FACEBOOK MARKETPLACE ROOMBA 600i Details: Condition -Used like new Description: Slightly used, comes with all accessories and two chargers. Price negotiable. Need gone ASAP. **** Christine kicked off her heels as soon as she walked through the door. The French baguette peeking out of the brown paper bag in her hands wobbled precariously as Sir Lancelot wove his way beneath her feet while she attempted to place the groceries on the bench. Lancelot was a Persian crossed with a rag-doll, and the combination equated to hair—lots of it. Christine scanned her critical eye over the apartment, clumps of fur wafted everywhere. She loved little Lancie immensely, but she didn’t love his hair. She sighed as she opened the hall cupboard to get out her cumbersome Hoover, a relic that had belonged to her mother, and had been passed down to her. It was time for its second workout of the day, and she just hoped the ancient beast was up for the task. The high-pitched groan was ominous, as was the smell of electrical burning that began moments after she had switched the machine on. Christine immediately disconnected the power and resigned herself to her fate. It was time to purchase a new vacuum. Unfortunately, her finances were still limited and so she opened her phone to browse Facebook marketplace. Surely she would find a deal there. It wasn’t as if she was fussy. Anything that would work would be better than trying to sweep up the unsweepable. The price caught her eye first, then the picture. A Roomba, a robot vacuum. Imagine coming home each day to a house that was freshly cleaned, no cat hair, no dust. The more she thought about it, the more Christine became convinced that she could not possibly live one more day without the services of her own personal Roomba robot. A quick series of messages back and forth, and soon Christine found herself the proud new owner of a secondhand robot vacuum. “Be careful with the settings, it’s a bit of a beast, if you’re not keeping an eye on it,” the previous owner had advised her. She’d smiled and nodded, figuring that the internet would have all the instruction manuals and safety precautions listed somewhere. Once she plugged in the charging dock, Christine googled the instructions and set the operating time to run twice a day while she was at work. With a happy sigh, she fed Lancie his dinner, reheated leftovers for herself and went to bed. *** She was jolted awake at four in the morning by a soft mechanical whirring, and solid, repeated thumps that shook her bed. Lancie, startled awake from his sleeping position at the foot of her bed, hissed violently as he landed on her chest, claws extended. It took her a bleary moment to connect the dots, but she finally realised she’d set the timer incorrectly, setting the machine to work at 4am instead of 4pm. It seemed to be stuck trying to vacuum under her bed, catching itself repeatedly on the leg and unable to navigate its way out of the situation. The bright lights, like little eyes, glinted with frustration, which echoed her own emotional state. It really was way too early for her to remember the settings, so she stumbled out of bed as she tried to whack the off button on the machine. It finally powered down with a petulant wheeze, the lights blinking off sadly. Placating Lancie took much longer, as his fur was literally on end, but after much stroking and coaxing, the cat settled back at the foot of the bed, curled up in a cat ball and purred himself to sleep. The following morning, after feeding Lancie his breakfast, Christine studied the online manual closely as she absently munched on toast and sipped her coffee. Carefully following the instructions, she set the timer, double checking the AM/PM setting. From his sunny position on the windowsill, Lancie hissed and arched his back. A familiar whirring caught her attention and a soft bumping nudged her toes. When she looked beneath the table, the Roomba was carefully vacuuming the crumbs she had spilled. “Odd,” she muttered. “I haven’t turned you on yet. Must be a saved setting from the previous owner.” She didn’t have time to look for the ‘clear all settings’ section of the manual, but resolved to look into it after work. *** Once again Christine was rudely awoken at 4am by the repeated thumping of the machine and the yowling hiss of the cat as Lancie landed claws first on her chest. “For the love of…!” she muttered, tossing her blanket aside to deal with the rogue machine. This time, the off button seemed to stick, and she was unable to power it down. “Well, if you won’t switch off, you may as well do your job out here!” Christine shoved the machine into the living room and firmly closed her bedroom door. Lancie would be alright for a couple of hours. She’d let him out for a kitty litter break as soon as the sun was up. The morning brought chaos. Christine’s living room was spotlessly clean, immaculate even, but she couldn’t find her shoes. She usually kicked them off by the front door, but they were nowhere to be seen. She rummaged under the sofa and coffee tables, just in case she had kicked them off in the living room, and then crawled into the dust bunnies under her bed, on the off chance they were there, but to no avail. Finally, she had to do a quick change of outfit so that she could wear the more casual loafers in the back of her wardrobe and rushed out of the door, late for work. When she came home, Christine kicked off her shoes near the door as she juggled the bags of groceries she’d purchased after work. The light on the Roomba’s dock was flashing, indicating that the dust bin needed emptying, so she dumped the heavier bags on the floor to attend to the task. When she lifted the lid, a mystery was solved. There, in shreds, were her lovely leather, high-healed shoes. They’d obviously been caught by the Roomba over night and had become a casualty of the cleaning machine. “At least there’s a reasonable explanation,” she sighed as she took the small dustbin to empty into the outside bin, happy that she wasn’t losing her mind, but not happy about the cost of replacing her favourite shoes. When she returned, she cried out in alarm. The Roomba was stuck on the paper shopping bag and its whirring brushes had opened a hole in the washing powder box. Fine white ponder was flying everywhere. “Oh, for the love of…!” she cried in exasperation as she extracted the paper bag from the maw of the machine. She set it to clean up the white laundry powder while she packed the rest of the groceries away. When she turned from the pantry after putting the last item on the shelf, she nearly tripped over the Roomba that had silently moved its cleaning path right behind her, its lights blinking up at her like two besotted eyes. With a gasp, she stopped herself from falling just in time by grabbing the fridge door with one hand and banging her other forearm hard on the kitchen bench. She cried out in pain, and she wrenched the freezer open to get an ice pack. Pressing the ice to her smarting injury, she trudged into the living room to rest and assess the damage. Hopefully, she hadn’t broken anything. The skin was still intact, but she’d have a huge bruise tomorrow, no doubt. Lancie curled up next to her and purred as she scratched his head with one hand. She’d just relaxed enough for the shock and pain to wear off when the cat hissed and leapt from the couch. A soft whirring approached, and the Roomba trundled in, bumping gently into Christine’s feet. “Goodness, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” she told the machine as she stood up to make herself some dinner and pour Lancie some Kitty kibble into his food bowl. Christine shut her bedroom door that evening, determined to get a full night sleep and not be woken by a marauding machine at an ungodly hour. She had to lock Lancie out, much to his disgust, as she didn’t want him to lose access to his litter tray and have an accident in her bedroom. Her sleep was undisturbed, and she woke refreshed and ready to begin the day. In the kitchen, she noticed that Lancie had not finished his dinner last night. The bowl was still full of kibble. “Lancie, here Kitty, Kitty,” she called as she opened a can of cat food. He was not around, sulking, most likely because she didn’t let him sleep on her bed. “I’ll leave it here for you, then.” She emptied the old kibble and replaced it with some tuna. As Christine ate her toast, she felt the whirring of little brushes bumping into her toes, so she lifted her feet to allow the Roomba to pass under the table on its morning cleanup rotation. She’d long since given up the idea of setting the machine to work when she was not home. It seemed to have a mind of its own and cleaned at all sorts of random times during the day. She didn’t think much of the little trail of red on her foot when she put her loafers on, just brushed the smudge away. “Bye Lancie,” she called as she left for work. The cat was still sulking. Perhaps he’d be more cuddly when she got home. When she returned, her apartment smelt like rotting fish and she gagged as she opened the door. The cat food was still sitting in the bowl uneaten and flies were buzzing around the dish, along with a trail of ants. Quickly, Christine disposed of the food. “Lancie?” she crooned gently and then again, more urgently. Perhaps the cat was unwell. The Roomba’s light indicated a full dust bin and Christine noticed the trail of ants marching up the side. She opened the lid and screamed. Blood and fur and pulverised viscera filled the bin. She ran to the bathroom and heaved, retching up the contents of her stomach as tears ran down her face. From behind her there was a whirring sound, and the Roomba looked at her with its bright lights unblinking. **** FACEBOOK MARKETPLACE ROOMBA 600i Details: Condition -Used like new Description: Slightly used, comes with all accessories and two chargers. Price negotiable. Need gone ASAP.


