The Flying Torpedo

A torpedo cloaked in smog floated across the sky, assisted by the hymns and hums of propellers drowning out the screams of the smog-slinging exhaust. That metal-cladded balloon roared across the sky, ripping clouds with a whale-like wail as the metal machination lowered. 

On the ground, soldiers ran from the barracks, disturbing the ash on the grass. The soldiers ran towards their artillery kicking up soot, masking their paths.  The rest stood starting ; watching raw metal pierce the clouds. The artillery cranks and clicks to it’s position, awaited for their cue. The metal amalgamation descended past the clouds, unveiling the flag plastered across its side—the Union Jack. The soldiers lowered their arms.

The torpedo rumbled and roared, rattling the bullets and artillery shells littered across the soil. Its legs hissed as it extends, squashing blackened trees and makeshift mounds. A gaggle of growls grew louder and louder, palled by dust and soot.  A volley of jeeps emerged from the cloud; most trackbeds were empty but some carried cages. 

The torpedo’s propellers’ hums and hums quelled. Its bottom basket unveiled, hissing as its metal-slope injecting itself in the soil. A myriad of men, stood at its bases as one man took the lead, heading towards the jeeps. Some men followed, others were running equipment down to the jeeps; most trackbeds were empty but some carried cages. 

The torpedo’s propellers quelled, as its bottom basket unveiled. Its metal-slope injecting itself in the soil. A gaggle of men stood at its bases as one man took the lead, heading towards the jeeps. Some men followed, others were running equipment down to the jeeps.

The foreman was quipped with a slim stash and cargo coat. He strode to the first jeep where a man stood wearing his camo garbs and his Colonel patch. The Cargo-Man approached the sergeant, “Good evening, you must be Colonel Shaw, I presume?”

“Correct, and you’re Captain Grimm?”

“In the flesh. We’ve got a couple of supplies for your troops.” Grimm waved in a lady from the back, “This is Julietta, our secretary. She’s like our sister, so don’t have your men rough her up.” Julietta was wearing her cargo garbs same as the men but instead wearing a black ankle-long skirt.

Shaw eyed Julieta’s scrawny build, “I see the draft got you. They didn’t deem you suitable as a medic, am I right?”

She spoke in a soft tone, “Yes sir. I ain’t good with blood, so I had to serve the queen’s empire another way.”

Shaw laughed “Like me guess you’re a city folk with a family farm!” Before she could respond, Shaw signed for some guards to come, “My men will guide you to our headquarters. You’ll fill out the paperwork there.”

Julietta followed the men; playing friendly with the overly too eager soldiers, and using her folders to cover up the men’s gazes.

Captain Grimm spoke up, “Without further of do, from what I was able to gather we’re just taking some personnel home, am I right?”

“More or less.”

“Very well then, we’ll be making sure your men will get home safe.” Grimm extends his hand.

Shaw shakes it, “F.Y.I., I’ll be on the ship too, so I’ll be keeping an eye on my men..” Grimm just grins along. 

“Well, depart in a few days. That should be more than enough time you get everyone on board. If you have any questions ask me or Julietta.”

Four days passed, The Captain and Julietta stood the loading-dock; through the fog eyeing the remaining jeeps rolled by hoisting: letters, mail, and other miscellaneous items the soldiers wanted to send to their loved ones. Behind all the jeeps, there was another headlight higher looming over; an alter convoy truck, with exposed cage at the back, with other jeeps following with an attached machine gun trained on the cage. Riding shotgun of the convoy truck was The Colonel.

Grimm picked up a walkie, “What’s the meaning of this, Colonel?! There was no mention of this!”

“Plans of changed buttercup, they’re goods like the rest. Your Secretary knows all about it, it’s accounted for.”

Grimm turned to Julie, “Is that true?”

“Yes sir, it’s accounted for. It was signed off by the Queen.”

Grimm picked up the walkie again “Alright, you can bring it on my ship, Colonel.”

“Glad to hear that you listen to reason.”

The truck convoy rode closer, with foreign prattle emitting from it. As they passed by, Shaw grinned at Grimm, maintaining eye contact till he fully passed by. Then the cage did, where men and women dressed in blackened tommy-uniforms, some of them were barely garbed just enough to cover their jewels. With a label brandished upon their cage “P.O.W.”

Grimm turned to Julietta, “Where are they putting them?”

“They’re bringing to England to integrate, some of them are political figures.”

“I didn’t mean that. Where are they going on my ship?”

“They’re going into storage. They’re going to stay in that cage.”

“There's got to be at least twenty of them, how are we going to feed them?”

“Don’t worry about that, we’ve got an extra shipment of food for them.” She showed Grimm the spread sheet, “You forget they’re prisoners, they don’t get fed much. Give them a smaller ration and the rest of us can have a greater meal.”

* * *

The hulking ironclad of the sky, heralding its lift off to all in earshot; stretching and screaming, metal bellowing as it vanishes into the fog. The rest of the men gather in the lounge, The crew mingling with the soldiers, over a game of crown and anchor.

The Banker wore the crews’ suit, with his shirt off exposing his oil stained A-shirt, which matched his oily hair. He sat in the middle, cheering on the grunts to join. Once they joined, he grinned, along with the other crewmates. The Banker waved in more and more, and with every new member he poured more oil in the lamp beside them. The swindle grew more and more till the Colonel was waved in.

The Colonel approached the Banker’s operation, “Seems there’s a good game here.”

“Yeah, it’s going great.”

Shaw looked at the game tin, which held many coins, “Seems like you’re making a huge profit.”

The Banker stuttered, “Oh that, yeah—we’ve made a lot. But it’s going to the first round of drinks, we’re almost there so—uh—why not join.”

Shaw grins, “Very well.” Placed ten pence on anchor.

The Banker was grinning as he rolled the dice, then it dropped; rolling three anchors. “You’re a lucky man.” The Banker gave Shaw his winnings: forty pence. The Banker collected the rest of his winnings. Which he then announced, “We made enough! Drinks ’s on me, Boys!”

Shaw grinned at the Banker, “Oh, why thank you. Shall I know the name of the man who bought me a drink?”

“Oh yes, I’m Henry. And yours sir?”

“Nice to meet you Henry, I’m assuming based upon your oily undergarment, that you’re a mechanic.”

“That’s right.”

“Oh pardon my manners, I’m Shaw, Colonel Shaw.”

Henry’s face dropped, “You mean the—the second in command?” 

“Correct private, you do listen to me swell as your captain.” Shaw paused, pointing at the game, “Are you aware, that what you’re doing is illegal gambling, that’s comes with a hefty fine by her majesty. I’m normally a cool guy, and don’t butt in. But! I won’t stand by as someone swindles my men. Do you understand Henry.”

Henry bit his tongue. “I’m sorry Colonel. Won’t happen again.”

Shaw leans in, whispering into his ear, “You see Henry, this can be water under the bridge, if, only if you give me half you earning. If you don’t, and I’ll know if you don’t, I would have to report this despicable scene. You understand, Henry?”

Henry nodded like a bobblehead, “Crystal clear Colonel.”

Shaw pats Henry’s shoulder, “Great! Now I’m going to get my free drink.”

Henry sighed, staring at the new ringleader. He slouched back, gazing upon the corridor, spotting The Captain. Henry shuffles his game away, and shooed away the men.

Captain Grimm, walked through the drunken soldiers and crew. Arriving at the center, announcing, “Seems like you guys are mingling well. I just want to run some house rules so everyone’s on the same page. I’m the captain of this ship, meaning I’ve full authority on this ship. Underneath me is Colonel Shaw,” Grimm pointed at Shaw—he stood up “Who’s still above everyone else, and can order you around. But he’s mainly dealing with diplomatic issues, and ordering his soldiers. And as you see his soldiers are in caring arms to deal with their mission—the rest of you don’t need to worry about. 

“Moving past that. We just reached altitude so it should be smooth sailing from here on out. We’ll arrive at our destination in a little over two weeks and a half. So in the meantime, enjoy yourselves. We’ve got enough food and booze for you all! Today spoil yourselves!”

The Crew and Soldiers lifted their glass yelling “Cheers!” and took a sip. 

The men resumed their festivities, with the chefs sling out dishes for the men. Grimm slithered through the crowd, making his rounds introducing himself to the new members; checking up on his crew. 

Grimm arrived upon an older overweight-man, Grimm placed his hand upon his shoulder, “Sorry Virgil, we didn’t get another janitor. There’s a lot more cleaning for you.”

“It's fine, it’s my job after all.”

