* * * *
Awaking to the sound of a straggled cry, Boris shot out and off of his bed, landing on his rump with a loud thud, and a louder curse. But the scream returned and jeopardy jump started his heart.
Standing, struggling to free his rifle from beneath the bed, Boris peeked out a close-by window and felt his jaw go slack. There was Bogart, heavy-duty monkey-wrench in both hands, swinging it like a madman beneath cold moonlight.
The screams, he saw, were coming from the savage men encircling his mechanic. Prowlers! Scum of the badlands; reavers of flesh and coin; antagonists of a (mostly) honest man’s profits!
Boris understood two truths about himself; one was that, in the thick of things, he was a coward. He was alright with that, had come to accept it long ago. But that only lead to the second truth; he would let nothing – not even his own cowardice – get in the way of a generous payday.
The Prowlers had Bogart down when Boris threw open the door and, at the mercy of hyperventilation, took aim.
Hands off, you devilish cretins! He wanted to say to the three savages, but could only wheeze in and out with unnatural frequency. Two were down, which spoke of his mechanic’s prowess with the wrench, but those remaining let out cries of blood-lust and were rushing Boris…
…even as instinct (fear) forced his finger to squeeze.
Once; the one on the far right went down in a heap.
Twice; the bastard in the middle nearly back flipped when the bullet took him between the eyes.
Thrice; it never came. The last Prowler was leaping, clearing the step and tackling Boris to the steel floor behind. Wailing with madness, the savage did all he could to steal the rifle from Boris’s iron grip; and Boris did all he could to hold on.
Well, this is end.
Blood, thick and hot gushed into his face and there was a sickening thud. The savage went limp, falling across Boris, pinning him. A figure, coloured in silhouette, wobbled for a moment before pitching back out and into the night.
* * * *
The rumble of the engine sounded sick, mixed with the screech from the beleaguered transmission, but Boris ignored it. Eyes focused on the dusty road ahead, lightening with the rise of the sun, he called out over the commotion to the stirring form, blanket-wrapped, in the seat beside him.
‘We’ll be in Ushu soon, my friend. Just enough time to tell you the story of I how came into my fortune…’ From beneath the blankets, Bogart groaned.
‘It begins with a young man, of wit and ambition, unmatched, and a wicked red-head. Yes, yes, I know: they’re all wicked…’
A Happy Burden
A Story of Something Too Good to Waste
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - 2048
Tracking a Shifter wasn’t easy, but let me tell you, it’s not overly complicated; not when you’ve got the right tools. Shifters, for some reason that I’m not qualified to accurately describe, give off a kind of “psychic radiation”. Something to do with their heightened brain power.
The processor affixed to the base of my spine gave my brain the ability to perceive this radiation as an aura. All I had to do was follow the glowing woman as I paced her through a river of drenched, bustling humanity.
The aura staggered, from left and then to right, drunkenly, or like someone who’d been wounded. I felt for my pistol, tucked under my arm, nerves tingling. I could almost feel her now, her vibrations like a distant call on a dark winter’s night.
Something was wrong, and trepidation caught in my heart. Rent was due weeks ago. I couldn’t ignore this much money… not again.
So I stalked on as she stumbled, faltered and tripped through the crowd. I slowed my steps; her mind was almost there, almost close enough to touch. If she made me, she might do something stupid. Play it cool, hotshot. There were too many people around, if things got hairy. Shifters weren't known for their concern for human life.
Soon the aura took an abrupt right down an alley. My brain threw up the clear vision of a memory, of that very alley…that very dead-end alley. I tried not to smirk, but the professional in me was excited about the potential for easy money.
Sure enough, I found her crouched in the shadows of the dead-end, clutching something to her chest. Her form today looked very much human, and pretty. Long black hair shimmered in the ambient light from the street; chocolate skin, almost black in the shadows was wrapped in a tidy, red blazer and skirt.
As far as I'd ever seen, Shifters took one of two forms. Beauty or horror; they'd either seduce you or scare the shit out of you. I found that one out the hard way, six years before. When I saw Jennie shift the first time, the woman I'd bent knee to, and become something alien… She told me the truth, with the fire-poker sticking out of her scaly chest: that they'd come to infiltrate, assimilate and control.
