…” Angua trailed off, rubbing a red band on her neck.

“Well… Impressive, Captain. And you too, Corporal,” Vimes floundered.

“Thank you, sir,” the pair answered.

“Now, if we can just tighten up everything, we might be-”

“Sir?” Captain Carrot held up a hand politely.

“What is it, Captain?”

“We might have been spotted as we left Klatch,” Carrot said worriedly. He pointed out to sea. “It seems they might have followed us.”

Vimes followed his finger. He stared out to sea. The cigar fell from his mouth.

The horizon looked like a small forest. One in winter without a single leaf, as a field of masts poked up over the horizon. Hundreds of them.

* * *

Bingley-Bingley-Beep

“Everyone, fall back! Get to Sator Square! Shore up the defences!” Vimes yelled.

“7:48am. Meet with Prince Cadram and Lord Rust.”

“Just shut up, you daft thing!” 

It had all gone wrong. It had all gone wrong so quickly.

The boats had arrived on mass, with Morpork’s own navy having left with Lord Rust. Nets had been put up to stop them at the river gate, but the Klatchians cut straight through. The people of Ankh-Morpork were used to a scrap, but that was mostly broken bottles in taverns. Actual organised fighting was outside their comfort zone, and it showed. People ran, abandoned their posts. Others got stuck in, and immediately killed. The Klatchians were organised. With a shout of Klatchian words, presumably “For Prince Cadram” or some such, they were in the ports, in the streets, and cutting down anyone in their path. Vimes had been forced back with everyone else, fighting his way up Peach Pie Street with a sword and his ceremonial truncheon. The Dis-Organiser had also taken that moment to say he should be fighting enemy soldiers alongside 71-Hour Ahmed, so now he was sure it was broken.

But every armed man had met the Klatchians at the river gate. Now every armed man was falling back, with Vimes desperately trying to hold everything together.

Sator Square was a good gathering place, but it wasn’t exactly a defensible position. Too many entrances, too many paths, too many rooftops. But as soldier and civilian alike ran for their lives, it was still a good place for everyone to gather.

There weren’t as many people as there should have been.

“Alright everyone, we can hold our ground,” Vimes called to everyone. “Carrot, Angua, make sure there’s a man on every road in. Warn us if anyone’s coming. Detritus? If you hear someone call out, open fire. That should scare them.”

There was a clang as Detritus saluted, then he hefted his siege bow into the best spot.

“Everyone else! Build up those barricades. We need a way out, so suggestions are welcome.”

He had run this way hoping for a better way out. Perhaps to head into the Unseen University. Unfortunately the gates were sealed. Locked, bolted, and likely enchanted. Wizards didn’t do war, and that may have been a good thing. The palace was the next best bet, but that was some distance. Then there was the Watch House, but it would be a bit cramped with so many. But in terms of buildings they could defend…

Bingley-Bingley-Beep

“Thing to do today: Arrest Enemy Armies.”

“Enemy sighted!”

THWACK

Detritus had done as instructed, and fired a bolt like an oar down a road. The Klatchian at the other end would have been pinned to the wall, if the arrow had stopped. It was likely two streets over by now, even as Detritus reloaded.

“Fall back!” Vimes yelled. The Watch House it would have to be.

A crowd of terrified people, and rightfully nervous soldiers, and even more anxious guards all hurtled across town. Klatchian patrols surged along parallel streets, the sights of scimitars and turbans down most alleys. Vimes stopped at the Watch House door, and funnelled people inside. A few civilians, though most kept running. Some of the soldiers, though many were dead. Each of The Watch fled inside, some dragging injured people with them. Detritus was last, firing one last bolt up the street, and taking out eight men with one shot. Once the troll was in, Vimes closed the door and barred it.

This wasn’t a plan, hiding in the Watch House. They should be out there helping. But they’d really be out there dying. He counted off his corporals, his sergeants, his captain. Still no sign of Nobby or Colon, but there wasn’t time to worry. He just had to hope they were safe.

He even hoped Nobby was safe. It was an odd realisation.

He got back to the problem at hand. The enemy were literally at the door. Part of him cried out that they shouldn’t have an enemy. That Klatch was no better than them. But this thinking wasn’t helpful right now. He stressed for a plan. He needed a plan.

The wood of the front door began to bend, as shoulders battered it from the other side.

“Dorfl!” he called out. “Hold that door shut!”

“Yes, Commander,” the golem appeared, pressing his clay body against the door.

“Cheery?” Vimes beckoned.

“Yes, sir?” the dwarf emerged from a side room, axe in hand.

“Anything alchemical we can use? Burning, acid, lightning if you can make it.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” She darted into her lab, which was an old latrine.

