The End

Twenty Nine

2011-11-01T23:01:00.003-04:00

can't understand where everyone thinks they're going!"

Wendy replied, a smirk of subtle superiority decorating her face, "I think it would be better if you didn't know." With that she slunk off into the gaping hole so recently blasted through the outer wall of her house, and sat down on the only part of her settee not currently smoldering. Thom's eyes followed her, then lit upon the box which, incredibly, still perched on the corner of the coffee table.

"Well," he croaked, smoke stinging his larynx, "at least we still have the pin." He moved to the edge of the hole, his feet crunching atop the charred embers littering the ground. The glowing bits of red-hot debris worked at the soles of his heavy boots, sending the pungent stink of melting rubber up to his nostrils, which flared slightly at the intrusion. He pinched his nose between his thumb and first finger, sniffled, and crawled through the rabbit hole into the remains of Wendy's living room.

Wendy moved to make room for him. "Yes," she smiled quietly, "we still have that."

Twenty Eight

2011-07-23T09:59:00.000-04:00

wild ride off the deep end. I'd seen nothing like what I'd seen in the last three days; not sure I would ever recover, or if I even wanted to.

When I finally said "Goodbye" to everyone who helped me take down the Co-op, it was with a few tears and a lot of promises to keep in touch. I'm pretty sure we all knew that was a bunch of bull, but it helped cut the pain. I looked them each in the eye and promised how much I would miss them.

The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky a gorgeous pink and blue. I got on my Vespa, cranked the engine (as much as one can on an Italian scooter,) and rode off.

It would have been more poetic to ride off into the sunset, but I was heading east, and was low on gas.

Twenty Seven

2011-03-09T21:45:00.011-05:00

but his truck would never be the same. The claw marks served as a badge of honor, signaling his triumph over a monstrous creature capable of tearing a man apart as easily as Aaron would tear open his lunch bag.

He looked down at the crimson sword in his hand, admiring the fine engraving running up and down the edges of the blood groove. Outwardly he pledged never again to use the blade, but inwardly he knew that was not true; there were other monsters dwelling in the Forest, and he was all that stood between them and the small village he now called “home.”

A small hand touched his as it gripped the hilt, his knuckles white with tension. He looked down and saw Dara’s piercing grey eyes gazing into his. There was something about the child that frightened him, but it was his duty to protect her, and he would not fail. Behind that frail exterior was power he could not begin to imagine existed, at least not before these last two weeks, when his world was turned upside-down. He would keep her alive, at least until they could reach the Jade Temple. After that, she would most likely have to keep him alive.

“Let’s go home, now,” she said softly, urging Aaron in the direction of the village.

Aaron stole a moment to look back into the Forest, sighed heavily, and turned back to Dara, saying, “Yeah…let’s do that.”

Twenty Six

2011-01-26T16:36:00.002-05:00

and his pants would never again see the light of day.

Sandra took his hand in hers, the softness of her skin not escaping his notice, and looked into his eyes. “I’ve seen stupid before, but that was Stupid with a capital S.”

Peter would have argued the point, but he knew she was right. As they sat next to each other on the stonewall fence, he scratched an abstract pattern in the dirt with the toe of his right foot. He would tell her he loved her, but not right then. There were too many things hanging over them, and most of them were his fault; he would wait until she could focus her attention on him instead of his mess.

Peter looked into the looming sycamore tree across the street and said with painfully clear regret, “I’m gonna miss those pants.”

Twenty Five

2010-01-20T23:27:00.003-05:00

lowly bastard of a soldier has the gall to look me in the eye and call me a murderer. His crony lolls there against the doorframe, nicotine-stained fingers scratching at the gristle of beard on his leathery neck, accusing me with his eyes.

I know what had happened; they believe in their tiny little minds that I therefore declare my guilt. They know nothing. The Seers did what had to be done; they have no right to pass judgment on us. We are the Keepers of the Devices; we are the Seers of What Is to Come. The litany rolls through my head, buffering me against their heresy.

“I wear the Ring; I Know the Future; I am Seer. I hold the Vision; I Speak the Truth; I am Seer. None shall Know what I Know; none shall See what I See; I am Seer, they are Nothing.”

Another impudent accusation is hurled at my face by the brute in charge. Refusing to grant him the honor of my gaze, I stare into the Abyss and repeat, “You are Nothing. He is Nothing. Those who died were Nothing.”

I know they will eventually tire of this useless charade and put me through the meaningless ritual of a public hanging, all to satisfy their bestial blood-lust, their craving for “vengeance.” To a Seer, death means nothing. Who did they think they were, meting out “justice” on me?

Who did they think they were?

Twenty Four

2009-09-20T19:33:00.007-04:00

bolted out the door and fell to the ground after missing the last step. Kaitlin scrambled up and ran from the asylum, leaving behind the bracelet Danny had given her, its magnetic clasp sprung from the force of her tumble.