“I didn’t mention it, but we do have some, extra guests, in cargo. So you’d’ve to clean up after them as well as your normal duties.” 

Virgil guest nodded, “By your tone, I’m assuming I’ve got to keep it under wraps?”

* * *

Virgil did his cleaning arounds in the zeppelin’s underbelly. Underneath the steel beams and metal sheets spanning the walls and roofs, all illuminated by dim oil-lamps or flickering electro-lights. The Janitor began his work, sweeping beneath the pipes, checking for leaks or cracks. Cleaning up dust and grime, while he investigated any animal droppings that may be on board. Spotting none, he headed to his new duty, the prisoners. He removed their toilet—a shared browned bucket—dumping it in the septic tank.  

Before wrapping up, he did another round. This time on the floor there was some: meat, vegetables, and MREs; scattered across the floor, half-consumed. Noticing a crate beside it, ajarred, nails ripped out, the wood partially marred. Virgil opened the crate, and inside, inside that crate of food was a void. Nothing remained besides scrap and crap. Virgil lifted his head up, watching shadows shift in the light, as each that passed, got extinguished. Virgil jumped back, waving his torch, illuminating what he could, but the shadow still moved. 

Metal clunked sporadically across the stage. Virgil’s hand shook, sweat poured from every gland. His breath became heavy, masking the creature’s breath. Virgil wiped his neck, clearing the sweat. Looking at his hand. It wasn’t sweat. He jerked back, flashing his torch behind him; seeing the creature’s face as it unleashes a crippling cackle. 

Virgil ran. The Monster followed on all fours, out pacing the man. Virgil arrived at the door, hearing the footfall throughout—taking a glance back, he saw nothing!

Virgil ran into the lounge, screaming monster! A crowd formed, he tried to explain but the soldiers all laughed, and so did his crewmates. Grimm was pulled to the commotion, calling Virgil into the bridge. It was filled with electronics, and analog steering, a small-few controlled their station. Shaw was within the bridge along with two of his men.

Grimm spoke first, “I’ve heard you saw something. What was it?

Virgil spoke but each word blended with the next.

Shaw snapped “What is it boy! Speak like a man, not a sissy!”

Virgil’s eyes dulled, his speech: quaking, “When I-I was cleaning up in the s-storage. I saw something, something I’ve never seen before.”

Grimm stepped closer to Virgil, placing his hand on his shoulder, “What was it my good friend.”

Virgil, slew down, trying to articulate what he saw, “It was a demon. I tell you!” Shaw scoffs. “You godda believe me! It was a creature of darkness! Running on all fours. It was one with the shadows. It wore a devilish grin, as it toyed with me!”

Grimm spoke up, “Where did you see this creature Virgil.”

“It was in storage, Captain. It ate our provisions. Nothin’s left in that crate. It must’ve stowed away within our food.” 

Shaw scoffed again, “You believe this bullshit, Grimm. This fat bastard is clearing making this up!” Shaw pushed into Virgil’s face, backing him away, “I bet you this is an excuse he devised so he could eat all our food!”

“Shaw! Leave him be.” Grimm pulled Shaw off Virgil “In any case we should investigate what happened. See if there’s any truth to what he was saying.”

“Very well. But if he’s lying, like I believe, we’re throwing him in confinement. We can’t keep a mad man onboard.”

Virgil jumped in, “I swear on my life, I’m telling you what I saw was real. If you still don’t believe me after I show you what happened, then feel free to lock me up!”

Shaw grinned “Very well than blubberbutt. I accept your bet.”

Grimm, Shaw, and Virgil looked around in the storage. Virgil led them to where he saw the monster and the rotting floor. There wasn’t a single speck of food on the floor. 

Virgil turned to Grimm “It was here I swear it. The monster must’ve ate the rest! That’s why it ain’t here! Check the-the food crate.”

Shaw and Grimm looked at the floor, not finding any vestiges. 

Virgil continued, “The wood should be busted, nails ripped out! And the food inside was gone!”

Shaw signed “You’re going to believe this guy, Grimm!”

“Get the crowbar Shaw. Even if it’s just a mouse, we need to check our rations—make sure it ain’t contaminated.”

Shaw went off cursing, grabbed and handed Grimm the crowbar. Grimm jammed it in, creaking the crate open, busting the nails. Popping it open, Grimm shoved the top aside, peering into the crate—perfectly pristine provisions.

Virgil’s eyes scattered across, searching the crate, “This Can’t Be!” Virgil lunged at the crate, sifting through the provisions, “This can’t Be!”

Grimm hoisted him off, “Quit it Virgil!”

“It can’t be.” Virgil jumps onto Grimm, “I saw it with my own eyes! You gotta believe me!”

“Calm down, mate. We’ll figure this out. But first take a rest, see your girl.”

Virgil ran out int the center of the storage, flailing his arms about, “‘ey! You shadowy cunt! Come get me, I’m right in the open! I know you’re here!” 

A few clicking rings out within earshot of Virgil. He shifts to the noise, seeing gleaming eyes in the abyss.

“I see you! You bitch! I’ve found him!” Virgil pointed towards the beast, “Shine the torch there!”

Shaw flicked his torch where Vigil pointed. Illuminating crates and pipes, and a layer of dust—undisturbed. 

“This can’t be! I saw it, swear it! I saw its eyes!”

Shaw mocked him, “Stare at the abysses long enough it’ll stare back.”

“That bastard was laughing at me! Didn’t you hear it!”

“You must be going mad, glutton. You heard the P.O.W.s.”

“I know what I saw!”

“Sure you did, chap.” Shaw’s hand crawled towards his revolver.

“Quit mocking me! I’m trying to save this ship!”

“And I’m doing the same.” Shaw ripped out his revolver, bashing Virgil’s head.

Grimm ran forth, catching Virgil before his head crashed, “The’s fucks wrong with you!”

“It’s the only way to shut up a mad man.” Shaw reholstered, “He’s a hazard, don’t want him stirring up troubles with his delusions.” He smirked, “Now, he’s easy to lock up. Surly, you don’t want chaos aboard your ship, Captain.”

* * *

Virgil awakens in a cage surrounded by crates blotting out the kerosene lamps. He ran to the bars, kicking over his bucket. “Fuck! Get me outta here! I’ll die down here! . . . Anyone!”

Virgil slips down to the splintering floor, listening to the creaking and clicking trying to determine if it’s the ship or the beast. Through those creaks and clicks, clacking ermergies—approaching. Virgil scrams to the back, trying to hide in the shadows.  Virgile shuts his eyes, as the footfall grew louder and louder; till coming to a halt.

“Virgil is that you? Are you okay?" said a feminine voice.

Virgile opens one eye, spotting Julietta. He ran to the edge of the cage, “Yes, it is my dear. You don’t think I’m mad like the others right?”

Julietta paused, “Have you gotten anything to eat?”

“You too? I thought you’d believe me. I wouldn’t joke about this kind of thing.”

“It doesn’t strike me that you’ll joke about this kind of thing.”

“Then what is it? You think I’m on opium?”

“God, no!”

“Than please believe me. You know what comes in and out of this storage. Check all the provisions. They’re’s one missing. It’s been moved and cleaned, since last I’ve been there. It would be empty and moved. Please Julietta, I’m begging you.”

Julietta signs, heads to the cage, placing her hand upon his cheek, “I’ll check just for you my dear. But in the meantime hold out.”

“I don’t know if I can, without you Julietta.”

“What a hopeless romantic you are. I’ll visit you everyday, how does that sound.”

“Terrific.”

“In the meantime, forget what you saw. If you claim you where on opium, and how it’s out of your system, the might let you out sooner. That’s you best bet, my love.”

Few hours later, Julietta brought food to Virgil. Dropping it off, she made her rounds of the storage. Checking everything with her clipboard. First checking the provisions locale, nothing stood out. She looked at the paint numbers, checking off each one she saw. The crates themselves were out of order, but besides that nothing out of the ordinary jumped out. Except there’s one provision crate unchecked, so she peers around. ‘Maybe it’s been misplaced? Or I just missed the number?’ 

Looking for a while, Julietta couldn’t find the crate. She circles in on the checklist, and heads for the exit. When a scream rang out. A feminine scream. Julietta’s scream.

* * *

A day passed, Grimm heads to the lounge; checking in on Henry, asking for Julietta. She wasn’t there. He went and asked the Chef—nothing. Grimm headed to Shaw, asking the same question.

His response: “That gal? No, I haven’t, what does it matter to you? She’ll probably banging some bloke as we speak.”

“She wouldn’t! She’s important role: she does all the paperwork; keeping track of what comes in and out.”