It all began on the dirt paths outside of home. Mai had been running for gods-know how long. Her body hadn’t yet started to break down, but it was a matter of time until it began; she was but mortal, with mortal trappings and limitations. The young noble’s skirts swirled and flowed around her legs as she ran at top speed through the forest. Her lungs burned and screamed at her to stop, take a break, just for a drink of water, but Mai couldn’t afford that. A sharp reminder in the form of a thrown knife soared over her shoulder, leaving a gash in her cheek. It buried itself in a tree trunk; as Mai ran past, she snatched the hilt with a snort of disdain. *Sloppy. They were getting sloppy…and tired. Couldn’t they have just hired a decent catspaw and get this over with?* Finally, her heart couldn’t take it. It stole the breath from her lungs, forcing the young void genasi to a stop. She sat a moment, chest heaving. Water had never tasted so sweet, and Mai drank from her waterskin with the fervor of a desert traveler on the road for weeks. And that’s when she saw him. A human boy, the same age as her. Maybe her age, maybe a bit older; it was hard to tell with humans, sometimes. A little rough around the edges; dark hair scruffy from days on the road, dirt soaked into his clothes. Though the longsword at his hilt gave her pause - it was *nice*, the kind that could be found in the armory at home, it was far more likely the child of a smith than another child of nobility. Why would nobility wear dirt so proudly, smile so brazenly? There was something about that face, though. It needled the back of her brain, fuzzy with TV static. Perhaps she had run across him in Chūkū no mura during her last excursion in town, or during one of her father’s many court parties. There was just something so familiar about him… A pair of curious green eyes met her gaze, which had lingered just a tad too long for common courtesy. The void genasi immediately broke it off, getting to her feet and turning away. Before she could speak, a second dagger identical to the one in her hand in her hand pinned her to the tree by her forearm, just outside the boy’s view. Mai bit her tongue. No way was she giving them the satisfaction of a cry of pain. She would go down like a lady. The boy melted away into the shadows. Good. He’d left. She would hate to involve a stranger in her family business. With her company gone, the catspaw revealed himself: some other human in black garb, face hidden beneath a swath of cloth. At his hilt was an array of daggers like the ones in her hand and arm. Even though his face was hidden, Mai could swear she saw the catspaw smirk. “So, do I at least get the pleasure of knowing which of my wonderful siblings sent you?” No response. The catspaw simply drew nearer. Despite her better efforts, Mai felt her breath grow shallower. Was this what fear felt like? Anyone normal would be scared, with their death drawing ever closer. But she wasn’t just anyone. As they came to a stop not but five feet away, Mai turned her head up, violet eyes narrowed to slits. “No? Did they take your tongue as well as your agency when they adopted you into whatever Fates-forsaken place you work for? You speak when spoken to!” Silence. “Fine, keep your secrets. I’m sure my father will find the information some other way.” Those words gave the catspaw visible pause. The Daimyo of Death. Though there was plenty of time for the inheritance to settle, it was well known that Mai was a favorite for the spot despite her…wilder inclinations. It was also well known what exactly would come to pass to those who would harm even a hair upon her head, should the word reach the Daimyo’s ears. “Perhaps we could work something out. What did they pay you? I have gold, platinum, jewels. We could go separate ways, you with a heavier purse, and me to vanish and never be heard from again. And this little scene? Never happened.” He seemed to truly think it over. Mai felt her heart flutter, hope warming her soul. Perhaps…? Reality hit in the form the cold steel of a second dagger in her other arm. For a moment, all Mai could see was the blade embedded in her flesh. Then the pain hit, and she couldn’t hold back a yelp as she was forced flush against the trunk of the tree. Again, beneath that mask, Mai could swear the catspaw was smirking. “I’ve heard tales about this dress. Handmade, just for you. Some worthless concubine’s daughter, in clothes this nice.” He tilted his head. “That silk’s worth a pretty penny, you know. Maybe if you let take it off you, I’ll have a bit of mercy.” Terror surged through the young genasi as the catspaw stepped forward, but she kept her face neutral. She was going to die here. No, not just die…but she couldn’t think about that now. Blood rushed to her head, heartbeat thudding in her ears. She had to find a way out of this. She *had* to. Mai spit at his feet. “Go to the Hells, you piece of-“ And that’s when the boy reappeared. Longsword now drawn, he descended from a nearby tree and cleaved a hand clean off her sibling’s hiree. Letting out his own roar of pain, the man stumbled back as the human boy from before positioned himself in front of Mai. For all of a moment, Mai could see him grown up, clad in plate and a knight’s helmet. Her protector. Then she blinked the dust from her eyes, and once again a young boy remained. For just the briefest of moments, Mai let that hope work its way back into her chest. “Who are you? What do you want with her?” The boy stood his ground. He’d obviously been trained. For a moment, Mai forgot her circumstances and admired his form from her position against the tree. Perhaps she might be fine after all. “Just to bring her back to her father. This one’s a runaway. Surely you wouldn’t get between a father and his daughter?” “And would her father approve of the daggers in her arms? Or the removing of her skirts?” The catspaw’s eyes went wide. He looked from the boy to Mai and back to the boy. A tense silence ensued; again, Mai could hear her heart thundering in her ears. Then the hiree shook his head, grabbed his hand from where it rested on the ground, and walked off into the woods without another word. After a couple minutes, the crunch of leaves beneath his boots faded into the forest’s natural ambience. When the boy turned back around, Mai did her best to fight back tears and wear a smile. It wasn’t long before her composure cracked; she broke down, tears streaming down her purple cheeks. The boy seemed to panic a bit at the sudden change in demeanor, but quickly got to work removing the daggers from her arms. Almost immediately Mai’s legs gave out, the stranger catching her in a quick embrace before she could hit the ground. “It’s alright, miss. I’ve got you.” Mai let herself be comforted for a moment. Not two miles from here, the person who would typically do this job would be growing cold soon. Surely her father would have come across the body, found her missing. More than any catspaw, Mai feared her father’s wrath once he discovered that she had fled the scene, though the dead body of the second catspaw alongside her mother’s might alleviate her punishment a bit. “…do you have a name I could use, perchance?” Mai blinked, quickly becoming aware of the muscled chest she was nestled against. Immediately she shoved the boy away, face burning a more reddish purple than usual. With a quick wave of her hand, the void genasi cleaned up her clothes and recomposed herself. “My name is none of your business. Now, I know a favor when a favor is due; if you could come with me, I think I know something which might suit your tastes.” Chūkū no mura wasn’t too far off; she could probably get there within the hour, if she hurried. The young noble began to walk through the forest again, with purpose. The boy followed behind after a moment. Now that they were standing side by side, Mai could see he easily had a couple inches on her; she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. His dirt-soaked clothes were as well made as the longsword, which now rested at his hip once more. Who in the world was this kid? “I’m Wolfgang, by the way.” The name hit that same wall in the back of her head, rested on the tip of her tongue. Familiar, so very familiar. But from where? “You can call me Hu-san.” “Husan? Alright.” “No, Hu-san. Like with the honorific.” “Ho-no-rific? That’s a big word, Husan. Big words for kids like you and me.” Mai was about to rip into him when she heard the rumblings of laughter from within Wolfgang. He was just fucking with her. With a roll of her eyes, Mai returned her attention to the road ahead. “So…where are you taking me, Hu-san?” “To the best ramen shop I know. My father knows the person who runs it. I might be able to get a message home from there.” “And what’s a ramen?” Horrified, Mai whirled around. “Do you even know what a dumpling is?” “Like spaetzle?” “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that.” “Like spaetzle. Got it.” ——— The Underwater Blossom was just as delicious as Mai remembered. Though he enjoyed the ramen as she did, Wolfgang took a special shine to the gyoza, quickly collecting a small pile of side dishes beside him. It was almost impressive how many he managed to eat at once, though his use of chopsticks could stand to be a little better. When she had a moment, Mai excused herself to “the bathroom” and disappeared into the back room. It was a place she’d spent many hours of her life, waiting as her father and the establishment owner talked business. Dai Akibara was a lovely man of many talents: cooking, running a business, but most of all: networking. Mai had no idea how much blood was shed to make sure this restaurant was still standing, and she didn’t really want to know. “Little Hu, as I live and breathe. I can’t help but notice you come accompanied by an unfamiliar face. Does your father know you’re here?” “I need you to take a message for me.” Akibara didn’t question it, simply grabbing a piece of parchment from his desk. When a Hu made an order, he listened. “Whenever you’re ready, dear.” “I’m fine and well. I just wandered into the woods. Stopped to smell the blossoms. I will be home soon, don’t worry too much. You can reach me the usual way if you need something.” Akibara scribbled each word down on the parchment in his neat Hokutan script. “And will that be all, little Hu?” She hesitated. “…tell him I’m sorry about Mom.” Akibara’s face contorted with confusion, but he wrote it down in his typical chicken scratch. “Anything else?” “That should be good. Another order of the gyoza, for the road. My companion did me a great service and I wish to repay him for his efforts.” “Does that have anything to do with those slashes in your sleeves?” She waved a hand over her sleeves, the silk suddenly continuous once more. “What slashes?” Akibara let out a sigh. “Amai.” Mai stiffened at the use of her given name. “Be careful. You’re always welcome here.” So it wasn’t a lecture. The muscles Mai hadn’t even realized had tensed up relaxed. “I will be, Uncle Aki. Just make sure Papa gets that note, okay?” “Alright, Little Hu. Now head out there. The gyoza should be there by the time you take your seat again.” With a brief hug, he sent her off. True to his word, Wolfgang was surrounded by a dozen extra plates when she sat down, piled high with dumplings of all kinds. Claiming a couple for herself, Mai began to pack her remaining dumplings into her mess kit for later. After performing the dance of payment - Mai offering her gold, Akibara refusing, and Mai insisting - Mai headed outside and back to the mouth of the forest. Wolfgang followed. “So, I suppose this is where we split ways. I can give you some of the dumplings if you’d like.” “Thank you, Hu-san. They were delicious, truly.” Wolfgang paused a moment. “Do you need to be home right this minute?” Mai thought about it for a moment. “Not really.” She blinked, almost surprised by her immediate response. “You want to see what’s on the other side of that mountain?” The young boy pointed off into the distance, where the crest of Hana no yama peeked through the trees. Tales told of a dragon who lived at the mountain’s peak and would grant a wish to any brave enough to ascend to his lair. They exchanged a glance. Then Mai shrugged. “You know what? Sure. And it’s Mai, by the way.” “Alright, Mai. Let’s get going, then.” And so they did.