Never knew why she'd told me that then, when her blood was on my hands. I just chalk it up to sentimentality.
At this beauty, aglow with mental prowess, I levelled my pistol and forced my mind to blank. It had to be the face: I couldn’t bear to see what it was about to turn into. My weapon made not a sound when the blue bolt discharged, turning pretty into devastation.
The woman’s body began to convulse the moment it hit the rain-soaked concrete. The bundle fell and rolled away, barely catching my eye. But the sound that wailed out from it, ripping the night, pull me around. It was a sound that no one could mistake, no matter the mouth that uttered it.
Crying. My eyes widened and teeth clenched. It sounded strange, animalistic, but I knew it was a child, an infant. Ignoring the quivering, peeling death throes of the Shifter – a sight I'd grown numb to - I rushed to the bundle, worried.
But when a diminutive hand, scaled and three-fingered rose out from the blanket I stopped dead.
In that moment, while the child yowled, I should have raised my pistol and added another head to my toll. I should have ended it then and there, but I had to see. It was an old rule, to look them in the face before you ended them. It didn't matter if it was human or alien. It was a rule that I was cursed with.
So I swallowed the lump in my throat and took another step. The swaddled form stirred, as if aware of my approach. Standing over it, I aimed my pistol and stared down the sights…
All I could see were these big, black eyes, staring back at me. The child became quiet, its elongated snout stilled. All I had to do was pull the trigger. All I had to do was my job.
But those eyes, inhuman as they were, held something in them as universal as a child's cry. Innocence. In my hand the pistol wavered and I felt my resolve crack.
'No,' I grated down at that wee, open mug. 'I'm sorry.' My pistol shook bad enough that I feared I might miss. Another lump rose in my throat, but this one I couldn't swallow. Just do it! Leaning down, I eased my pistol into the infant's face, steeling myself.
But that tiny reptilian hand reached up then and grasped the barrel. I was struck dumb, watched those fingers flex. 'Kweh,' it chirped. That sound was like a pry bar driven into the fissure of my resolution.
'Ah, shit.' I took the gun from its face. The little bugger let go of the barrel, but held that hand up to me. Crouching, I held out a finger and it latched onto it immediately. It squeezed once and that was enough.
Enough to make me for a sucker.
* * * *
Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, Canada - 2060
‘Watch out; puny earthling!’
I smiled at Alyssa’s face, scrunched in the mold of a twelve year-old girl’s. ‘You’re getting good at this, kiddo, but human girls don’t have tails.’
In answer, my adopted daughter showed me that she’d mastered the art of petulance to perfection.
‘Put that tongue back in your mouth,’ I admonished half-heartedly and patted the couch cushion beside me. ‘Show’s about to start.’
The transformation that came over her face, turning from peevish to happy and sweet made me question my earlier assessment. She might be better at this than I thought.
‘You know,’ she informed me as the opening scene flickered to life, ‘some girls do have tails, now. It’s quite fashionable; in fact, keeping my tail could help me fit into certain circles with greater ease. That’s what you want, isn’t it, Pop? For me to assimilate into your world and find safety in disguise? You know, you really should adhere to a higher order of logic.’
‘I forget, sometimes, your I.Q.’
To my surprise, Alyssa reached up and wrapped my neck in a hug. ‘Don’t worry Pop; at least we’re both in the triple digits.’
Smartass. I hugged her back, kissed her between the eyebrows and watched her settle down to take in the show. I was proud, looking at the bright young lady that I'd raised, knowing that it was her burning intelligence that would soon do me in. She'd always been curious about her mother's fate and I was happy to remain cagey on the subject. But, I'd have to tell her soon.
Tell her that her mother is dead.
One day, I knew, she was going to sort it all out somehow. That I was a man who used to take money to kill her kind; that I was the man who once took money to kill her mother. An uncomfortable future awaited me.
But for now, I eased back and tried to enjoy the simple life. I pulled Alyssa into another tight hug.