Shaw scoffs, “I’m sure there’s something coming in and out of her.”

Grimm brushed him off, “Ask your men if they’ve seen her!” 

Grimm storms off resuming his search; asking around the ship: no luck. Grimm waltzed into the storage, asking the guards—nothing. 

  Stumbling upon Virgil, he asked “How’re ya feeling Virgil? Sorry that I’ve to do this to you.”

Virgil just sat in a fetal position facing the wall; saying nothing.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness. When we land, we’ll let you out—It’s that shitty Colonel’s command.” Grimm walked around the cage, trying to get a better glimpse of his face, “Julietta has gone missing, have you seen her?”

Tears began to roll down his face “She’s dead! The monster got ‘er.”

“What?! You’ve see this with your own eyes?”

“No, but I’ve heard—heard her scream being cut short.”

“When was this?!”

“Yesterday, she came to give me food then wander around here.”

“What time!?”

“How am I suppose to know? I’ve been knocked out and  I don’t got a clock or sunlight to go off by.”

“We’ll get her back, Virgil.”

“There’s no getting her back. Just avenging her by killing that beast!”

Grimm erected, leaving Virgil to rot in his cell. Grimm did a quick look around, inspecting all that he could. Spotting no blood—excluding a few dibbles of Virgil’s blood.  

Grimm took a tangent, asking the guards posted by the P.O.W. holding, about Julietta. 

One guard spoke, “See nothin’ here mate. We’ve stayed here watching these vermin. But we do take shifts, I wasn’t present the whole time yesterday. If she was here it was during my lunch break.”

“What’s the other guard’s name!?”

“Wildes, sir.”

Grimm returned to Shaw who was extracting money from Henry, “‘ey! Shaw what’s going on here!?”

A smile slithered across his face “Just a friendly bet, no need to worry.” He turned to Henry, “Ain’t that right, Henry?”

“Yeah, lost a bet.”

Grimm took a pause eyeing them, waiting to see if they broke character, “Shaw, I need to know where’s Wildes?”

Shaw slipped off Henry, “Why’s that? Is he in trouble?”

“No, just need information.”

“Well, frankly, I don’t know. He has off today.”

“Well, ask one of your men to find him. Surely one of them knows.”

Shaw sighed, getting up; and walked away, “Very well then.”

Grimm turned his direction to Henry, “What’s going on here?”

“It’s nothing, like I said I lost the bet.”

“What was the bet about?”

Henry’s eyes darted around the lounge, “it was—uh—about, sorry I’m just trying to get the correct verbiage.” Henry’s eyes fell upon the half-fulled ashtrays “I betted him that the ashtray would be completely full by today—with his soldiers and all. And I’ve lost.”

* * *

Shaw rounded up his men in the barracks. They were all crowded around him; wherever there was space.

Shaw’s voice exploded, “Listen Men! I’m looking for an unattended man: Wildes. Who’s his battle buddy? And who has seen him last?” no-one spoke, “Speak up, Men! Or this cozy voyage home will be filled with training.”

A scuffed looking man exited the crowd, “I’ven’t seen him since he was off duty.” The man scratched his stubbled chin, “He told me that he was going to explore the ship.”

“Seems like you know him well enough,” Shaw squinted at the man’s nametag, “Private McGale, go find him and bring him to me.”

McGale slammed his boot together, saluting, “Yes! Sir!”

McGale departed. First he checked the commons, and every normal part a soldier might be. After finding nothing, he decided to check storage: nothing. He checked the upper deck—exposing himself to the helium. He let out a high-pitch yell—nothing. Nothing in the septics, nor water supplies, nor fuel room or any maintenance room. 

McGale roamed around again in the storage, this time checking behind the crates—and even jumping on top of them. From his vantage, he noticed a small gap encircled by crates. With the only entrance into the arena was through a small-parting facing the wall.

McGale dropped off the crates. Approaching the location he enters the earshot of mumbling prattle—like a fishing gasping for air mixed with a rat. 

Squirming through the enclosed crates’ gateway, his footfall became squishy and sloppy. McGale’s head shifted downwards, spotting thin puddle blood. McGale quit shimming through, and pushed the crates open. 

In his sight, was Wilde with his pants down surrounded by blood—missing a brain. In the back was Julietta, crying and praying simultaneously. Her clothes were disheveled and marred, exposing large amount of her skin. She used Wilde’s bloody jacket to cover up. By her side was Wilde’s revolver.

McGale cursed the sky, while snapping off Wilde’s dog tag. He looks towards Julietta, “What happened here!?”

Julietta didn’t answer, her eyes just stared off, completely disconnected to her surroundings. McGale shook her, repeating his question. She answered: “I-I d-don’t know?”

McGale snapped, saying while slinging spit, “What do you mean you don’t know!” 

“What happened w-was.” Julietta eye’s darts around. “T-that’s right! I-it was the monster. It came in from the sky, and with one swipe of its claw it went through his head in a second.” Julietta expanded her hands sizing up the claw, “its claw was two feet long, with its webbed arms like a bat swooping from above.”

McGale caressed his face, stretching and squishing his flesh. “Very well then. We’ll get a full write up later.” McGale spots the revolver near Julietta. He reaches over to grab it, only to be blocked by Julietta’s hand. McGale looks at her “Miss, you have to give me the revolver. Colonel’s rules.” 

Julietta’s hand retracts, and McGale grabs it. He inspects the revolver, opening up the cylinder, ejecting the rounds. The bullets clanked on the floor; with a few-higher pitch than the others. McGale crouches down and picks up two spent casings. He turned to Julietta “What’s the meaning of this miss?!”

“Oh uh—”

McGale glared at her “I know for a fact these were used on this ship. Don’t lie to me, Ms! Did you shoot Wildes!?”

“No! I didn’t! It was the monster I said, are you deaf!? The man was busy doing hor—” her body shivered and shutter “--doing horrid things to me. And when the monster got him, I grabbed the revolver quick and fired at the monster.”

McGale extends his hand to Julietta, “No matter what, you got to expand this to the higher ups.”

Julietta nods, taking his hand.

McGale hoists her up, guiding her out. As he does so, his eyes fell upon Wilde’s exposed cranium.

The Houdini Stuntman, The Immortal Stuntman, The Living Crash Dummy

It was the world premiere of Maxwell Robinson’s new film “Zack Frost III, The Oozing Spear” he’d gathered all the actors, crew, stuntmen; along with critics/reviewers. They had everyone in production wear nice classy suits and dresses, like we’re in some-sort of Victorian Galla, for the ‘public’s appearance’. But no-one really cares about stuntmen, so I came in jeans, a tee, and the movie’s stunt-team’s jacket. 

I was in some world-famous cinema that had massage chairs. I couldn’t care less for the movie, it was some coming of age superhero movie, that was all the rage. Robinson had the narcissism to think his little character would beat out Superman or Spiderman. We were up to the final act, I couldn’t bear to watch. I couldn’t bear to see my dying corpse impaled on a spire on the big screen. I have not gotten over it, it still played in my head every waking moment since The Accident. I left the screening, climbed my way to the top of the theater, overlooking Hollywood. I sat there grasping at my heart, as the memory came back:

It was a simple stunt, jumping off the roof of a cathedral onto a crash-mat. It was at night for no distraction (on top of that was the only time we got), and we lit the crash-mat so I could see where I needed to land. It was a breeze, I simply jumped, I could do a thousand times, I’ve got the distance. I’ve done a few preps, testing the run up as the cameramen were setting up. They took a while so I started dancing a little, watching the lights of Budapest flickering under the moon. The cameras were set up, filming be dancing a bit; then Robinson yelled “Action!”. I ran full speed, onto the roof and slid down the other side, and once I got to the end of the roof, I jumped. The tile my foot pushed off from, slipped off, causing me to undershoot. Plummeting towards another roof, I bashed against it, my momentum threw me off. This time I didn’t have time to react, and fell chest first into a spiral spire. I could hear the gasps and screams, coexisting with the spire piercing my heart. With my speed and momentum, I was skewed, and the hole stretched. My vision blurred, as I saw my blood seep down the spire, and stared at the film crew, watching the horror in all their faces as my vision faded to black. 

A few minutes later, I hear the panic of Robinson, and the paramedic on set arguing about what to do. Then I felt the cold concrete floor. Then my eyes open, staring at the clouds that travel to the cathedral, where my blood disappeared. I sat up grasping at my heart, feeling for the wound, nada, no wound, no scars, nothing. Just ripped clothes. 

At this time, Robinson noticed me, “Thank God! You’re not dead! Ab you’re not dead, right?” Before I could even answer. “You look fine! Strange, I see no blood, no wound.”