I became a woman in bright orange walls. I became a woman like most do: grown before we could be girls. Aflame in hot houses, born into war zones, you start to like the burning. Mother was a heatseeker, all ashy lungs and cigarette scars. Soot filled smiles and such. She came from a long chain of smilers, all burst from the same blister. All living only halfway alive. They were all dead before they hit the ground; for as much as that word counted, anyways. I wish I could hate her. Hate the things she tried to build from the same bricks that made her. The most I can do is feign apathy. I wish I’d been fashioned just as foolishly. Just as beautifully. That’s the only niche nice women get to fill here. Birth giving butterflies: breakable and beautiful. She’d always believe in the lord and his plans. That everything would work out for us all in the end. It was one of the many things that, now, I wish I was capable of believing. *** I’m partway the mould of the first not-a-woman I met. A monarch collector. Wrinkled and grey in a way women weren’t meant to be. Jezebel wasn’t gentle, soft spoken or refined, just alive. It made that enough, in its own special way. Jez was born cross eyed, ugly, half blind and managed to see more of the world than any woman I knew or could hope, then, to be. It was never made to be a beautiful thing, just to make them. Jezebel was a painter, not a mother. It didn’t draw smiles, just the butterflies it had always been too nearsighted to see in the sky. Too myopic to snatch out of the sunlight. That was my job. A penny a piece. No one knew Jez’s real name. That, or they’d tried too hard to forget. To forget how the thing was born from the womb of exactly that which it could never be. Lost to time, and label loving, the town settled for the irony of backhanded biblical allusions. Jez was the first to let me know my father wasn’t gonna make it to midsummer. That you can’t treat what you don’t know you’re fighting. Then she just shrugged and passed me a mason jar. She told me to find myself a caterpillar. I flew home on wings of adolescent anger that day, just wanting to scream at the sky. I wanted to hit, to hurt something. I liked the feeling. I liked being on fire: being something I wasn’t supposed to be. I liked the sting in my eyes, the salt of it all. I liked becoming something my mother could never quite be: alive to the point of tears. Till I teared. Mother scolded me that evening, when I burst through the doorway. For the dust in my hair, the scabs on my knees and crushed glass in my hands. For that dangerous, dark part of me that yearned to be free. To be the one thing a woman in the sixties could never really be. I was too young to see how that protected me. I was too young to know that women weren’t supposed to be bruised; that men’s fists weren’t meant to get so loose late at night, when the beer bottles went empty to their bottoms. I’d need a few more years: time to understand my mother’s mantras and smiles. The shields of ‘everything being just fine’. The truth was, that mum could never be free, not while she had me. My father was a cadmium miner, like most men in that orange painted town. He brought home enough to pay the bills, and, if that was enough to feed me, she could take the bruises. If it was for me, she could dare to think he’d pull through; that we’d make it to the other side. She could swear that God had a plan till the cows came home. Till dad’s lungs finished exploding. Illusion was what kept that woman together at the seams, it’s a skill I wish I’d let myself learn. Instead, I just cocooned. I accepted. Jezebel had taught me, years ago, about the monarch’s cycle of life. How, in chrysalids, they managed to totally dissolve. They became, in all ways, unmade. Skin and meat turned to something like wine, just to rebuild those broken parts of themselves into something that could fly. Scientists, Jez would say, didn’t know how they kept memories when their neurons melted to goo. When they were totally destroyed. Jezebel said it’s because those scientists had never been women before. We’d learn, in time, that it was dust that did dad in. Haze in the underground air, the same substance that made the orange of our house’s painted drywall. Monarch tinged, lung killing despair. It drove my mother to the brink: to do herself in. She did it for so many reasons I now understand. I think she learned to love our house out of hell: dad’s punches and the burning. I think she’d always leaned on her smile, on some trust in God’s plan. That dad would bring his fists back to work one day.


So...I am basically a zombie. My body is rotting, I can't feel pain and other sensation either, my heart stopped and my head keeps rolling on the floor every time I turn it around. But I must say I am STILL not a zombie. As to why here is my story. It all started in the year 2050 when Science was taking over the whole world. Flying cars were invented, food turns into pills, houses were portable, and gadgets and other daily necessities can be stored in just a whip of a finger. Thinking back 50 years or maybe 100 years back it was impossible, that it will be something unconvincing like magic. But we, scientists made it all possible. Playing with our science knowledge and adding a little bit of imagination we made it all possible. Until that time when our team finally made a cure to all sickness with the help of a mushroom. Yep, Mushroom!

Ophiocordyceps unilateralis or also known as Ant-Zombie fungus.  It was discovered back in the 18th century by a British Naturalist called

Alfred Russel Wallace  and it was a study of a fungus taking charge of an ant somewhere on a certain tropical forest. It is a fungus that takes over an insect to be zombified, creepy? yes, but when we look at it medically it was known that this fungus and it's related species can produce

secondary metabolism  for the production of substances acting as

antibacterial agents  that protect the fungus-host ecosystem against further

pathogenesis  during fungal reproduction. Because of this

secondary metabolism , an interest in the species has been taken by natural product chemists and was discovered to produce small

molecules agent  that can be used as a human immunomodulatory  (something to do with human immunity) , anti-infective and anti-cancer agents. It's all good and these hundreds of years of research are all for the humanities advantage but it all came to a halt when we test it to human clones. At first, it was all going well, the surgeries went well because their feeling of pain is not that active and the small molecules produced by the fungus can be controlled and it indeed helps us cut the spreading of cancer cells but all hell broke when those human clones used for testing newly crafted cure wreck havoc in the lab and turn us into zombies. It's a shame but the hundred years of work is still a failure, now here I am lurking around aimlessly while picking up my rotting eye and sticking it back on my eye socket. I walk towards the gas station and sit on the bench. I saw a vending machine filled with my favorite chocolate milkshake but my rotting tummy will surely fail so I just look at it and reminisce the flavor of it. My friend, Julian which is also my colleague sat beside me and growl. "What should we do now?" He asked. I pull out my eyes and gave it to him. "Just talk to my eye, Julian. I can't turn my head since I am tired of picking it up on the ground." I said. My eye may be out of my body but I can still see him. I wonder why too. I roam my sight and saw how rotten he is. He used to be the best looking guy in the lab but now look at him. His jaw that used to be his asset is barely hanging on his face. You might wonder why we can still think, well for a further explanation this fungus can affect the body but it can't affect the brain. That's good news if you ask me but the probability is only 10%. In short in every 100 only 10 people can think so 90% of the population in the whole world are our enemies! Our goal? Look for zombies that can think like us and regain humanity once more by delivering our research to a certain person. But the human soldiers are not that smart. Since they claimed that all of us are just a lump of rotting meat walking and killing humans. Actually, we are not. A human may be infected when they sniff the pollen coming from our head but we don't infect them by biting. We are not harmful at all except to those bastards that caused the misunderstanding. They scare people for fun that's why their heads were blown off making them dead. Most of the fungus is on our head but it does not affect our brain so if someone blows our head into pieces our body automatically stops functioning. And oh, at night we have fo find a place with the perfect temperature to hide so that the fungus continues to grow and we won't die. Sun is not harmful to us but It can slow the fungus growth causing us to stop moving for a while. I saw him snort while looking at my face. "what?" I asked but the guy just snort again and said. " You look funny" I roll my other eye and snort back at him and said. "I saw a gun tucker inside that abandoned house. Use it to tucked back your falling jaw, Julian." He snorts back at me and I do the same. When our attention was caught by a crying child. A child seriously?! At this place where unconscious zombies might infect her?! I hurriedly walk limply towards the crying voice, leaving my eye with Julian. And upon arriving at the place I saw a girl hugging her doll tightly while crying. I hush her but the girl cries louder making me panic a little. "Stop! Don't cry or those zombies might hear you and approach you!" I said but the girl cries more when I saw a flying arm towards my direction slapping my face. It was from Julian. "Why did you slap me?!" I asked but my friend shut me up.