“Carrot?”

“Yes, sir,” the Captain was helping some civilians who’d followed them in.

“You’re one of our best fighters. Any weapons you can find. Arm everyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Angua-”

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Force ceasefire of Klatchian War.”

“Would you shut up?!”

CRASH!

There was a smashing sound. The sound of masonry. Brick and stone and-

BOOM!

The door to the alchemy lab exploded, the wall behind it demolished. A small shape, axe still in her hand, launched through the door and landed with an unpleasant crunch at Vimes’ feet. There was a dent in her helmet like a hammer had hit it.

“Sir…” she gasped, as the last air left her lungs.

“Cheery!” Angua screamed.

“You make big mistake!” Detritus roared. As he charged, three Klatchians came through the broken door. One of them was about half the troll’s size and wielding a sledge hammer.

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Welcome Vetinari for peace talks.”

“Detritus, wait!” Vimes yelled. But it was too late.

Detritus charged and grabbed the two men to either side. The one in the middle leapt clear. He then reeled back his sledgehammer and brought it down on Detritus’s skull.

“NO!”

Bits of stone fell like shrapnel to the floor, as Detritus collapsed onto the last man, crushing him. But there were more. A dozen more, all pouring through the gap.

“Upstairs now! Everyone!” Vimes yelled.

Everyone sprinted up the stairs. Surging past him, he counted them off as they passed. In the lobby, he saw Reg Shoe struggling to help Dorfl with the front door, only to get pinned to the wall with a scimitar, which barely seemed to inconvenience the man. Constable Visit came sprinting, a sword in one hand and pamphlets in the other. An arrow whistled past his ear and embedded in the stairs, with Visit veering to avoid it. He missed the stairs and wound up around the corner… where there were more Klatchians.

“Sirs, have you considered leaving your false religions and accepting the love and care of Om?” Vimes heard him say.

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Watch Captain Carrot’s Football Match between Klatch and Ankh Morpork.”

There was a gurgling gasp.

He’d been trying to convert them to the end. Vimes could almost respect that.

“Dorfl!” he yelled to the golem.

Dorfl answered, moving away from the door to follow. This proved a mistake, as the door collapsed and three men with hammers followed the golem in.

“Behind you!”

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Meet with Sergeant Colon and Betty.”

The hammers came down and took off Dorfl’s arm. He kept fighting, but two hammers took out a leg. As he balanced, the three hammers synchronised and met either side of his ceramic skull.

“Blast it all!” Vimes swore and sprinted upstairs, Klatchians hurrying towards him.

He hurried up a flight and found Carrot and Angua waiting. They had a large table, and bookcase, and pushed them down the moment Vimes was past. The furniture hurtled down and crushed three Klatchians on their way up.

“Where now, sir?” Carrot asked, somehow not sounding panicked.

“I… I don’t know. Up. Out my office window,” Vimes guessed. It had all gone so wrong.

They sprinted to the top floor, and towards Vimes’ office. Below, the bookcase had been made short work of, and the table thrown aside. Footsteps were running up behind them, and as they rounded a landing, a stray arrow flew up from below. It caught Angua across the arm, sizzling as it did.

“Silver! Bloody silver!” she swore. “71-Hour Ahmed had it too. They’ve done their research.”

“You two, get in there. I’ll hold them off,” Carrot said calmly. In the confusion he’d picked up Cheery’s axe, which while usually quite the faux pas in dwarf circles, didn’t seem to bother him too much here. He’d also drawn his sword, wielding both, standing wide across the corridor.

“Captain! Don’t be a fool!” Vimes ordered.

The footsteps were getting closer. Carrot tensed and readied.

“Captain!”

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Return home to Ankh-Morpork,” the demon chimed like a death knell.

Vimes’ heart sank. He could see the horrible pattern unfolding around him. Carrot turned, gave him one last nod, and then charged at his approaching enemy, screaming like a dwarf.

“Carrot!” Angua leapt towards him, only to find Vimes’ arm around her waist, dragging her into the office. She struggled, but he threw her in, then bolted and barred the door with a chair.

“We need to go,” Vimes growled, marching to the window.

“But Carrot-”

“He’s dead. They’re all dead,” Vimes hissed. “They’re all dead because of that damned island. Because of this damned war. Because of-”

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. To do today-”

“AND YOU CAN SHUT UP AND ALL!” He hurled the Dis-Organiser at the wall, its case splintering against the brickwork.

He marched to the window and looked down. There were soldiers all over the yard, the street, and every one of them had gathered around the building. There was no way out. He looked back into the office, where Angua was on the floor. She looked like she should be weeping, but she was just staring at the door.