“I feel fine, I just need to rest.”

“Okay, Okay. But before you do that, go with the paramedics and have them look at you.”

I said “okay” and was swiftly swept away by the paramedics. 

The paramedics took me aside, checking everything they could, in disbelief. In a few minutes they were done, I was fine, then they called in Robinson. 

They were talking outside, The head of the paramedics spoke first, “I don’t know what’s going on, but the, the medical-checks points to he’s healthy. In tip-top shape, in fact.”

“This can’t be! We watched him die, he had no pulse, he had no heart! We’ve got it on video!”

“Calm down. Like I said we don’t know what happened from his death to now. In that time he got his heart back, and pulse, and blood. But maybe it’s worth looking back at the recordings to find out. In the meantime, give him time to rest.”

They weren’t all that quiet, but again anything can be heard through a tent. They were wrapping up, and before the paramedics came back, I left. 

Wandering around everyone stared at me like a deadman walking. I felt the confusing stares, and heard the whispering-gossip. I stumbled my way into the film crew cabin, where the scene was playing over and over again. I saw my body pierce the spire, piercing my heart. I saw the blood dripping from my corpse, leaking from my mouth, leaking from my wound. I couldn’t bear to watch it. I know I live, but I died. I know it. I can still feel that spire in my chest, my clothes are a testament to that fact.

I was about to leave, I turned around and saw Robinson coming my way, waving.

“I thought you’d be resting, Ab!”

“What kind of stuntman would I be if a little pain stopped me from working!”

“A normal one!” Robinson caught up to me, “Have you seen the accident? If you want I can show you? I was just about to look at the footage.”

Before I could get a word in, Robinson turned me around, and nudged me into the film cabin.

“Sit, Ab, sit.”

I sat, Robinson pulled up the film, as I rewatched my accident, again, with that uncanny feeling of nausea tricking in my stomach. After the accident was over, they zoomed in on me hanging from the spire. We saw my blood, trickling back to my body. And once I was removed, via ladder. The camera from above caught more footage. The blood and bodily-matter wormed towards me. And this time one of the film crew mumbled to himself “It’s like the fucking scene from Iron Giant.” But then when everything got back into me, my wound began to heal. Then I woke. 

The footage paused, Robinson looked at me, with a puzzled yet mischievous face, “You came back to life, Ab.” A smile creeped on his face, “You’re immortal, Ab.”

I just stood there speechless, in a sea of silence. I don’t even want to know what they’re thinking, but their eyes said it all. Their eyes were dull and sharp, with an absence of compassion and humanity.

#

Two months later I sat on the that famous theater, looking at Hollywood’s lights flickering under the moon. Trying to repress the memory from Budapest again, I looked down at my dangling feet as men, women, and limousines passed. 

“Am I. Really, human?” slipped from my lips. Without thinking I responded to myself, “Of course I am. I get hurt, I live, I have compassion, I age. . . But, I can’t die.” 

I stood up on the ledge one foot ready to step off. “What if it was a fluke, what if I can die? Once is never right? So I never died. . . What if I don’t, die? If I don’t everyone would see, everyone would find out. And if word spreads, I’ll be experimented on. But word would spread already and it’s a matter of time before I’m taken.”

I backed away from the edge, pacing around the rooftop. Thinking of a plan, I placed my phone by a ventilation shaft, recording me. I lined myself up in the middle, and sent a double-backflip. Purposefully under-rotated so all my momentum snaps my neck. 

I woke up with a nagging pain in my neck. I got up and checked my phone. My double-back was perfect, I hit my neck in the right spot. An audible crack rang out, and my body flops. I died. A few moments later, I woke, got up and stopped the recording. 

I chucked my phone across the roof, “Fuck! . . Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Why, why me? Why can’t I die?”

I started doing my box breathing exercise, calming myself down. Once my heart settled and emotion calmed, I started thinking aloud:

“What if this isn’t a curse? What can I do with this? I know I won’t get hurt doing what I love, I can take more and more dangerous stunts, and be paid more for it. And even if I do die on-set, people won’t think it’s real if we claim it’s practical effects. But the film crew would know—”

My phone started going off, rang and rang, then stopped. It was Robinson, he left a voicemail, “Hey Ab, where are ya? Everyone here is commenting on your stunts, I want to give you the credit. Come down to the theater’s lobby.”

I got up, retraced my route back to the lounge. Robinson stood in the middle surrounded by suits. Robinson spotted me, and waved me in. I placed a smile, walking into the crowd.

Robinson pulled me in, and hung his arm around me. “This is the stuntman who has done all those amazing stunts, Abraham Grant.” 

The men around Robinson were complimenting me on all my stunts, and took real appeal to me dying on stage; saying how they loved the “practical effects”, “how it was done in one shot”, and “how real it looked.” I just stood there, nodding to the complements. 

Then Robinson jumped in, “And this fantastic stuntman has great work ahead of him, and I got him all to myself for the rest of my series.”

After the conversation died down, I turned to Robinson, “I need to talk to you.”

Robinson excused himself, and me and him moved to a quieter part of the lounge. “Yeah Ab, what’s the matter?”

“I love working for you, but I think we need to make a new contract.”

“Yeah I figured, with your new ability and all. I was planning on paying you more anyway.”

“Yes, I’d like a significant increase in my salary due to the more dangerous and ‘death-defying’ stunts I’ll be doing. But in the new contract I want confidentiality about my new ‘ability’ from you and everyone in the crew.”

“You do know there’s always a risk of someone blabbing off. But I think I can find a way around it.” Robinson reached out his hand.“I accept your new terms, we’ll finalize it later.” 

I shook his hand.

#

The years following I've been Robinson exclusive ground stuntman, for all his movies. And in that time: I’ve been hit by a speeding car. My head’s been flattened by a crowbar. I’ve been hacked to bits. And I’ve been mauled by a Spitz. I’ve been shot by a pistol. I’ve been hung in Bristol. I’ve drowned in a tub. I’ve been shanked in a pub. I’ve burnt alive in a shed. And I’ve been used as a human sled. I’ve fallen off the Empire State. And my intestines had been pulled straight. All on top of my normal stunts.

* * * 

It was the final stunt of “Zack Frost, VII”, I was jumping across a building, only to be shot off. Before the stunt, I acted how I used to, dancing and laughing at any semi-funny jokes. I knew what would happen, everyone cleared the stage, besides Robinson and a few of his trusted cameramen (the same who were there when I rewatched my first death). 

“Action” was yelled, I ran across the rooftop, leapt about fifteen feet, and dropped ten feet. As soon as my foot landed, the shotgun went off. Blasting me in the gut, killing me, then I fell about four stories. By the time I woke up, the set was cleared, and Robinson was there to greet me.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Ab. Great stunt, nasty stunt, are you okay?”

I gave him the stuntman’s thumbs up.

“Great. That’ll be all for today, why don’t you go home and rest.” Before I can say a word, “Don’t worry you’ll be paid in full.”

“That’s good. Guess I’ll be going now.”

#

Arriving home, my facade dropped. My first step in my house, I collapsed. The pain overwhelmed me, not just the gun shot but also the fall. My body healed, but the pain lingers, it always does. I’m able to suppress it normally, but as soon as I enter my house, the pain hits like a train. I crawled across the floor, kicked the door closed as I passed. I made it all the way to my bed, used the bed-leg as support to climb up on it. The moment I was comfortable on my bed, the tears came. I thought about the countless days of pain, of being killed every month, and the smile I have to put on. At this time, Liam called.

“Yo, Ab! How’s it going?”

“. . . Going good, just. Just contemplating life.”

 “Sweet. I’m back in town, and trying to get the parkour gang back together, you free?”

“No, no, I’m busy. I’ve got stunts to do.”

“New movie, right? But you gotta have time, I know it.”

“Like I said Liam I’m busy.”

“What about today? I hear no filming sounds through the call.”

“Yeah, because it’s break time and I climb up above the studio building to eat.”

“Ok, well then, let me know when you’re available, okay. I’ll only be in town for a month.”

“If there’s time I will.” I hung up.

I stayed in my bed, rotting away, waiting for the pain to leave. An hour later, the pain started going away but it was still a bitch, but I could walk and move. I headed to the fridge, down a bottle of ale, then lit a couple of cigarettes. With all that in my system it helps against the pain, and makes me feel something besides pain. It took a few more hours for it to fully go away, by that time it was dark. But that whole time I was thinking about Liam, I should’ve acted like that with him. So I picked up the phone and called, he picked up.