"Don't talk! Remember, we lost our communication ability. All humans can't understand us except our growling!" He said. Oh yes, Humans don't understand us. Sorry, I forgot. Julian then looks at me with furrowed brows and looks at the girl slightly lifting his eyes and curving it into a smile. The girl miraculously stops crying and looks at him.  Seriously, this guy is insane. We found the little girl shocked on her spot shivering. "Julian you can stop now! Julian!" I exclaimed Startling him and making his head slips off his hand. What should we do? We need to communicate with this girl and deliver her back home safely. I roam my eyes when Julian's head comes rolling at me making my eye pop out of its socket and roll around the grass. I was about to fight Julian to death, even though we are dead when my eyes was poked by a stick. I walk towards it, pick it up together with my eye, and walk back at the girl. I start to write using the burnt part of the stick. "Who are you? Where you came from? Who are you with?" I asked the girl. The girl with shivering lips said. "I am Anna Hutchins, I was with my father, his name is George Hutchins. He is looting on that grocery store but I got distracted by a beautiful butterfly and got separated from my father." She explained while holding her tears. I look at him pitifully and wrote on the ground again. "Do you remember your house?" She hesitated for a moment but she gingerly nods her head. "Don't be scared, I and my stupid friend will take you home" I wrote as she smiles at me and nods her head. When I remember the most important thing. I hurriedly wrote on the ground again. "Who's your father again?" She looks at me and answered "George Hutchins" Our eyes almost fall out and realized something. George Hutchin is the head researcher and the most knowledgeable in our field. We thought he turned to one of us but he did not! I'm so glad! Now we can deliver that to him. Julian look at me and said. "We can gain humanity again!" He growls and cheers making the girl gasped in fright. I slap him and reminded him to stop growling at the girl. He just smiles and nods as we cheer together, pumping our fist in the air. I look at the girl and wrote again. "Listen, Anna, don't get too close to us you might sniff the pollen on us and turn into a zombie, and don't get too far from us either or we can't protect you against those curious zombies that can't think. Don't take your mask off too, you understand?" I asked. She looks at us and gingerly nods then I offer her the stick and she holds it tightly as we walk on the road towards the lab to fetch the research papers bearing the last after-effects of the drug. We just walk the road limply with my hands connected to the stick that Anna is holding from the other side while Julian drags his feet while singing a song walking alongside us. Sometimes we stop and let Anna rest a little. Walking without stopping is not a problem for us even with rotting bodies but to Anna, It's difficult. We also stop on empty houses to let her sleep until morning while we guard the house all night and feed her almost anything edible we saw on the way. Days and weeks past just like that and slowly we saw a glimpse of Anna's heart finally opening to us making me and Julian happy. It's been almost a year since that unfortunate day when the whole world turns into chaos but looking at it now, It's quite peaceful, at least in this place... I'm pretty sure the soldiers are doing their job by eradicating the scattered wandering dead bodies on the place. Anna suddenly stops on her tracks and whip her head towards a certain house. "Anna?" I called but she did not leave her eyes on that house and walk towards it with somber eyes. I was about to stop her but Julian stops me so we just watch her as she walk inside the gate and sat on one of the chairs. It was a modern house that looks like it's been left out during a birthday party since a Happy Birthday banner is still hanging on the wall of the house and the rotten cake was all over the ground. I saw Anna wiped her tears and sobs. I poke her with the stick and write on the ground. "Is this your house?" I asked. She look at me somberly and nods, her tears are still flowing down her cheeks.

"It was my 10th birthday when suddenly a group of wounded people came at us and bit our guest. Dad was quick to shelter me but too late to shelter mom back inside the house. We saw how those guys devore mom and turned her into something scary." She explained.

"Devour? As far as I know, It can't affect even if we bit people" I said when Julian reminded me of something. "It was those hooligans fault. Remember Jack with his followers who scare the humans and act like those zombies on the movie?" Julian said. Oh yeah, Those guys whose head were blown by the soldiers. I sigh at the thought of it when Julian walk hurriedly and fix the banner. Picking up his idea I quickly pull up the chairs and tables and put the cupcake I got from the abandoned grocery store and put the candle on top of it without removing the plastic. I tap Anna with the stick and wrote on the ground. "Happy Birthday Anna, Sorry to know what you've been through" I look at her apologetically knowing how we start it all. Jullian and I sing a happy birthday song that sounds like a growling animal on Anna's ear but luckily it made her happy. She pretends to light up the candle and blow on it and with that, we happily celebrated her birthday, though it's just a pretend birthday party hoping that It could cheer up Anna a little. Then Julian lean down and get the stick from me to write on the ground too. "It's okay Anna, We'll restore humanity and celebrate your birthday again!" He said making Anna broke into a small smile, relieving us. She then runs towards a big box and rampage through it, she then both gave us a magic blackboard toy with a pen. "By the way who are you two? I was too scared before to know who you are...but you sure are different from those who we encounter before" She wrote on the board and smile at us, we both look at each other before we answer. "I am Jeraldine Anderson and This is Julian Ward. We are both from the City and our job is the same as your father." I wrote. "Your father is our colleague and we must give the papers to your father before Humanity was swept out by this fungus that turned people into zombies," Julian explained further. She then pulls the button that erases her notes and writes again. "I can help you too! I promise I won't hold you back!" She said and pump her fist on the air. We chuckle and thanked her as we exit the house when a shotgun suddenly burst my arm. Jullian hurriedly pull my other arm and hid us behind his back. "Let go of that child!" An angry and rotting old man with a shotgun said threatening us to burst our heads if we won't let her go. "Child let's go here," He said. Looking at him he's like us too. He's infected maybe just a month ago since he's still fresh. "Are you an idiot old man?! She can't understand us! All you're doing is making her scared!" Julian explained. The old guy then burst Julian's arm making Anna scream in fright as he hurriedly reloads his shotgun. Without knowing what to do. I pull out my liver and throw it at him making Anna's face contort in disgust and pull the stick and run. "Jullian hurry up and run!" I screamed but the old man shot his limpy leg making him stumble. Our eyes widen as we saw Jullian hug the old guy's leg buying us some time to run. "Run now! Go to the lab and bring the research paper to Profesor Hutchins!" He said while struggling. Then we run as fast as we could away from the place. I turn my head around and saw the old man pointing the gun to Julian's head. "Remember bring back the humanit-- BANG!" He didn't finish his words when the old man burst his head off. I am crying but i was too dry so there are no tears falling. I quickly enter the password in the lab and get the research paper. The old guy is still hunting us so I put the research papers on a sealable plastic bag and put it to Anna's bag. I hurriedly wrote on the lab's whiteboard telling her to go and gave it to her father while I am stopping the old man. She cries and shakes her head, not wanting to leave me behind. "Anna! Don't be stubborn go now!" I growl but as expected she doesn't understand me so I quickly poke her with the stick and asked her to hide under the table. The old rotting man finally came and cock his shotgun at me. "Where's the child?" He asked. But I just look at him. I pull my right kidney and throw it at him but he's not deterred. At this rate, I might lose all my internal organs. So I quickly think of a way to get that gun when my eyes laid on something. I slowly walk towards the red button and look at him. "Go to hell mother fu*ker!" I said and push the button startling him. The whole lab turns red because of the emergency button that I pushed and a loud noise filled the whole place making him panic a little. I use the opportunity and pull the gun with the help of my intestine and shot his head off. I slowly approach the table where Anna is hiding and urge her to come out. We left the place and walk towards the city where the soldiers and other humans are.

The things that happened are still fresh on my mind and I know, that I shouldn't feel pain but my chest feels like it hurts every time I remember Julian. His contorted smile, his rotting face, his falling jawline...gosh! How stupid it is to just realize that I am in love with my best friend? My thoughts were cut by Anna's voice. "Father!!!!" She exclaimed and let go of the stick to run for his father's embrace. I smile at that image knowing that Anna suffers miserably due to our mistake and probably most of the people in the world including me. Noticing my love for my best friend when my body is already rotting. I was about to turn my back when I heard Anna's voice. "No father! Don't!" She exclaimed as bullets shower on me erasing my whole existence.

Too bad, I was hoping to have a heartwarming farewell to Anna but I guess looking like this, It's impossible. Goodbye Anna. "Hey! What are you laying on the ground for?" I heard Julian said. I quickly stand up and face him. His face is not rotting and his jaw is still intact...I smile at him and said. "I love you!" She smiles at me and holds my hand. "I know," He said as we walk towards the stair up in the sky.


“I am a mystery to be solved.” The words whispered through his mind, echoing down the empty corridors of his thoughts. His gaze returned to her again and again. She was a completely average looking student with mousy brown hair that would never garner a second glance from most. In fact, he wasn’t sure he had seen anyone take notice of her these last few weeks. She was always reading a book, sitting in the same spot, dressed in the same style of vintage clothing that seemed all the rage in thrift stores these days. Why was she here all the time?

He ripped his eyes away from her, forcing himself to re-read the same passage again for the tenth time. At the end, he found he still hadn’t managed to absorb any of it. He growled without realizing it, only to be shushed by a passing student for being noisy. His thoughts raced in circles, knowing he would fail this test unless he could get back on task. Without conscious thought, his attention drifted to her once again. He saw her look up and lock eyes with him as if she had sensed him staring. It was an unsettling electric connection that neither seemed willing or able to break. Her eyes held a challenge in them, as if to say “Can you solve me?” As the tension grew, she finally closed her book and stood up. Without breaking eye contact he watched her back up into the aisle between the stacks and stretched out a hand crooking her finger, making it clear that she wished him to follow. The shadows seemed to envelop her as she continued to drift backwards. The last thing to disappear was her beckoning hand and then she was gone. He closed his book abruptly at this further distraction from his vitally important studying. He knew it would be impossible to concentrate with that beckoning image in his mind. He quickly decided that he should follow and get his answers so that he could put his mind at rest and regain his ability to focus. He stood and swiftly moved into the shadows that had consumed her image. As his eyes adjusted he saw a flap of her checkered skirt disappearing around the distant corner. He rushed to follow, trying to keep his footsteps quiet within the hushed atmosphere. As he reached the end and looked towards where she had gone he saw her shoe slip from view. The thrill of the chase was quickly replaced by a sense of victory as he knew she had gone down a dead end towards the windows of the library. He knew that the only thing down there was a small nook for displaying holiday decorations. He had her at last. This game of cat and mouse would end and her mystery would be answered. He wore a smirk on his face when he looked down the corridor and she wasn't there. The little minx was leading him on a game of hide and seek and she must have tucked herself away in the display area just out of sight. He popped his head around the corner saying “Gotcha!” and his confusion was palpable when he found it was empty. He looked behind him knowing there was no other way out. Perhaps, this was the mystery to be solved. He began searching the small nook for any clues that might explain her disappearance. He found worn scratches, faded with age along the back wall, which could indicate that it might slide. It took him several tries to find a section with enough grip on the surface to allow him to move the thin wall sideways. There seemed to be a hidden force attempting to push back and keep the wall from sliding open. Once he got his fingers in it was easier to push it open, but the force remained and he had to hold it there to see what secrets were revealed.