“Come on!” screamed Danny, standing fast and holding out his hand, beckoning desperately to Kaitlin. “They’re right behind us!”

Kaitlin risked a glance back into the darkened hallway of the abandoned state asylum and heard what she feared most: the aching moan of the Lost, the Tormented, the Insatiable. She knew they must keep running, keep running until the air in their lungs burned and their legs threatened to collapse beneath them. If they stopped, they would be devoured by the darkness. Forever.

Danny grasped her hand firmly and pulled her along, his stride never faltering. He didn’t look back. He knew what he would see if he did, and he knew it would lead to madness. He must get them as far from the grounds as possible, and never look back.

But he failed to account for the determination of souls longing for the sweet taste of Life. They yearned to engulf the two in their icy grasp; Danny and Kaitlin would never leave the grounds.

Twenty Three

2009-08-30T18:57:00.002-04:00

So Branches and Francois shambled down the street toward their home. Hopefully Susie and Billie would be waiting, dog biscuits and cat treats at the ready.

Branches looked down at his reluctant friend and said, “You know, kitty…I had an awful lot of fun today!”

Francois stopped, sat down and began to lick his paw. After a moment of quiet he looked up at the big dog and said, “Y’know something? I did too.”

The sun settled into the west as the two companions wandered onto the front lawn of 225 Maple Street. There, sure enough, were Susie and Billie, treats in hand. It was a Good Day.

Twenty Two

2009-08-26T22:05:00.002-04:00

The planet spun slowly in an elegant ellipse around the dying sun, the only remaining witnesses possessing neural nets so primitive they would never register the beauty of the dance.

As Petra and her crew shunted their ship across a million paper-thin quantum universes, she fought a loneliness that permeated her being. She had left three of her crew behind; frozen bodies buried in shallow graves, each topped with a marker no one would ever read. She had disobeyed orders which, had she carried them out, would have left more behind.

What troubled her most was what she would do next. Her orders from Starmada were explicit, and if she failed they would cancel not only her life, but those of everyone under her command. Then they would find some other heartless bastard to carry them out anyway.

Safely ensconced in her own quantum universe, she prepared to activate the Superstring Engine; a heinous device which would collapse every other parallel universe to a quantum singularity. Starmada had enough enemies to contend with; they would brook no trouble from elsewhere.

As Petra contemplated the horrific and unforgivable crime against the Universe she was about to commit, a thought presented itself: What if a Petra from another continuum was about to do the same? She smiled quietly to herself, deactivated the Superstring Engine, and reengaged the Shunt Drive.

She may end up dead in another universe, but she didn’t care.

Twenty One

2009-08-25T11:55:00.003-04:00

and the clowns! What the hell were all these clowns doing here? I just couldn’t look at them. With every ounce of will I had, I wished them away. As I’ve told you before, clowns make me itch. Just the thought of them. I mean, who the hell goes around in white makeup and baggy pants scaring innocent children at birthday parties? Psychopaths, that’s who.

I said my goodbyes to Jennifer, patted Sparky on the head, and made my way toward the Valley. I could only do so much for these people; now it was up to them. My right arm still hurt from the beating it took, my pants were irreparably torn, and for some godawful reason my left shoe was covered in honey. I never did find out how that happened.

As I increased the distance between me and the small group gathered outside the Langston Bar & Grille I thought to myself, “This wasn’t such a bad day; not such a bad day at all.”

Then I saw Billy. Shit.

Twenty

2009-08-04T21:30:00.000-04:00

He watched the strangers scud past his building far below, and wailed silently. He would move among them, but never be a part of them. After all he had been through for them, all the pain, all the sorrow, all the triumph, they would never know how his sacrifice had spared them.

Lost. Lost and alone. Lost and alone in a world he must always keep at arm’s length. They shunned him now; if they knew what he truly was, they would destroy him. He loved the world almost as deeply as the woman he had given up to save it, yet would never feel its comforting embrace.

He turned away from the window, lifted his gangly form off the stained, threadbare ottoman and scuffed across the carpet to the kitchen. Mac & cheese. He loved mac & cheese.

Nineteen

2009-07-15T22:54:00.000-04:00

and Troy set the wand down at Athenea's feet. He shed a tear for his sister; she had died saving him. She looked as if she were merely sleeping. Luther would never forgive him, but that mattered little right now.

Druelle knelt down beside Troy, placing her arm comfortingly around his shoulder. There had been a time where her touch would have repulsed him; all that had changed. If not for Druelle, none of them would be alive. The tears kept coming, and they would never stop.

Eighteen

2009-06-24T21:39:00.001-04:00

crying out, "For the love of God! If you run any slower, you're a dead man!"