“I knew you’d call back.”

“Yeah, yeah. So It looks like I’ll be free tonight, you wanna hit up the old spots?”

“Sweet, I’ll meet you there.”

I got to the spot, it was near our old parkour gym, it was a fancy law firm tower, that had the perfect staircase with walls, railings, and gaps; perfect for precisions, ploys, and vault challenges. By the time I got there, Liam was warming up with rail precisions. Liam spotted me; webstered off the railing, greeting me: “You’re awfully late, you’re slowing down.”

“Just aching from my stunts.”

Liam, look closely at me, I’m sure he smelled cigarettes and alcohol, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I'm just here to jump around.”

“Yeah sure, you’ve been acting off all day. And what’s with the alcohol and cigarettes? What happened to o’ ’I won’t drink or smoke because it’ll affect my performance’. You can't fool me Ab, I’ve known for too long.”

“You won’t get it, now let's just jump around.”

“How about a bet.”

“What?”

“A bet, a game of HORSE, if I win you tell me what’s up and the full truth. And if you win, you get to mop around, and I won’t ever check in on you again.”

“Oh you think you can beat one of the biggest stuntmen?”

“Bring it, I know your moves, I’ve trained with you since we were ten. Ab, the ball’s in your court.”

I started with a running side-flip rail precision, Liam matched it, I got an H. Liam did a ghost-step A-twist, on flat ground, I slipped up, getting an O. Next I did a double-kong gainer, with a six-foot gap between the kong. Liam messed up, getting an H. This went on till we tied at match point and I was up. I settled a round-off triple-backflip, then right after a front-flip. Then I messed up on the front-flip, causing me to get HORSE. Game over.

We sat on the stairs, and as part of my deal I told Liam everything. My lips could barely move, they felt like they were sewn shut. And once I was able to move my lips, my tongue stopped working. We sat there for a solid few minutes with Liam waiting. I was able to start by mentioning the movie, and then my death (it helped that he saw it). Then from there I explain my deaths, and the toll mentally and physically that comes with it. You think a Spitz is cute till they maul you to death, then: new fear unlocked. Or how every time you grill a steak, the smell, the smell reminds you of the smell of your own body cooking. The whole time he just sat there, not saying a word, looking at me, with a deadpan face. 

Liam spoke, “Weren’t you the one who said ‘do work that you enjoy’. And, look at you now, you can barely even talk about it.”

“— I know, I know. I just have a contract with Robinson and I get paid almost as much as the lead actors.”

“Why don’t you just talk to him. Of course you might have to deal with that a bit longer till the movie is done. But it’s at least something.” 

“I could, but I know he loves his ‘Immortal Stuntman’.”

“But at this point you aren’t a stuntman, you’re a crash dummy. Go talk to him, and let me know what happens.”

#

A week later, we finished up the deadly stunts for the movie, and Robinson was overseeing the clean-up crew, right before they left. He was on top of some scaffolding where the spotlights are attached too. He was leaning on a railing. I climbed up the scaffolding on the opposite side of the ladder, and approached Robinson. 

“Hey, Mr. Robinson, can I have a word?”

He jumped, “Jeez, you scared me. And how many times do I gotta tell you to drop the formality, just call me Max or at the very least Maxwell.”

“Sorry, force of habit.”

“But anyways, what's the matter?”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the stunts.”

“You’ve done great and get paid handsomely, what is there to talk about?”

“The deaths. I was wondering if we can dial back the deaths? Since that’s taking a toll on me—”

“Sure, sure, no thing, we can take a break if you need it. We’re done with all those anyways.”

“Sorry, I phrased it wrong. I don’t want to be a crash dummy anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to be a gory practical effect.”

“But you’re the only one that can do that. You’ve signed up for it.” Robinson stopped, staring at me for a minute, “What other option do you have? Be a test subject for the scientist? Be a soldier of war? This is your best bet Abraham.”

“Yes, I know that. And I’m grateful for all you’ve done. But I’m a stuntman not a crash dummy! Do you know, I feel the pain, the aches, I get ptsd every time I look at a spitz.”

“Get over it, Ab. Go to therapy with the money you earn, and screw your head straight. As a stuntman you always get hurt, and you heal completely. No big deal, stop whining about it.”

“The pain is nothing compared to dying!” I walked away before Robinson could say a word. 

Robinson yelled down the scaffolding, “Ab, by contract you’re legally obligated to do any and all stunts I have for you!”

The next day work was normal, normal stunts, no deaths. I stayed like that for a while, Robinson eased up on it. But then the next movie; It was back to the same old shit! Getting killed, over and over again. But this time, this time, it was different. It wasn’t hidden anymore, more and more people came to watch me die, being told that it was one big practical effect, or being called the “Houdini Stuntman”, who can be blown to bits and be fine. And being told that the Houdini Stuntman next trick; “Surviving a shotgun blast, point blank.”

It seemed like a fucking circus, and I was the freak-show, The Houdini Stuntman, wait no no, The Immortal stuntman, no that’s not it, it’s the fucking living crash dummy. The crash dummy, legally bound to be killed over and over for the amusement for all, appearing in theaters near you, or at your local Maxwell Robinson’s movie shoot! What a fucking joke. A joke that I can only begin to laugh at after downing a bottle of Jack Daniels and smoking a pack of Marlboros. A day of being killed so why not kill my inside. I’ll be fine, sure!

Every time I brought it up to Robinson, he offered to increase my salary; and who in there right mind would turn down a five million, I could fucking retire with that money. Then he upped it more, per stunt, more per movie. Becoming the equivalent of one more smoke, one more smoke, and we all know it’s never one more. 

After being killed for fun, I went home, the bottles and cigarette butts were scattered across the floor. The bottle shattered under my feet, shoving shards up my foot. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t hurt compared to burning alive, drowning, or being stabbed twenty times. I just grabbed another bottle and just drank and drank, till my body forgets the pain. Jack Daniels clouded my judgment, and I called Liam. 

He answered, but I got a word in first, “Liam, Liam, ya gotta help me. I want out. Out of this life. I’d rather die, than die a thousand times.”

“Woah, calm down Ab, what’s wrong? Didn’t Robinson ease up on you?”

“Na-uh, he did not. He just offered more money, and it got worse. Now I ain’t human, just a living fleshly crash-dummy. I’m now a living freak-show.”

“Shit man, I’m sure drowning your sorrows away won’t help.”

“‘ey, this is the only thing that isn’t trying to kill me. . . I’m just pickin’ my poison.”

“Well guess that won’t kill you, but it can still ruin you. Come one man, snap out of it, get out of the job. Surely you can.”

“Nope. contract, forced ma hand.”

“Talk to him again! Quit, who cares if you get fined to oblivion, you’re immortal.”

“Nope, I still age. Baldin’ already shown, I’m taking after Uncle Jack.”

“You don’t have an uncle, Ab. Put down the bottle, I want to hear it clink!” 

The bottle clinked. “There ya ‘appy.”

“Talk to Maxwell Robinson, and quit! And while you’re at it, quit drinking!”

“Righty-o silver-ro!” I hung up.

The next day, after being executed in-front of a live audience. I walked into Robinson’s studio trailer. 

“Maxwell—”

“Finally, you got it right. What’s up?”

“I can’t keep doing this, I want to quit.”

“What!”

“I’m quitting.”

“No you can’t, you’re legally obligated to work for a few more years! I made you who you are, you wouldn't be successful if it wasn’t for me!”

“Yes, I’m aware. I’m willing to face the consequences.”

“Oh no, you’re going through with this contract Abraham Grant!”

“I won’t, surely what you’re doing is illegal and will violate the contract.”

“Nope, you signed it away, know the risk of any deadly harm associated with this job. And if you ever go through with this, the whole world will know! And if you stop working for me, quit all of a sudden, you’ll face the consequences and I’ll share your special ability with the Office of Science, or even worse the D.O.D.! I’m sure they’ll find your predicament fascinating.”

The room fell quiet, with the only thing in earshot was the construction and clean up outside.

“You’ve tainted everything we’ve done, and tainted every stuntman. If your whining is finished, get up and leave. I don’t want to see your face.” I started walking away, and Robinson blurted out, “Be back here tomorrow you got more stunts!”

I left without saying a word, as soon as I left the filming location, I called Liam, He didn’t pick up. I left a voice message.

“Hey, Liam, it’s me Ab, I need to talk to you about my situation. I need to get out of this job. Call me when you get a chance. I can do this, Liam! I can’t fucking do this anymore! I’m being blackmailed, and the contract is twisting my hand. I can’t get out. I’ve made a deal with the devil, Liam! . . . Liam. . . Liam? I-I need your help, real bad.”