It was a thrilling discovery, a dark opening that seemed to beckon him forward with an irresistible invitation to his curious mind. With his studies forgotten, he once again lost himself to the thrill of the chase. He pulled out his cell phone and activated the flashlight, shining its pale glow into the yawning pit of the unknown before him. He shifted himself sideways through the narrow opening which seemed to hardly get much use and the panel slid quickly shut as soon as he released his hold upon it. The dust on the floor was thick and undisturbed, but elsewhere the air currents from his movement caused a swirling cloud to arise, assaulting his nose and reflecting the light from his phone. His quarry was still nowhere to be seen. She continued to elude him but he knew it wouldn't be for much longer. He would soon solve this mystery and his mind would be free of these obsessive thoughts once again. The space seemed to be a small storage area, forgotten by time and unused for decades. There was no point in looking at the shelves or the small boxes. He limited his searching to places that could fit the mystery girl. He looked behind a stack of boxes and on the far side of a cabinet. He even checked inside the cabinet in case it was empty enough for her to hide in. He found nothing. There was only one place left to check. An old steamer trunk with a rounded lid that looked like a pirate's chest stood before him. He could only imagine that it must have been used for a prop in some school musical. His heart was pounding as he reached for the lid with a shaky hand. He felt sure that this would be an appropriate moment for a jump scare. He steeled his nerves with the expectation that she would throw the lid open with a scream, lunging toward him in this darkened and dusty space, attempting to give him a heart attack. He licked his dry lips, leaning away from the chest as he reached to open it. He nearly felt disappointed when nothing happened. The lid opened on decaying leather straps, falling backwards with a bang. Inside was a dirty looking bag, riddled with moth holes. Could she be in there? It seemed unlikely, but he decided to take one step further and open the bag to look. The sight that greeted him filled him with nausea and a growing sense of horror. He stumbled backwards as if to put distance between himself and the contents of the bag. Inside, the off-white color of bone could be seen along with vintage clothing and a clump of mousy brown hair. How did she end up here? Who killed her? Why leave her in this place? One mystery has been solved, but new ones have blossomed in its place.


***Warning, people do die. *** We were told to stay calm. To ignore the waves as the beasts rose from the depths and pummelled into each other. As they hammered against the waters for days. Fluctuations of their fight caused the waves to upsurge and crush our homes. Finally, one fell, the blue waves embracing it and tugging it down further than we had ever gone, down from whence it came. We thought that was the end. We were told it was over. Told we could rebuild the houses battered by the waves and so we did. We tore down trees to fix walls and we cleaned the floors of seaweed. But then the beast rose once more. We watched from the beaches as it advanced to the island. We screamed as ripples from its movements became tsunamis that crashed down on the shores, ripping away rebuilt houses, and dragging them to the ocean. We sent our messenger ship to the mainland, who had sworn they would protect us. Who had taken over our government with the promise of safety. Who had made an oath. The beast descended onto the water washed sand of what used to be our beaches. It advanced inland, bringing devastation with every crashing step. It turned to us as we ran from it. Some of us found shelter and other found the claws of the beast. It took soul after soul, listened to scream after scream. A reply came from the mainland. A messenger boat came to us from our guardians across the sea. “A huge beast attacking your shore?” They called us liars trying to rob them of their resources. They said they would not fall victim to such nonsense. The beast killed more every day, finding our shelters, and destroying them, removing safe harbour after safe harbour from our reach. To take more lives into its bowels. Again, we called for aid from the ones we had trusted. We asked for boats, food, and water. Simple things that were easy to give. They scorned us again. They said they were too busy to amuse us. They said they had real problems to deal with. We read these words, huddled away from the sunlight. We read them scorning us, we read them pushing us to the side like lying children. We read them abandoning us. Yet we still held out, we sent for help as our land was invaded. The one messenger boat sped back and forth as we became more isolated from the world and from ourselves.  We told them just to come and see. We told them we were not lying. We told them everything we knew, but we knew less and less as we lost connection to the other shelters. No one wanted to run between them anymore. They told us that we were going to steal their boat. They told us we were liars. They told us they knew all about the ‘trick’ we were playing. We sent a final plea.  Certain we were the last shelter still standing on our lush island. We poured every heart we had left into one last letter. We spent weeks making it the best we could, weeks working to convince our ‘guardians’ our ‘protectors’ across the waves. But as the little boat left the shore, as the captain took the two passengers he could fit. The beast came. It saw movement, it scuttled across the water covered hills and plunged down at the boat. It took our message, our one safe line and our hopes. We ran. We ran as long as we could. It chased us. It chased us as long as we could run. We came to the water; we could not run anymore. It crested like a wave, ready to crash down on us. Some managed to swim away. The rest were taken into the beast. We watched our fellows end as we struggled to stay still and float in the turmoil of the waves. That is when we knew they were not coming. That is when we knew they lied. That is when we knew our allies across the sea were too far to care what happened to the island they swore to protect. But that is not where our story ends. We stayed still. A few of us were lost to the waves but we had no choice. When the beast left to search for more of us, we headed for land. Tired, we were forced to rest in the open. Fearing that the beast would remember us. In the morning we made our move. We built rafts out of fallen trees that floated in the water. We set out, far from the beast and into the waters it had risen from. We drifted as far as we dared. We found an island. Isolated but free from the destruction of the beast. We started again, this time without the mainland. Without our ‘guardians’. This time we flourished. This time we didn’t worry about the other people because they would never worry about us. That was our history. It was better than theirs. The beast moved forward, past the remains of our old home. It found the mainland and all the other lands. It did not care for the swords and the arrows thrown at it. It did not care for the shouting and the screaming. The people split into chaos once they knew their weapons could not save them, so maybe it was good that we didn't have any. They ran and fought each other rather than hiding like us. You might even call them brave, though we prefer the term stupid. The beast didn't care that they fought each other, it probably made it easier. We wonder if they ran to an island in the middle of nowhere like we did. Honestly it's unlikely such fools could survive. Though we don’t care that much... After all they didn’t care about us, we're happier like this anyway... free from their greed and their righteousness, maybe the beast was doing us a favour.