'What was that for?' she beamed up at me.
'For the future, kiddo. For the future.'
Tragedy in Mr. Dead's Wood
A Story of Wasted Trust
‘How could you?’ Warren called out over the howl of bitter winds, cutting through the twisted, grey, naked pines. The gun shook in his trembling hand: trembling from the cold; trembling from heartbreak. Raw agony, born from a soul-wound cursed his eyes with tears, his voice with strain, leaving the resolve of his sanity compromised. ‘How could you, Brett. How fucking could you?’
The wiry young man started when Warren took one step toward him and the ledge, whimpering wordlessly. He could not speak with a broken jaw, though it mattered not: the time for explanations had come and gone lives ago.
Warren’s mouth worked at further accusations, further release, but all the anger and fear were boiling over in his soul, burning away the last of rationality’s resolution. He took another step, pistol becoming iron-stiff. Brett moaned and Warren sobbed; sobbed as he squeezed the trigger. The crack of the discharge filled the empty forest as sorrow filled him, replacing wrath…
* * * *
Warren awoke well before dawn. It was his habit to see the sunset and rise every day of his life, though not due to having a romantic’s heart. Necessity was the root of his routine; necessity drove his instinct; necessity was the most vital element.
The warmth of another’s body was a necessity, which Warren realized now he’d been missing. Smiling up at the ceiling of his tent, he felt a warm body shift and stir, but Brett continued to sleep. Necessity: that was the easy answer to last night.
Unsure, Warren removed himself from the young man’s embrace, shuffling towards the open predawn morning. Reaching back for boots and trousers, he studied Brett’s sleeping face, peaceful and serene.
Half-dressed, Warren waited for the dawn in the cold air, watching the quiet, dark collection of caravans down the hill. The Vagabonds, Brett’s people, had seen better roads. When he’d found them, three days back, lost in Mr. Dead’s Wood – the vast sprawl of dead pines and cedars he called home – the caravaners were bloody, beaten and half way across to the other side. Beleaguered after rolling too close to Markus’ turf, they were lucky that the bandits left any alive.
Any day now he’ll becoming through the trees. You shouldn’t have let them get this far, brother: now, you come to me.
It was the promise of his traitor-brother’s arrival that kept him close and not that pretty face sleeping in his tent. But, Warren could not deny that a new set of protective feelings had crept in, sometime between yesterday and this morning. Perhaps there was more to the necessity of warm bodies than he was ready to admit.
Grey light was fading to life, the sun moments from rising when Warren turned at the sound of Brett pulling his form out from the tent. ‘Hey, Skinny.’ He offered, moving over on the petrified log, patting the spot that he’d made warm.
‘Hey, Scruffy.’ Brett took the seat, leaning close until their shoulder’s touched.
Did Warren want to put his arm around Brett or did he want suddenly to flee? He did not know. ‘So…’
‘So, awful quiet down there.’
It was, but Warren had guessed that the Vagabonds were one and all too road-weary to do anything but sleep. Still, he was sure that there must be at least a pair on sentry. ‘I’m not surprised; you’re the only one that didn’t seem like they were gonna keel over and die…’
Biting back on his comment, Warren knew that it was too late to salvage. Bringing up such a subject, what was he thinking? But Brett, Lord Love him, didn’t miss a beat.
‘Good thing for you.’
‘Uh, yeah, I guess it was.’ He felt himself relax at the admission.
‘I still think it’s too quiet, Scruffy.’ Brett’s voice was edged with concern and jabbed at Warren’s heart.
‘All right, I track yah,’ he said, standing up, feeling knees pop from the effort. ‘Just let me grab my shit and we’ll go make sure everyone’s still safe and cosy.’
* * * *
The Vagabonds had parked their caravan’s to either side of the dirt road, leaving a clear avenue for Warren and Brett to traverse. Grey light was brightening, dawn turning the sky pink, but Warren saw not a soul stirring in the encampment…until savage forms broke from the shadows between mobile shelters.