Lázár The Lonesome Huszar

The summer-sun scorched the skin of a lonesome Huszar riding across the Sahara of Hungary; passing dunes and sand-suffocated corpses. The Huszar grasped his left rib, stretching the remaining green-garments, as the fabric flapped onto his exposed wounds—blistering and bungling, shaping the blood’s voyage. 

The Hun’s head shifted towards the screaming sandstorm, slithering closer and closer, consuming all.

“Damn you to hell! Sand Witch! Mark my words, you'll pay in blood!” 

With a crooked smile the sand erupted encompassing The Hun, blasting him off his steed, scattering his helm, blade and bow. The sand consumed the equipment, then the living, slowing layering upon skin and silk. 

A voice shot through the sand, circling The Hun, “I was willing to let you run. To flee like the coward you are. Letting your officer’s honor rot!”  A figure of a maidan pierces through the sand, dawning tan drapery and a youthful appearance. “But sadly. You claim to take my blood.” 

Sand started to swirl around The Hun, creating a tornado around him. The Sand Witch’s face punctured the sand, unveiling her horse-like hair and fair skin. Wrinkles split her face as she wears a grin, squinting at the Huszar. 

“But Mr, Officer Huszar, I’ll be merciful, and allow you to eat your words and beg for your life.”

The Hun wiped off the sand from his eyes, stash, and mouth. He erected, strode up to The Witch; staring into her grave eyes, he said “I will take back what I said, and as the Officer of the 13th Huszar Scout, I speak for Zoltan, Miklóa, Zsigmond, Laszlo, Attila, and the rest.” The Hun paused, clenching and releasing his fists. “And!” He sprung forward clutching the fiend’s head, bashing her skull against his knee, “For each of my mens’ blood you spilled, I’ll drain from your body! And then once I’m done, only then you’ll die by my blade!” The Hun pulls The Witch’s hair back to eye level, scoffing at her bloodied mug “Look’s like I’ve got a good start.”

The Witch began to chuckle. The Hun planted his hairy fist into her jaw, knocking out teeth. The Witch’s chuckles transformed into laughter. The sand rushed towards The Hun, consuming him and his sight. He punched The Witch again, planting his fist firming into a sand figure. 

“I was really going to grant you freedom, but with that manly fit, death is too sweet of an option for you. So hark me now Hun!” Sand shot from the figure burrowing itself deep into The Hun’s lungs, “I shall place a curse upon you! A curse of death, where if you don’t kill a man every morrow, you’ll die in his stead.”  The Witch chuckled again, swirling around the sand casting her incantation.

The sand consuming the Huszar, he tried to cough it up, trying every option to remove and halt any sand in his lungs. It was futile, the sand weaseled its way into his lungs filling them entirely, overflowing out of his mouth. Once full The Witch halted her incantation; the sand glowed purple–absorbing into The Hun.

The sandstorm slowly dissipated, along with The Witch’s figure. The Witch spoke and with each word got softer and softer “So ol’ noble Huszar what shall it be, killing an innocent man everyday to enact your revenge? Oh! How many lives you’ll take to find me, is truly romantic!”  The Witch’s voice was now but a whispering wind, “So what shall it be Hun!”

The sand fully set, unmasking the dusk sky. The Hun noticed the sky, and rushed around searching for his steed. He ran to his horse, checked its pulse, hopped on its back, and rode southwest—ignoring the saddle suffocating in the sand alongside his weapons.

The horse strode into a forest, The sun barely peeking over the horizon, illuminating the path between forest's alleys. The Hun drooped over his horse, his flesh dulled to a decaying hue, with purple veins bulging—like ivy spreading ‘neath his skin, slithering its way to his eyes. Hun’s purple eyes, spotted hooves prints—newly embedded—diverging away. The Hun heeled his horse, sparking a sprint track-wards. 

The horse carried onwards trampling upon every speck of foliage in its path, till it reached a camp, filled with sleeping horses, and men. The Hun slipped off the horse, crashing on his back, then crawled towards the men. There were ten men sleeping in little makeshift tents of leaves and fabric, all huddled around the dead campfire. The Huszar pulled himself up into a hunchback stance, with one hand on his knee keeping him upright. He wobbled towards the campfire’s edge where a stack of crescent scimitar laid. He picked up a saber dazzled in gems and gold. Using the saber as a cane, The Hun walked up to a slumbering soldier. Removed the sheath, Under-griped the blade, rose it high. Halted, staring at the man below. A man with a dark Turkish complexion, dawning a great stash, chain and steel. A dagger was belted on his side. Sleeping unworried, untaint, unprovoked, innocent. 

The Hun hands began to shake, swaying the saber above the Turk’s head. The Hun coughed up sand, as the veins bulged more and more, and his knees buckled, collapsing The Hun to the floor along with the saber. The Hun collapsed. His vision disappeared. His breathing came close to a halt.  

Moments later The Hun awakens, regaining his vision and a normal complexion. The Hun surveyed his location: slumbering turks. The Turk next to him, sullied in blood. The saber split the Turk’s skull in two, hitting the small black target in the eye, vertically separating the upper right sector from the rest of the skull. The Hun rose, escaping the pool of turk blood–soiling his garments.

The Huszar ripped out the saber, sling blood about. Grabbed the dagger, strapping it to his side. Then peels off the Turkish armor: plates, mail, and helm; with a few rattle of mail—blending with the clinking of an armored footfall. An axe swung smashing into the Turkish helm in The Hun hands, deflecting it leftwards. The Turk—stood merely a foot away—claded in: mail and plates across his chest and limbs. The only exposed flesh was his neck and face—which a helm partially covered.

 The Hun ripped the dagger out of its sleeve, driving it towards the Turk’s neck. The Turk dodged, making the dagger only nick his neck. Reverse gripping, The Turk swung up his axe skywards, stripping mail, leaving the Hun’s chest bare. The Hun jerked a couple feet back, regaining his footing and drew his saber.

Stepped forth The Turk swung. The trajectory caught the Huszar’s saber, hooking ‘neath the axe’s bottom swoop. Jerking the axe skywards, The Huszar pulled the Turk closer, opening him up. The Hun unhooked his saber, slashing at the Turk at the wrist, severing his axe hand. The axe nicked the dirt, and his head followed. 

The Hun sheathed his blade, then stripped the armor off the corpses. The Huszar’s eyes fell upon the slumbering camp, noticing the war-fitted Turks and their freshly stained blood. The Hun gifted the Turks' armour with a fresh coat of Turkish blood. A few of which put up a meager struggle but without a weapon their end was nigh. The Hun explored the other equipment, clue-searching. In a tent he stumbled upon a map of the Kingdom of Hungary with a multitude of arrows emerging from the Ottoman-Empire’s newly seized nation: Serbia, pointing into Hungary with the small town Kalocsa circled. With another arrow pushing forth, where The Hun stood.

The Huszar fidgeted with his stash, “You Damned Turks! You got all cocky because you won the battle of Belgrade and Mohács! It took you seventy years to claim Belgrade! And, Kalocsa ain’t going to be the next edition of your greedy empire!” The Hun shoved the map into his breast plate and exited the tent, scrounging around for more equipment.

The Huszar dawned new garments, mail, chest plate, scimitar, dagger, and recurved bow and a quiver of arrows belted to his waist. His steed also dawned some new mail and saddle. All of which had its classic Turkish embellishment of gold accents upon a sand-yellow fabric. The Hun hopped on his steed and rode off southwest towards Kalocsa. Leaving the Turkish camp consumed by flames.

Among the bushes and foliage of the forest a scimitar thrusted into a Turkish throat. The corpse’s flung into foliage as the Huszar emerged in his stead, overviewing a quaint village–That was adequately sectioned farmland and living quarters. The yellowing crops circled the town, tramped back into the ground by hooves and fallen corpses—of men and horses. The closer the crops got to the houses the more and more decayed and destroyed they are. While some houses stood untouched others turned to soot—caking onto other structures, horses, corpses, and turks. The vestiges of carnage still remained; bleeding outwards from the city’s heart—desicrating the land. The only thing untainted by the turks was the town’s chapel which loomed over all the chaos and carnage.

The Hun reentered the forest. Then exited with his steed, sprinting straight towards the town’s heart passing by severed Hungarian and Ottoman corpses. A couple of Turks were scattered about, looting the spoils, and collecting the corpses for disposal. The Hun nodded at each passing Turk; none minded the Hun dawning ottoman garbs.  