The traitor stood over his broken father with victory within his grasp. There was no God Emperor to be worshiped, just a man. “I never wanted this. I never wanted to unleash my legions. Together we banished the ignorance of old night, but you betrayed me. You betrayed us all. You stole power from the gods and lied to your sons. Mankind has only one chance to prosper, if you will not seize it, then I wil-” and with a press of a button the tv switches off. “Alright, to bed with you.” I order my apprentice, Vanessa. “B-but what about the ending? Is the Emperor gonna die?! Did Horus just win?!?! How can I sleep knowing there’s a possibility of the Imperium falling to Chaos?!?!?!” Her questions grow frantic as she grows pale in the face, either from anxiety, or loss of breath from speaking so fast, and loud. “That’s just a tough shit you gotta take kid, cause if your eyes aren’t shut in the next thirty minutes, you’ll be guessing the ending for the next week.” The eyes to my mask dim from shriveling patience and she takes the hint, removing herself from a brown wool couch that suffers multiple tears and stains from lord knows what. My mundanely milk white walls suffer the same as the couch. Most of everything in this apartment suffers in some way shape or form. I hate this damned place-just the walls alone give me a feeling of great dissatisfaction. I feel trapped in this place. Trapped with a brat who I must leave a legacy to. The brat in question has just emerged from the cramped little bathroom that stays snug in the corner of the apartment. “Can you…eeeeuuuaaahhh…maybe tell me a story before I go to sleep?” She questions through a hefty yawn. I suppose it’s normal for children to enjoy stories. I was like that as a child-demanding my mother to tell me stories of heroes and their great battle against villains. Of course then I learned the difficult truth of good, and evil in society. There was barely a difference. “Fine.” I mutter. “Get to your room and get changed, I’ll be in to tell you something in a minute.” While I'm not too pleased with it, I find this option much more appealing than her losing sleep because she didn’t know the ending of a damn movie. The girl smiled from cheek to cheek, running to her room with breakneck speed, accidentally hitting the door to her room before she could open it. Dumb kid. With a swift motion, I pick up a pack of cigarettes and my lighter from the coffee table beside the couch. I'm gonna need these if I’m to make through for Vanessa’s storytime. I enter the girls room, seeing the kid already in prayer position, so I join my little disciple. My knees fall to the floor about a foot away from her, my hands follow in this action, laying palm up on the floor beside, my eyes shut, and with everything ready, we pray in unison. “All mighty King of Corpses, hear us. We tire of the long day and wish to find solace in an even longer night. Allow us rest, so that we may awaken strong to fight for you come daybreak. Grant us the bravery to endure the dark so that we may not fear the might. Give us a moment of peaceful mundanity tonight, so that we may prepare for the great wars of tomorrow. Allow us rest All Mighty King of Corpses. Cloak us in the quiet black and the warm red. By your name we pray. By your name we live. By your name we kill…Amen” The words barely escape our lips before Vanessa almost throws herself into her bed, covering herself with a large purple cotton blanket. As I rise from prayer, I remove the circular piece from my mask, leaving open a small hole that's usually used for smoking and pill popping more than eating or drinking. With Vanessa in bed and waiting, I sit on the chair that rests not five feet from her, lighting my cigarette, and taking a hefty drag as I do so. “Have I ever told you the history of our people, V?” I ask with wearily lit eyes, hoping I hadn’t recounted the tales of Grimald and his knights during one of my drugged up tirades. Bright eyed, and smiling, she nods with the typical enthusiasm of a child. Good. Out of all the war stories and monologues my own mentor ever gave, it was the origin of our people that I’d always crave to hear. It was unlike the stories of Greek or Norse myths and legends. There were no grandiose victories over the course of Grimalds crusade. No statues to be erected for the heroes of the Mortemus. No good ending with a some stupid ass moral lesson for children to learn from. This was a story that whole species could learn from. No good vanquishing evil to give the listener a feeling of ease when it’s all through. This was With the corpse of a smile on my face, and a cigarette loosely dangling from my mask, I begin. “Back in the 11th century-before we started calling ourselves the Mortemus, we were known as the Knights of Mortem- Knights of the Dead. When the Christian Churches Second Crusade was underway, the pope at the time had decided to invest in soldiers of a more superstitious nature. They had just won their first victory against the Muslim threat, so now they had wiggle room to worry of a more sinsister danger-working behind the scenes to topple their holy empire. I speak of course of demo-” “Demons really exist?!” She blaringly questions with wide eyes that looked around every dark corner her room had. “Don’t be a pussy kid. We’re only just starting and you’re about to shit your pantaloons.” I half heartedly joke, getting a giggle out of the girl. “Yes, demons exist, and I’m not talking about the demons that lay within humans. I talk of true demons, child. Demons that lay within the shadows of this world, waiting patiently to strike us down when the days of the God of Gore and his deliverance are upon us.” Vanessa raises the blanket up just past her nose, shaking from an extreme feeling of fear, but still staring at me, awaiting more. “Now, the church didn’t want too many valuable soldiers wasted on a witch hunt so they had decided to experiment with this new army of crusaders. It would be an Order of the least qualified of soldiers to be led by the most capable of warriors and leaders. The cardinals would call upon delinquent priests and failed holy men to act as soldiers- or at least dress them up as such. To lead this investigation army, the pope had appointed High Chaplain Daegal Grimald. His second in command would be Sergeant Garin Burchard- Two of the greatest knights in the First Crusades. The High Chaplain was more like a miniature giant than a man, over seven feet tall, built with enough muscle and power that he was said to wrestle with a bloodlusted bear for fun. Grimald wasn’t just dumb muscle though, he was articulate and stoic. Wise and cunning. A good man. His body was built for battle, but he learned to lead with a sharp, diplomatic mind if he could. That wasn’t to say he was shy about the ways of war-not at all. With strength comparable to that of Hercules of Greek myth combined with the tactical genius that even the best generals today would strive for, the mighty Chaplain and his crusaders would lay waste to their enemies in almost every battle they found themselves in. Grimald was often compared to the prophet Moses-always trying to solve conflicts peacefully, but if pushed too far, capable of bringing down none other than God's own wrath upon his enemies and those who would challenge his people. If Daegal was seen as a prophet in shining armor, Garin was seen as a demon bearing a cross. Burchard the Berserker, or Burchard the Butcher-depended on which side of the crusade was talking about him. He was infamously known throughout the holy war for his beastly rage. The way soldiers would tell it, he’d get the devil to possess him, and force the devil to fight for him. Guy was known for raiding villages and cities at night, and by time he, and his small force of raiders had left in the wee hours of morning, there were no lives left to be conquered, just a hollowed city, newly decorated with the flesh and blood of its previous inhabitants. Though he was effective in the battlefield, the church found Garin too feral to be allowed in the limelight of the war, so he was removed from the frontlines of battle, and forced to take a secondary leadership position in the experimental crusade. No more glory, no more battles to be had. There wasn’t even a real enemy to be working towards. The berserker was a fucking ghost hunter now, and he had never felt more humiliated. To the Chaplain who believed in the darker forces at work, this was the greatest of honors. He was chosen to lead a hunt most holy against the direct enemies of God. No longer would he suffer mere humans who would fight for a belief than him. Now, the real evil would suffer him. He would dub this new order of demon hunting crusaders the Knights of Mortem, and their mission, the Brimstone Crusades.” Before I can continue, the kid emerges from the covers a bit more, like a turtle growing brave. “Why would the church put these guys together, though? It doesn’t make much sense to me-making a wise and stoic leader work together with a hot head who doesn't even seem to belong in this crusade to begin with, all to lead a buncha investigators to find demons and monsters. It just doesn’t really make much sense, sir.” The only answer I can conjure for a quite reasonable question is “How the fuck should I know what a bunch’ve old wrinkly dicks were thinking way back when?” I probably asked my mentor questions like these all the time, trying to make sense of the plot holes and dilemmas that ultimately had the potential of muddling the story if one were to think too far into it. I’d always get the same answer that I offer my own disciple, though, trying to be a better teacher than my mentor was to me, I continue on, saying “There is no way of comprehending the logic back then, but it was due to the idocrity of said logic during this time that we have been rebirthed. I rebirthed from human to Thanatron, and you, human to Mechaness. While it’s little better than the answer provided before, my words result in a look of pride at the mention of our ranks. As Thanatron, I serve as my peoples Death Machine. Only the greatest of Mortemus warriors are allowed judgment by the King of Corpses, and if the King finds us worthy, then we take vows to seal away our face, ergo, our humanity, and lead our people, in both progress and battle. In combat, the Thanatron must bear the brunt of enemy forces, leading the conflict from the front rather than in some tent or conference room. Vanessa’s rank commands that she serve as my shadow, just as all Mechaness, and Mechanors have shadowed their Thanatron since the days of Grimald. Normally this honor would be given to the children of Thanatron, though since I lack a breeding partner, I grant my adopted child the honor of her rank. As Mechaness, she is my support, laying down cover fire, picking off the scraps that I’ve left in my wake, ensuring I’m not overwhe-honestly, she’s really around to make my life as convenient as possible-both in, and out of battle. In turn for this I am grooming her to take my place as Thanatron once the days of the God of Gore are upon us. Together we make two of three of our mighty race, the third being my mentor who now acts as our Witchetarum, a shaman that guides us in religion, and warfare. “For the first few months the Men of Mortem were fruitless in their endeavors.” I carry on with the story, afraid of getting sidetracked again in ranks and positions. “Their dark crusades often lead them to dead ends. While the High Chaplain stood