“That stupid, stupid, hero of a man,” she cursed him, eyes filling with tears. “Always having to do the right thing.”

Vimes slammed his hands into his desk. No way out. No hope. No survival. And then his eye landed on the Dis-Organiser. The broken, confused, annoying little…

Like a parting cloud, like the eye of the storm, he remembered. He’d been in this room. He’d had a choice to make. And after that, the Dis-Organiser had been wrong. Something about that moment. That choice.

He nearly didn’t stay. What if he’d have gone instead of staying?

They might still be alive.

Vimes breathed a sigh. In a way, being doomed felt quite liberating. No way of changing it, no more worries, no more reason to panic. There was just whatever life he had left to live.

But he did still have responsibilities.

“Angua,” he addressed, pulling her off the floor.

She couldn’t answer.

“I need you to get out of here. Find Sybil. Find Vetinari. Find anyone really, make sure they’re okay.”

“What about you? I can fight?” she tried to rally. She failed.

“With silver in their weapons, you’re as mortal as me. But you’re faster than me. You can get out that window and get away. I need you to find them, Angua. Maybe there’s hope yet.”

Angua went to argue, but couldn’t. She just looked him sadly in the eye.

“But what about you?” she finally said.

Vimes nodded. He looked over to the broken device on the floor.

“Dis-Organiser?” he beckoned.

“Y-Y-Yes, Insert New User Here?”

“To Do List.”

“Please enter To Do List.”

“To Do Today: Die.”

The machine gave a little affirming beep then fell silent.

Angua just nodded. As Vimes approached the door, there was a noise, and when he looked back there was a wolf at the window. With its jaws it threw open the window and leapt out onto the sill, and then along until it could jump to another house. Arrows flew up at it, but none met their mark.

Vimes turned back to the door. The wood buckled. Vimes readied his weapons. Finally, in a surge of splinters and blades, Vimes met his enemy.

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. To Do Today: Arrest Vetinari.”

COMMANDER VIMES?

Vimes looked around. There was a body on the floor at his feet.

“How did I survive that?” he wondered.

YOU DIDN’T.

Vimes looked up. He looked up into hollow sockets and tiny blue pinpricks.

“Oh. I see.”

I BELIEVE THAT YOU DO.

“I guess that’s it then,” he accepted. “Tell me, are Sybil and Vetinari alright? Nobby and Colon?”

THAT ISN’T REALLY MY DEPARTMENT, MR VIMES.

“No. I suppose it isn’t, is it… But that means you haven’t seen them recently?” Vimes said hopefully.

NO, BUT THIS HAS BEEN QUITE A BUSY DAY. I WOULD LIKELY STILL REMEMBER THEM THOUGH.

“That’s good. That’s good,” Vimes sighed, as his form began to fade. “And what about that other Vimes? The one the Dis-Organiser was talking about?”

TIME AND SPACE ARE QUITE ODD, COMMANDER. WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN BUT WASN’T. AT LEAST NOT HERE.

“But is he alive?”

OH, I BELIEVE SO.

“And he ended the war?”

IN A SENSE, YES.

“And did he live happily? With Sybil?”

IT IS NOT MY PLACE TO JUDGE, BUT I THINK SO.

“That’s good,” Vimes accepted. “That’s good too.”

Finally, his form faded, and Death moved on to the next person in the building.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

I do love Two Sentence Stories when they're done well. They're seemingly simple, but can also be very deep.

The first sentence establishes something.

The second sentence makes you reassess the first line.

And through that, it can create context, a minor narrative, or just let the brain run away and fill in the gaps. All with just a couple sentences, and preferably a subversion of expectations.

I know it's a bit of a joke medium thanks to the bad ones on reddit, but it still impresses me how people can say so much with so little.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Two Sentence Horror: 08

Water rushed and air rushed out.

I did warn them.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Two Sentence Horror: 07

They say you shouldn't be scared of something's that not there. These people have clearly never noticed the absence of a parachute.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Two Sentence Horror: 06

There's a door in my basement I've never been able to open. Someone's been knocking for the past three days, and they're getting quite insistent.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Two Sentence Horror: 05

You'd have thought the train hitting the bus would would have been the scariest part. Knowing the train tracks were half a mile away across a suburban neighbourhood might have been worse.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Two Sentence Horror: 04

Dentistry is a tough profession, and people having too few teeth is a common problem. Someone having too many is less common, and seeing what's stuck between them may lead to a swift change in careers.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Two Sentence Horror: 03

A smile and someone holding your hand is usually a nice experience. When you work alone in a morgue, it feels quite different.

[writing-with-lamura-dex]

Two Sentence Horror: 02

Seven men went into that house. What came out could only be described in fractions.