Entering the town’s dying heart, a swarm of Turks rushed by; one of them spoke to the Hun and waved him on. The Hun, not speaking Turkish, followed the crowd with his steed. The swarm held a score of turks and a huszar in a Turkish-guise. The Hun hung towards the back of the masses with one hand hovering near his saber, anticipating an attack.

 They approached a vendor market, surrounded by small wooden stalls smashed, burned, and flipped. With every stall standing or flipped, seated many a turks; as the rest, stood about creating a circle. Chatter and prattle filled the masses, drowning the footfall of decadent soldiers and horses, shutting the soldiers up. The Turks all removed their helms to the walking figures—the Hun mimicked them. The figures were cladded in heavy steel and chain, surrounding a figure dawning a crimson coat and golden turban. His white beard shifted and spoke to his men, riling them up. 

The Noble Turk placed one hand on his golden pala-scimitar—consumed by engraving and intricate gems. The Noble waved at the men following him. A row of heavily-cladded men strode into the center of the crowd, yanking a chain hoisting a line of disheveled huns. Two huns per one turk. The huns were all bruised maidens, their clothes: ripped rags. The huns were yelling “No!” “Stop!” or they cursed the turks; anything longer was flooded by Turkish prattle. At the sight of the huns, the Huszar’s eyes flared, shooting his hand to his blade. But if he pulled his saber out, he wouldn’t escape alive. 

The Noble Turk thrusted his pala into the air, its aggressive curved shot skywards, splitting the sun with its sharp edge. He shouted and mocked, putting on a show, enticing cheers. He pointed at a hun duo, their guard pulled them closer to the Noble. He hopped off his horse, and chopped off the first head with a single slash. The second’s head was severed vertically. The Huszar gritted his teeth, wanted to scream, to curse them, but he had a guise to play. The Huszar turned away from the execution, angling his horse away. The Huszar rode off, with the Noble in earshot shouting “Let the Hun blood run!”

The Huszar rode a couple blocks down, where a house stood of stone looming a bit over the other buildings. Equipping a bow and quiver, The Hun climbed the stone. Once in position the Hun spotted a few more women turned-corpses. He drew his bow crowd-ward, marked his target, and fired. The arrow didn’t fly straight, but hitting its mark nonetheless; pricing that Noble Turk’s temple. The Noble’s corpse fell with The Hun grinning ear-to-ear. The Turks flushed to cover, the ones on the booths used it for cover. Others ran to the alley and streets. The heavy armored turks dropped the chains and drew their scimitars, scanning for the assassin. The rest were either in shock or tried to bring back the dead. The women ran to cover, dodging any men who tried to attack. The attackers who tried to attack the ladies, were swiftly gifted an arrow. 

The women fled into the streets and alleys. Two dozen turks littered the centre. The scores alive, pinpointed the Huszar. The Huszar continued firing upon any Turk in sight, depleting his arrows to a half dozen. 

The Hun drew another arrow, eyeing a heavily-cladded Turk in tan; who’s waving his hand and shaking his head at the other turks. The Tan Turk vaulted over his booth, charging towards the Hun. The Hun drew the bow to its climax, gaining power to penetrate the armour. The arrow flew piercing the Tan Turk’s helm. Another arrow whistled, planting itself into The Hun’s shoulder.  The Hun dropped to the roof, gazing at the plaza, the Turks were advancing and the archer provided cover. One of the Turks ran past The Tan Turk’s body, fleeing the battlefield through the alley. As the coward got past the tipped booth, a scimitar gleamed and danced, decapitating the coward. 

The scimitar planted itself into the soil, hoisting up its wielder, The Tan Turk. An arrow protruded from his helm, puncturing his left eye through the top of his brow. The Turk unclipped his mail veil. He then broke off the protruding arrow to remove his helm. The arrow traveled through his brow, eye, and the tip poked out of his cheek. The Tan Turk felt the tip of the arrow, pinched it, and stripped it out. His hand was coated in blood, holding the foot long arrow, unlogged. With all that pain converting to commands and threats towards the other turks re-energized them. He walked over to the turk he slain, ripped up his garments, patching his wounds with a wrap covering the left of his head.

Arrows still flew over the Hun’s head, narrowly missing. But every few moments there was a gap in the cover fire. There was five archers, scattered about—all differing distances. And with every gap he dwindled the archers one by one. By the time he killed the last archer, the turks were only about a block and a half away. The Huszar had his last arrow drawn, pointing it at the One-Eyed Turk again, and fired. The arrow flew straight towards his head again. It’s path was met by steel, severing it in two.  The Turk looked up at The Hun, with a crooked grin ordering his subordinates to close in on The Hun. The turks charged towards The Hun’s hideout.

Discarding his bow and quiver, The Hun  ran and leapt to the roof of the adjacent house. Upon impact he plummeted through the straw roof and rotting wood; crashing on top of a dining table. He rolled off the table spotting the back window. Getting up, The Hun fled through the window, breaking the shudders in the process. Upon exiting turks were shouting, The Hun looked back seeing three turks flanking from the rear. They were mildly armored, brandishing their sabers. They rushed The Hun, drawing his saber The Hun waited for their attacks. 

The turks attacked in a v-formation. The first began to swing his scimitar round his head converting to a horizontal slash; as soon as The Turk passed the swing’s climax, The Hun threw his dagger. The first turk jerked out of the way, barely missing him. But the dagger continued to its target, the second turk’s gullet. The First Turk head jolted towards his fallen comrade, only to be gutted by The Hun. The last turk bolted away, trying to escape. The Hun knelt down to the First Turk, picked up his sword, and speared it to the Fleeing Turk, punching his calf. The Turk was whaling, cursing, and praying simultaneously, still trying to escape, crawling inch by inch, hearing the footfall creeping faster than he could crawl. The footfall arrived. The Turk spun on his back, staring into the dull eyes of his killer. He drew his dagger trying to keep The Hun away. The scimitar split the air, then The Turk’s skull. The Huszar removed his blade and took the turk’s dagger, before fleeing into the alleys.

Lake Of Coprses

It was supposed to be a simple job, just chasing corpses. The past couple months, corpses have been going missing in Fort Hill. As soon as I got into that small hillside town, Commissioner Burns summoned me.

We’re standing on the edge of a crater-lake which was smack-dapped in the middle of the hill. Burns was in his usual get-up, an char-tone trench coat and a fag glued to his lips. A few feet besides him was a corpse, soaked and ghastly bloated.

“I suppose we ain’t sightseeing.” I said, pulling out my flask.

A sleazy grin creeped on his face, “Last time I went sightseeing with you, I got lead stuck in my ass.”

I pointed at the wet corpse, “Found a corpse already.”

Burns nudged the corpse with his foot, “Yeah this guy. Well, he ain’t like the other corpses. He’s special, freshly murdered, your favorite.”

“You’re lucky Hank, if this ain’t a favor, your price would’ve tripled.” I took a swig of whiskey.

Taking a closer look at the fella. He was no older than twenty-five, and built like a cigarette, all the way down to the pale-paper skin and tobacco-toned hair. Wearing disheveled rags. Around the cigarette-man’s ankle was a piece of rope that snapped a few feet from the knot.

I stood up, “You know what done him in?”

Hank’s foot flips over the corpse, “Take a look for yourself.”

On the back of the corpse's head was a dent a few centimeters deep. The dent

wasn’t perfect, had many scratches, cuts, and smaller dents that blessed the noggin. Some of the dents were more flat with a curve to them.

I looked at Hank “Gotta clue who he is?”

“Don’t know the mug. But probably the grave-watcher that gone missin’.”

I peered into the lake where the depths turned into an abyss “Who runs this lake?”

Hank yanked out his fag, “He’s outta town, but his dame isn’t. Talk to her.”

Hank told me the dame’s name ‘Terra Woods’ and pointed me in her direction. So

I headed off. Passed the hillside cluttered with wooden cabins. And over yonder there was the mansion. It was a modest mansion, that’s newer than some of the townies. It’s the type of house you’d expect one of wealthy senators to own.

I made my way up the porch. The tunes of wind chimes masked the creaking floorboards. Before I could even make it to the door, the door flew open, banging into the outside wall. Trusting out the door was a man, clothed like a Chesterfield pin-up boy. The man was silent outside the stomping of his feet, and the coins jittering around in his pockets as he scrammed towards the hill.

In the wake of the chaos, I knocked on the door, as I peered in. The inside was

nice, with all custom furniture paired with a speakeasies feel. A few feet away was the dame, downing a bottle of bourbon while laying on the couch. I knocked again, she didn’t notice. 