vigilante and his will remained unwavered by his Order's lack of findings, the rest of his men-even his second in command, had already given up on any hope of finding anything. The failed holymen and priests were completely fine with this sort’ve work; relieved of their religious responsibility without having to fear damnation, traveling across both familiar, and foreign lands with no worries of war. It was paradise for them. Garin on the other hand was fuming. It was said that the Chaplain and his Sergeant often argued frequently for those first few months of inactivity. Daegal saw only a savage in his second in command. A man only fit to fight, and nothing else. There was no place in this crusade, or even the holy war for a beast like Garin On the other side though, Burchard felt disgusted with his commander. Here was a giant of a man forged for war, and he wanted to waste his time with diplomacy and politics. Even in the ridiculous demon crusade they took part in, the Sergeant was practically dumbfounded by Grimalds way of tracking cases, wasting too much time talking with locals and reading in his little Christian bestiary to determine what sort’ve “demon” they were chasing. Garin had no problems expressing in rather livid fashion how this was all some sick joke of the church, keeping them away from the Second Crusade, where they needed. He had found out the hard way that there was little to no respect given given to demon hunters in reality. Sure, they were worshiped by zealots and peasant, but were nothing but a jest to those who mattered. Even the other Orders of the Second Crusade were known to laugh and mock the Knights of Mortem, seeing the demon hunters as useless wannabes to be excluded from the brotherhood. Daegal saw it much differently. They were exactly where they needed to be, hunting the direct evils of the world as loyal hounds would hunt soon to be prey.” “Hounds?” Another interruption from my disciple halts my progress. Jesus christ, who knew telling a child a fucking bedtime story could be so difficult? “Yes. Hounds.” I respond coldly, my patience diminishing even further. “These men were simply dogs of the church. Their withered old masters would point, and they’d charge ahead, eager to claim whatever their masters so desired. Wealth, land, people- no matter what it was, any and all would pursue it without question, and for what? Not for bloodlust. Not for true power. Not for the pursuit of greatness and glory-No! It was for “salvation”. They followed their old masters commands to the letter in order to appease a god who wouldn’t even shoot a glance their way. Pathetic.” The red shine of my eyes begins to grow as a result of my anger. “Wouldn’t you do the same though?” Vanessa questions with ever so ignorant eyes. I do not respond, allowing her the opportunity to further explain herself, and she does. “If you never became Mortemus, and someone told you that you could either follow their command in exchange for unending bliss after you died, or you could go to a place full of pain and torture if you didn’t, you wouldn’t at least want to hear what they have to sa-” I don’t even let her finish before I begin pointing out the fallacies of her thinking. “No I wouldn’t. Any scumbag who offers salvation in exchange for servitude is nothing but a self righteous prick who’s better off getting the electric chair. Besides, none of that’s even real V. We find our salvation in slaughter. We worship one deity and he demands no shrines, no buildings, or statues, not even a symbol for the masses to look to. Our Corpse King only asks for the sacrifices of our enemies. He demands we stand steadfast against those who would do us harm. In a perfect world he would have us as artists rather than warriors, expressing ourselves in all the things we’ve slain.” I can see Vanessa getting excited again, her morbid interests taking control. “Mhm! The King will protect us from the God of Gore, a-and will help revive our dying people if we endure the End Times…” She preaches to me for a change, and I feel pride for being the one to teach her all of this in the first place. “Sir? Can you continue the story now?” My student asks with eager eyes. I oblige her. “So one day when the Order was trekking through thick woods on yet another chase for wild goose, they began to hear the collective screaming of men, women, and children from deeper in the woods, so deeper they went. For the first time in this entire crusade, all men knew fear. Ignorant fear of the unknown that they would forever cherish after they had reached the source of the screaming. What they saw would forever change them. The air had been filled with screams all morning, a collective of men, women and children. Horrendous screams that threatened the well being of any who had the misfortune of hearing it. Screaming that High Chaplain Daegal Grimald had known all too well at this point in his career. Abominations barely comprehensible, ripping fellow humans apart like a child would an insect. Tall, slender creatures, with skin that was either ashen or nearly pitch black, each tearing or crushing a human until nothing was left but bits and pieces, only to throw the remains into an already disturbingly large pile. The pile itself laid upon a vile circular symbol drawn in each of the victims' own blood. At what must have been the front of this symbol was one of their “priests.” A nude man with skin tattered, and torn. The pupils to his eyes had been cut out with nearly perfect surgical precision and the skin to his jaw had been completely ripped from his face. Demons…the Knights of Mortem had found demons. Most of the men could hardly handle it. Those who weren’t frozen in place ran as far as they could. Even Burchard the Berserker himself had felt fear that day. How could he not? This was well beyond any human's capacity for comprehension. But while his knights and Sergeant stood in fear or ran, Daegal Grimald stood firm…and he marched forward. A slow march, each step leaving a tremendous thud that could be heard by all as he walked on. He had no crisis from the scene that played out before his eyes, for he understood perfectly what was occurring. He felt no fear as marched for his foes, for there was only rage to be felt. He would suffer no evil, for evil would suffer him! His march shifted to an earth quaking charge, and he struck the wicked priest with a six foot long mace that was said to weigh over a hundred pounds. The way our people have always told it, upon impact, the entirety of the priests head had blown into pieces, splattering skull and brain across the tainted grounds. This beautiful display of violence was enough to shake Sergeant Burchard out of his little existential crisis. With two war axes in his hands and fear ever present in himself, the Berserker charged forward, hacking and slashing at the creatures with such speed that his plan of attack was inconceivable to the eyes of both human and demon. With their commanders plunged into the hellish skirmish, the remainder of the men who hadn’t ran away, ran forward, motivated by the bloodshed. A force of two hundred knights were put to the test of steel and flesh against a little over twenty demons, this would be a slaughter, and they knew it.” “So our people won the battle?!” She explodes from her blanket, sitting up in anticipation. This was always the best part of telling this story. No purely good endings to leave the listener with an equally purely good feeling. “Just barely, by time the demons had been put down, the Knights of Mortem had been reduced two soldiers. Two of the bravest. Two of the fiercest. Two of the luckiest. As for those they meant to save from vile clutches of the demons, only one survived. A woman who would go on to be our first Withitarum. With broken bones and ripped flesh, Daegal, and Garin survived the onslaught, but their Order was lost. How could they fight this evil when it took everything they had to kill less than a platoons worth of foe? The commanders would have to rebuild. Start from scratch. Those who know of this tale and are not Mortemus would tell you that the two men's minds had broken, but we know the truth. They had been granted clarity of vision, seeing with their own eyes what many had feared in the quiet of their homes. How long had this been going on? How many had been taken by this abominable threat? Who was leading it all? Questions that could only be answered through more bloodshed…much more bloodshed. With nothing left to do other than ponder everything, the three survivors of the massacre left the wicked woods for their church to report their findings. It was a quiet walk back. Neither men nor woman could even allow a sound to break from them, but they all knew there was no return. No normal to return to. We see this as a walk that would forge the future of the Mortemus. A slaughter of this magnitude would never happen to the Knights of Mortem ever again. They would come prepared next time. They would be wrath incarnate to the next batch of demons they found. They would hold no tolerance for the weak willed and meek minded. No feelings but hate for the heretic and the masses of corruption that infected the earth. Grimald would change the name of his crusade when he was back in the sanctum of his church. No longer would the Knights of Mortem endeavor in the Brimstone Crusades. The knights would now take part in the most significant and important scouring known to man. This would be the Oblivion Crusades. The End. There is only shock to be expressed through Vanessa, eyes wide and mouth agape. A smile resurrects beneath my mask before I reattach the mouth piece to my mask, finding I’d gone through half the pack of cigarettes throughout my telling of this story. I’m impressed with myself. Getting up from the chair I pat my apprentice on the head a few times, and shut her lamp off. “Try and get some sleep V.” I suggest, knowing there's quite a startling chance of her staying up all night in order to pick apart and dissect all that I have told her. I was the same way, so even if she does wake up with bags under her eyes tomorrow and yawns every ten minutes, I suppose I can deal with it. Just as I’m about to shut her door and leave, I am stopped in my tracks. “W-wait! I-is all of that really true?!” Vanessa looks at me as if my answer will determine the rest of her life. She’s anxious beyond reasoning for some reason. I pause for a second, letting tension build as I do so. “Yes…it’s all true.” and with that, I wish my disciple a goodnight, and shut the door behind me. As I sit back on that same tattered and torn couch from the start, guilt enters my mind. I lied to Vanessa. Not a complete lie, most of the story is indeed true, but it’s the ending that I twisted. There was more than one survivor from the sacrifice, and more knights endured the brutality than just Daegal and Garin. Yet only three left those woods alive. I know if I told Vanessa this true ending, she’d grow too suspicious to entrust her life to me, and I’ve no use for suspicious brats in my dying legion. I need a warrior who I can leave a legacy to once my time as the God of Gore is upon us. She will be Thanatron someday, and I only hope she’s grown to hate the human as I have. When I finally have the means to wipe the vermin race off of this earth, I hope she will understand why. That I won’t be doing it for some bloated god or deities, but for our people. So that we may replace the human and prosper where they have failed.