Pistol and Bowie knife appeared in Warren’s hands and he sidestepped to protect his lover, but a glance told him that Brett was gone. He caught sight of him diving into the folds of a clutch of marauders, led by Markus.
‘Warr,’ his brother half snarled, half smiled. ‘Who would have thought, in all this time, that the famous Keeper of the Wood was possessed of such a simple weakness?’
As his brother trilled, Warren took quick stock. Seven with blades, three with guns. Markus, you shit; you should have brought a shooter.
‘How many years have I been trying to kill yo-’
Hearing enough, Warren bit his tongue and set his pistol barking. Three shots rang out in frantic succession, taking the gunslingers down before bullets could answer. Brave or foolish, six bandits charged in with knives and machetes.
Warren burst to meet the first of them, elbows and knees striking before his blade went to red-splattered work. His used his shooter to clobber, not wanting to waste his last shell. Brigand knives found his flesh, striking only glancing blows as he danced in a rage.
Six men fell around him, lifeless and limp. ‘This was all you had?’ Warren stepped towards his brother, the so-called Bandit King, levelling his pistol, ready to be rid of his last bullet.
‘Warr…’
‘The time for words came and went for us long ago.’
Markus was thrown back off his feet when that last slug exploded out of the old, worn barrel.
Trading his gun for a dead man’s pistol, Warren set off after his traitorous lover.
The Danger of Following Dreams
A Story of a Wasted Dream
In all his life in the Time Before he'd never once set foot in an airport. Never enough money to go anywhere by air, his childhood had been one of hours-long car trips to the wild north, where nature ruled with an ironwood fist. He'd dreamed it, sure, of riding the skies clear across depthless oceans to the distant lands of his ancestors. Now he imagined those lands were just as empty as his own.
Leaning one filthy hand on the concrete barrier of the overpass, the other holding binoculars up to his eyes, he studied Pearson Airport with the cautious scrutiny of survival. He hadn't seen anyone for days, and that last pack of Ravers had no doubt torn themselves apart by now.
He remember going to Pearson once before, ten years old, with his Ma to pick up Grandma. She'd just come back fr
om visiting family way down south where, an Uncle had told him, Canadians go to die. Florida, he recalled, the name of the Heaven where the elderly are transformed into something called Snowbirds, or some such. Back then the airport had seemed like an ancient fortress, but come not from the past but from the future. He'd always imagine warriors in power armour stalking those halls of steel and glass.
But now the glass was broken, shattered shards littering the pavement; the steel choked by vegetation gone amuck – gone wild.
Taking to binoculars from his eyes, satisfied that no warriors – from future, past or present – were about, he adjusted his backpack and started for the ramp.
* * * *
Glass crunched underfoot, crushed by his nearly soleless boots as he stepped across the threshold of a powerless door. The great hall reminded him of trips to the Zoo, so packed with vegetation. The strange purple vines that had reached out to strangle the city hung from the ceiling, some thick and heavy enough to sag to the floor. Weeds, purple and orange, burst up from the floor, their stocks rugged enough to crack concrete. Everything smelled wet, the air inside humid when chilled breezes cut the outside world.
He wouldn't waste his time, or the nicked and already dulled edge of his machete hacking away the vines. They resisted the keenest edges, and besides, there was enough room for him to manoeuvre – years spent in scavenger existence had winnowed his frame from portly to lean. He could squeeze through the tight spots, and did as he wandered deeper into the brave new wilderness.
* * * *
He wished his Grandpa was with him. The man had been canny in the unending forests of the north, more animal in his instincts than man. He could pick up danger on the wind like a hound, or through some invisible force like that kid in that movie about battles in space and swords of light. What was it called? God, had it been that long he couldn't remember his favourite movie?
* * * *
Looking at the strange pathway, lined on either side by handrails hugging glass barriers and a black leathery track, he realized in a moment that he was looking upon a wonder of the Time Before. The fabled Moving Paths of the airport, where the people of the age just past could glide from one end to the other without moving their feet. Oh, how he could have used something like that; his feet were in a perpetual state of aching now, after crossing hundreds of kilometres of cracked asphalt. Just too bad there was nothing to power it now.