I walked in. “I hope I ain’t bothering you. Might you be Terra Woods?”

She plopped down the bourbon, and adjusted herself like some actress right before a play. She spoke in an up-beat voice, “Yes I am, whom does it may concern?”

“Hello, I wish to ask you a few questions, I’m helping out Commissioner Burns.”

She sagged back into the couch, mumbling to herself “Great, first an ex-lover

then a dick, what’s next?” Then looked at me with her puffed-up eyes, “Come on in, and close the door.”

I closed the door. Grabbed a seat across from the dame. Before my ass could even hit the chair, she said “What do ya wanna know?!”

“I’ve came to ask about the corpse in the lake, since from what I’ve been told you run the lake.”

“I don’t know who told ya that, but you’re dead wrong. Ian runs it, not me. I got nothin’ to do with it.”

“Very well. Then enlighten me on the situation of the lake, and if he has any enemies.”

“I haven’t been with Ian for long—only a month or so. He’s fairly well liked, not many enemies. But the situation with the lake’s discovery was relatively recently through a landslide, and Ian’s been working with the city to make it safe and free to drink.”

“So where have you guys been getting your water before?”

“Imported from a river town nearby, ‘Fair Water’. Run by the Fairman family for

generations now. We’d an agreement with them to import water, we've been one of there cash cows since this city’s founding.” Terra pointed towards the door, “The man that’s suppose to be supervisin’ this agreement, Garett Fairman the third, just stormed outta here. If ya hurry you can still catch him.”

I got up, thanked her and left. Hoping to catch up to Fairman, before he’s lost in

the city. The city was fairly empty, outside some kids scattered across, and the

occasional mothers taking a drag.

It was dusk by the time I saw him. He was hanging outside a rundown church playing with a velvet box, as his cigar signed his lips. He started cursing as his smoke hits the ground.

I walked up to him, “Lost in thought?”

“Any man would be in my shoes.” he looked up, spotting me “Don’t recognize you, ya new around town?”

“Lester Collin, been here a hot minute, we crossed paths not too long ago.”

“Sorry, forget me, I have been in the clouds lately.”

“I figured a man of your stature would be happy since all the money we’d be racking in soon.”

Fairman pulls out another cigar, “Money doesn’t matter if you got no one to spend it on. . . Well I better get going.” Fairman waves goodbye and walks off into the distance. 

As soon as he vanished, I entered the church and questioned the pastor. Flashing my badge, he answered: “Fairman was calling off our wedding service.” He elaborated no further, no matter how much I pestered him. So I thanked him and left.

The moon creeped overhead, as i entered the graveyard where the corpse-snatchers were. The graveyard gates were empty, no grave-watchers nor coppers. On the gate, by the handle, was a week-old flier: “Now Hiring, Graveyard Guard. Requirements: self-defense, firearm, and firearm proficiency.” in a finer print “A firearm won’t be provided”

The graveyard was vacant besides the feasting maggots. There were gravel

graves and more modern graves. The upkeep of these graves was as clean as the rotting corpses buried beneath it. Moss suffocated the gravestones, making it unreadable, however it stood over fresh dirt. There’s other identical graves with rope webbing around a six-foot hole. Inside the hole was an open coffin. Empty.

In the silence of night, where a sober scent of the deceased lingered,carried along by a chilling wisp.  Only to be interrupted by the growling of a car, then chatter. I scattered behind a monument dedicated to the buffalo hunters, watching. Two men, a bruno and a rat-face punk. They both were carrying shovels, while the Rat-Face was acting like a Pack-mule.

The Rat pointed at a grave near me, and spoke like he just smoked some helium, “How ‘bout that grave? we’ven’t touched it yet.”

The Bruno grunted like a caveman, and hurled himself towards the grave.

The Bruno’s shovel split the grave, and spoke like a neanderthal “wat ‘bout da die garve-watch? Ain’t he found?”

Rat-Face pitched in his shovel, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll do what we did last time.”

“But don’t you should go watch?”

Rat-Face showed his crooked smile, “Yeah, yeah. You do the diggin’ then.” 

Rat-Face pranced around the graveyard, matching the thumping of The Bruno’s shovel. It wouldn’t take long for him to find me, so I creep like a panther from tombstone to tombstone. Rat-Face was turning towards my direction, so I slid behind a crummy tombstone. And pressed by back against it, knocking it over. It flopped over in an echoing thud, creating a cloud of dirt.

Without skipping a beat, Rat-Face screeched, “Looks like we got a vermin!

Quit diggin’, and Fight!”

The Bruno perks up, watching Rat-Face charging towards me. I picked up one of

the tombstone chunk, and chucked it at Rat-Face. Slowing him down. While making my way

towards the vacant grave.

As soon as I turn around, I’m met with a right hook to the nose. Rat-Face was ready

to scrap. Rat swung again, missed, so I returned the favor. Got his gut, causing him to collapse. Falling to his knees, he was still swinging. I caught a stray to the knee, causing me to jerk, kicking him in the chin. Knocking him stiff.

The Bruno watched, let out a war-scream, then threw the shovel like a javelin. Clipping the tip of my shoulder, rendering it useless. The Bruno was closing the distance, I couldn’t fight him with my busted shoulder. So I did what anyone would’ve done in my shoes, pulled out my revolver, pointed it at Rat-Face. The Bruno spotted in his tracks.

“If you want your pal here to live, raise your hands and back up.”

The Bruno grunted and complied. 

“So are you the corpse-snatchers? What’re ya doing with the corpses?”

He didn’t answer, but he did with the encouragement of a cocking revolver, “We get bodies, and put bodies in lake.”

“Why the lake? What’s there to gain?”

He looked at Rat-Face, as his speech moved at a snail's pace, “Brother said we’ll get paid, if we do.”

“Who’s paying you?”

As soon as those words left my lips, my wrist was slit. And the revolver barked, right before it fell. The Bruno screamed, and charged me. I grabbed the gun off of Rat-Face with my left hand and fired it at The Bruno. My adrenaline spiked, making my hands quake; causing me to miss most of my shots, but managed to hit two in the knee, and he collapsed like an ox. Bashing his head against a tombstone on the way down.

Catching my breath, I took a swig of whiskey, and looked at Rat-Face. He was brandishing a switchblade, but didn’t have a face no more. I ‘relocated’ the switchblade to

my pocket while I hosteled my revolver.

I met back up with The Bruno, still breathing, just knocked out. I shoved

some dirt in his wound and left. There’d be someone soon, who’ll investigate the gunshots and find the two. In the meantime, I headed to my room and patched myself up.

With some makeshift stitches, I talked to Hank at the ‘local’ big house. The Bruno was locked up in a bird in a cage. Hank was finishing up a report of the incident, and over the clacking of the typewriter, The Bruno shouted “He did it! He killed brother!”

Hank looked up from his typewriter, staring at me. “I wouldn’t be surprised. What was it this time?”

I sat down across him and plopped my feet on the desk, “Well, they attacked me, I

protected myself. Faceless slit my wrist making me fire my revolver. Plain and simple.”

The Bruno bang against the steel bars, “No! He lying! He put brother as hostage! He killed brother!”

Hank glared at me, “Is this true?”

“No, of course not. You’d really take a criminal’s word over mine?”

“You’re not exactly Mr. Truthful but if you did you’d be locked up with him.”

“Well, I brought you your corpse snatcher. And if I wanted to I could’ve killed him too.”

The Bruno screamed again, “No! Not true! You didn’t kill me because you hurt and had no bullets!”

“And this’s comin’ from the guy who threw a shovel at me.” I looked at Hank, “I’ve

got the scars to prove it.”

Hank lit another fag, “Anyways, we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we.” Hank ripped

the paper out of the typewriter, handing it to me. “I’m guessing you’re here for this?”

I took a look at the notes, The Bruno and Rat-Face were brothers from the town over. They aren’t new to prison, they practically have a cell reserved for them. They just do petty crime, and sometimes backed by someone.

I handed it back to Hank, “I wouldn't call murder a petty crime.”

“Ain’t their normal memo, but wouldn’t put it pass them.”

“Who do ya think who hired them?”

“Aren’t you the detective? I should be asking you that.”

“Is this in the paper, and is he?” I pointed at The Bruno, “Also have you found any more bodies in the lake?”

“Yup it’s in the paper, and he’s not in it. As for the lake it looked like the titanic

sunk there. They’ll’d typewriters tied to their ankles.”

I was able to convince Hank to hand over some forty-five. I thanked him and left. But before I left Hank gave me directions to the nearest hospital. Which was the city over,

Rivington, the home of Fair Water.