It was 3:45 a.m and I’d just finished my overnight shift at the factory, just another long, dull night in a string of long, dull nights. I was on Old Block Road listening to the Michael Stanley Band belt out “Working Again,” the best goddamn unknown band that Cleveland has ever produced, and now he’s dead so all I have is his disembodied voice. MSB should’ve gone a lot further than they did; guess you could say that about a lot of folks, including me. I didn’t usually drive this way, but I was tired and distracted and missed the turnoff. It’s not like anyone was waiting up for me. Hell, no. I saw her about a quarter mile from Rankin Bridge. She was on the side of the road, slim with long brown hair braided down her back like a knotted rope. When my headlights passed over her, I saw that she was dressed in a flimsy tee so sheer you could see her nipples, a long white skirt down to her ankles, and pink flip-flopsoh, you know, those foam things, the kind you wear to the beach. I never could wear them. They always gave me blisters. She didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular. She just stood there, gently swaying as if she was listening to music in her head. It was like she was waiting for someonesomeone special. There was something about hermaybe it was her hair, or the way her hips moved, or the warm spring breezethat made me think of Jenny. Now that was a shot to the gut. Damn, I hadn’t thought of Jenny in years. Well, that’s not quite the truth. I thought about her a lot. We were seventeen, we were in love, and we spent most of that magical summer in the back seat of my old man’s Cadillac along with the sounds of Meat Loaf and Billy Joel. When I held Jenny close, she made me feel that anything and everything was possible, that I could be something more than what I was, which wasn’t much, to begin with. I had no special talents, no hidden genius. But sweet Jenny made me feel like I mattered, and when you’re seventeen, that’s your whole fucking world in the palm of your hand. When Jenny told me that she was pregnant, I didn’t hesitate. I went straight to the old man and swore up and down I was going to marry her, no matter what he or anyone else said. I should’ve known that the old buzzard would have other ideas. See, in those days, I was being groomed to take over the mill. I would go to college, get a business degree, settle down, and marry the “right” woman, the woman he picked out. The bastard had my whole life planned out, and no whore in a tank top and cut-off shorts was going to mess that up. I put up a hell of a fight, but in the end, the old man got his way. He always did. He had a way of wearing you down like a pair of brass knuckles. My mother had long ago given up, preferring a bottle of Scotch to reality. I started the fall semester at the state university, Jenny was shipped off to California to stay with relatives, and her Dad, who was a foreman at the mill, got a fat raise and a promotion. It was all nice and tidy, wrapped up like a Christmas present. The old man even paid for the abortionsix hundred bucks due to complications. He docked me for it, too, and held it over my head like a fucking speeding ticket. Oh, the old man liked to think he had everything figured out, but the one thing he hadn’t counted on was life. In my junior year, the son of a bitch had a stroke that left him drooling in a diaper. The mill went bankrupt, Mom went off the deep end, and I had to drop out of school. The day after he was buried, I took off in his Cadillac. My first stop was Jenny’s house, where her father greeted me with a shotgun. Jenny was engaged to a nice young man and she didn’t need me stirring the pot. Well, after that, my next stop was the interstate, and I didn’t stop driving until the car blew a head gasket in Alabama. I never went back home, not even for my mother’s funeral. It took me a while, a couple of scrapes with the law, but I got the wildness out of my system and married Susie when she was six months pregnant with Mark. I told myself that I loved Susie, and I suppose I did at some point. Not as much as I loved Jenny, but lightning doesn’t strike twice. Over the years, I’d worked a variety of jobs in different statessalesman, driver, guarduntil I found steady employment at the factory. I thought I had it good. I bought a wide-screen TV and a riding lawnmower to go with the house I couldn’t afford. I loved my kids, but I didn’t know them, and they didn’t know me. I left the emotional stuff to Susie. I always told myself it was going to get better, someday. Well, someday had finally come and the sore truth was that I was on the wrong side of fifty with a bad back and a beer belly, wondering where the hell my life had gone. Seeing JennyI mean, seeing that girlfilled me with a bitter ache that gnawed at me, a sadness that no amount of tortilla chips, salsa, and Budweiser could fill. I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror and saw the gnarled, angry, bitter face of my old man. When I got home, Susie was in bed. I pulled back the covers and snuggled up against her like I used to, but she just pushed me off like a pile of dirty laundry and stumbled headlong into the bathroom. It seemed hard to believe, but there was a time I couldn’t get her out of bed. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that she begged me to get on the day shift so we could spend more time together. Now, we just passed each other like strangers on a train. I pretended to be asleep as she dressed to go to work, but all I could think about was that girl by Rankin Bridge. After Susie and the kids were finally out of the house, I fumbled with my pajama bottoms and thought long and hard about what I’d do to the girl in the pink flip-flops as I lifted her skirt. Later, when I got up, I couldn’t say why exactly, but something was different. For one thing, my back didn’t hurt so much. When I put on my jeans, they weren’t as snug as they had been. I told myself it was skipping that extra six-pack and bag of chips. By the time I got to the plant, I swear, it was like I had the energy of a sixteen-year-old. I lifted boxes like I was Samson. Me, who could barely lift a sack of potatoes without calling for an ambulance. The guys kidded me about it and said I was making them look bad. Susie noticed it too and made a couple of snide cracks when I puttered around the garage. What could I tell her? Maybe it was seeing that girl. Maybe it was thinking about Jenny. But whatever it was, I hadn’t felt so goddamn good in monthsno, years. And when I clocked out each night, I cranked up my CD player and began missing the turnoff on purpose. I slowed down when I came upon the bridge, looking, lingering, with a hunger I could taste. But I didn’t see the girl again. After a while, I started to think that my eyes had played tricks on me. There’d never been a girl. I’d dreamed the whole thing up. Or maybe it had been that bottle of Jack Daniels I hid under the front seat. A few days later, I was at the bowling alley with my buddy Silas from the factory. Officially, we were there playing, but unofficially, we were there for beer and girls who could have been our daughters in low-cut T-shirts and tight jeans. While the view was pretty good, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jenny, I mean, the girl on Rankin Bridge. Hell, if I didn’t know myself better, I’d say I’d been bewitched. I ordered another round for me and Silas. “Woo-wee, you won the lottery or something?” Silas hooted. I shook my head. “I wish. Just feeling good. My back’s been a hell of a lot better.” “Yeah, those chiropractors work wonders.” Silas grabbed another handful of peanuts. I fumbled with the words. “Silas, I got a question for you. The kids, where do they like to hang out?” “Hell, that’s easy. Up on Rankin Bridge. Been that way since before I was a kid, it’ll be that way when I’m gone. Why you ask?” I nervously gulped down some beer and spilled some down the front of my shirt. “No particular reason. I just thought one night driving around there that I saw someone I used to know, is all.” Silas gave me a funny look. “You don’t know, do you? Look, if you want to know about the bridge, you ought to talk to my boy Luther. He’s into that paranormal activity shit.” He turned and shouted at Luther, who was playing pool in the back. “Hey, Luther. Get your fat ass over here.” Luther shuffled over to us, slow and eager to please. Silas had gotten him a job at the plant as a janitor when he graduated high school last year. Luther was a nice kid, polite and respectful, but not the sharpest saw in Home Depot, if you get my drift. Silas jabbed his thumb at me. “Tell Ethan what you kids do up on Rankin Bridge.” Luther’s eyes lit up. “It’s fun, Mr. Ethan. We play music and Frisbee. And we hunt for ghosts.” I stared at Luther. He was dead serious. Silas had this smirk like he was in on the joke. I decided to play along. “You don’t say, Luther. Ghosts.” Luther wagged his head like a puppy dog. “You ever see a ghost up there, Luther?” I asked. “No, sir.” “Any of your friends?” Luther shook his head. “But just ‘cos I don’t see them, doesn’t mean they ain’t there. Rankin Bridge is cursed. Everyone knows that.” That was a lot for Luther to say. Spent, he shambled back to his game. Silas stared at me. “How come you nosy all of a sudden? You see something up there?” I slapped a twenty down on the counter. “I asked a reasonable question, Silas. I don’t like being made a fool of.” I turned to go, embarrassed. Silas grabbed me by the arm. “Come on, just jiving with you, man. Hell, let’s just say I make a point not to drive up there.” “Why? Afraid you’ll see a dead person?” “No. ‘Cos it ain’t safe. It’s what you call, how do they say it...accident prone. It’s the way the bridge was designed. A couple of times a year, a car ends up in the river, and some poor asshole ends up with a toe tag. The same thing happened to Big Bob Rankin, except he lived.” I was confused. Who did he mean? Big Bob Rankin? Our boss at the factory? “Not that Rankin. His Daddy. It happened when I was a kid. My father was a deputy then. The story the Rankins put out was that he took a wrong turn but Dad said he reeked of gin. Big Bob had a bad habit of putting his hands where they didn’t belong. Knocked up a couple of girls at the factory and rumor has it he wasn’t alone in the car. He was never the same after and then he blew his brains out.” Silas gave me a hard look. “Ethan, if I was you, I’d stay the hell away from that goddamn bridge. Everything the Rankins touch turns to shit.” “Except our paychecks,” I teased. Of course, I couldn’t stay away. I went back that night, and the night after, and the night after that. I told myself it was because I kept missing the turnoff, but I was running out of excuses, even to myself. And then a week or so later, I saw her again. It was raining so hard that I could barely see through the windshield. But there she was in the pale moonlight, standing to the side like a wet dog, hair stringy, her skirt matted to her skin, still in those goddamn pink flip-flops. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, but I stopped the car. Hell, I do know. I thought maybe she was in trouble or needed a ride. Maybe I wanted to talk to her. Maybe I wanted to fuck her. But by the time I got out of the car, she was gone. I ran into the woods and stumbled upon some kids smoking pot. When they saw me, they took off like bottle rockets. Still, even with the pouring rain, I’d gotten a better look at her this time, and goddamn, she could’ve been Jenny’s identical twin. And just like the last time I’d seen her, I felt great. Better than great. There was something about that girl that made me come alive, made my blood boil, and made my heart ready to burst through my chest. I’d never felt that way with Susie, ever, not even in our best times. It was like I was coming out of a thick, blinding fog. It was a feeling I didn’t want to lose. A couple of days later on my shift, I was working in the back when Silas came up to me. “Ethan, you got a visitor.” I gave Silas a what the hell look. “Who are you shitting? At this hour of the night?” Silas shrugged. As I walked down the corridor, I wondered who it could be. I knew damn well it wasn’t Susie; if something was wrong, she would’ve called. I went into the outer office, and I saw her standing by the soda machine. It took a moment to register, and then I was back in Calhoun Middle School on the first day of eighth grade. I was at my locker, and a girl with long brown hair in a skirt and sandals shot past me. She dropped her book bag. I picked it up for her. She smiled at me and I followed her down the hall like a lost puppy. “Jenny?” I whispered, not believing my eyes. It had to be a joke. But it wasn’t. Jenny burst into tears and flew into my arms. I held her tight and the years melted away. Once I got over my initial shock, we went to the cafeteria. Over cups of coffee that went stone cold, Jenny told me everything. How she’d been shipped off to California against her will, how when she came back her parents had pushed her into marrying that nice young man, who turned out to be a mean drunk who used her for a punching bag. All I could say was that I was sorry. Sorry for not standing up to my old man. Sorry for not looking out for her. Sorry for a thousand other things I should’ve done and said and didn’t. And sorry, most of all, about our baby. Jenny became quiet. She whispered something low under her breath. I didn’t catch it the first time, and then she repeated it. \*She never had an abortion.\* We had a daughter and her name was Miranda. Somehow she’d found out the truth about her real fathermeand had run away. Jenny had no idea where she’d gone, but I knew. Oh, I knew, because I saw her in my dreams every night. *The girl on Rankin Bridge.* Jenny was staying at a motel on the outskirts of town. I promised to meet her there after my shift was over. I kissed her and held her and told her that everything would be all right. I was going to make it right. I was going to find our girlmaybe she was hurt, confused, disorientedand make up for all that lost time, with her, and with Jenny. The hours flew by and then I was in my car, driving, Michael Stanley playing at full blast. A line of severe thunderstorms rolled in and it was raining hard; cars and trucks were slipping all over the place. I sensed her before I saw her, standing under a grove of trees. It’s funny. I don’t even remember slowing down or stopping. I don’t remember her getting into the car. I don’t even remember turning the ignition or the roar of the engine as I drove onto the bridge. I remember saying her name. She shot me a puzzled look. *“Who the fuck is Miranda*?” The next thing I knew, the tires squealed and the car jackknifed over the bridge railing down into murky waters. I frantically pulled on the door handle, but it was stuck. I stared at the girl but instead of a younger version of Jenny, it was the hollow eyes of a rotted, bloated corpse. As the cold water rushed over my head and my lungs exploded, she gave me a soft kiss and a melancholy grin. “I’m sorry. I thought you were him,” she whispered as she disappeared, her pink flip-flops floating.