Joshua couldn't run any faster. He was an emaciated 57 year old Jew with the remains of his left lung and a kidney ready to shut down should anyone of authority give the word. His heart threatened to rupture, even at this shambling pace, sweat as he had not seen in 30 years drenched his forehead, and spots of light kept flashing in and out of his field of vision. He was a dead man.

Dash pulled to a stop once he saw his boss ready to keel over. Rolling his eyes, hands on his hips, he hurried back to save his life. Grabbing Joshua, he hoisted him up into a fireman's carry, and trotted off through the field.

Coming upon an enormous chestnut tree, Dash grabbed the lowest branch and nimbly gamboled up to the higher ones, Joshua no more bother than a winter scarf. He finally came to light on a wide horizontal branch, barely winded. He looked quite proud of himself, and his face showed his glee.

"Well," he beamed, "At least bears don't climb trees!"

Seventeen

2009-06-24T21:04:00.000-04:00

Frederick M. Spalding...why now, of all the times, would that name choose to enter my head? At the top of the Empire State Building in mid-January, no shoes, an appreciable bulge in my left jean jacket pocket (it's so freakin' cold up here!) and a bright yellow umbrella bearing a rather large burn hole near the edge? I feel I've led a good life; I've looked after my friends, been kind to animals, and never killed a soul. That should earn me a little...I don't know...leeway? Maybe...I was never very eloquent in our Mother Tongue. Tongue. Now there's a weird word. Jesus! I think I've lost the feeling in my pinkie toe.

I'm outta here.

But no, I had promised. Me and my stinkin' promises! I wish I could be like the people I'd hidden away from for all those decades. People like...Frederick M. Spalding. Frederick M. Spalding. He is not smiling. His face is smooth behind the oversize glasses. Can you hear me, Frederick? Can you hear me in your dreams forty years ago? Can you hear me whispering in your ear?

GodDAMN, it's cold.

Sixteen

2009-04-16T21:13:00.000-04:00

How did I know what she wanted? How could I possibly understand the forces that had driven her to such despair? How could I…? How could I…?

The body of Santo lay at her feet, his face in peaceful repose. His arms were crossed over his chest, his one heel tight against the other. I wasn’t sure what had killed him, but I was sure it wasn’t Leela. She was incapable. Her mind simply would not be able to wrap itself around the very concept of killing. So who?

As it turns out, I never did find out. Leela raised her warm brown eyes and stared deep into my own. I felt the pull of her tormented soul, grasping for life as a drowning man clutches the arm from inside the lifeboat. Why wouldn’t my mind send words to my mouth? Why was I frozen in impotent wonder? I wanted…no, needed…to run to her, to clutch her in his saving arms, to make good all that was torqued inside her.

Then she killed me.

Not with any tangible weapon, but with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Just once, but enough to feel her spirit release its grip and slip into the icy cold waters. As she turned and left I knew she had committed herself to the depths, and I could not follow her. I could not…

Fifteen

2009-01-25T16:20:00.000-05:00

As I look upon what used to be Soupy Sales Fountain and was now a hideous metallic sculpture, I find myself musing about my time in the mediocre town of Huntington, WV, and those items that so affected my brief time here; my iPod, my Roomba, and, of course, my Wii.

The technology severed my connections with the real world, and when I at last returned to that world, I found it profoundly changed. 10 years makes a big difference. When we are away from a place for so long we tend to cement it in our memories; we freeze it in Kodachrome. How ego-centered we are that we believe the world, devoid of our influence, does not change.

When I killed that man just for snoring, I guess in a way I knew it was wrong. But he had it coming. The Law wouldn’t find me, not here. I looked too different, my identity was carefully crafted, and let’s face it: people in West Virginia weren’t the sharpest bulbs in the box. I moved among them like the proverbial fox in the hen house. My only problem was getting used to the goddam accent. It curdled my stomach.

I would lay low, planning my next move as carefully as an architect designing a cathedral. My next kill would be a work of art. Not one of these cow-faced nobodies. They would never appreciate the beauty of what I do. No, it would have to be someone special.

But who?

Fourteen

2009-01-15T20:44:00.000-05:00

I was finally in a land of unicorns; a land of yellow horizons. Angels lovely as one could imagine at last looked down upon me and smiled, while dragons thorny and crusted as old barbed wire drew angry circles in the sky, waiting for tacit permission to swoop and burn.

Gone were the cubicles, the blue fluorescent bulbs humming their torturous 60-cycle tune, the insipid Nothing on the other end of the tumorous Blackberry, the smell of mold and chemicals blotting all else out. I may be nothing more than a meat packet, an organic support system for a brain now infected with lesions of wire and crystalline circuitry, but I was free. I was free.

Adelynn may never know what became of me. I hope she doesn’t.

Thirteen

2008-11-10T17:36:00.000-05:00

The light in the room was crisp, clean and white. As I lie upon the wide round bed, linen sheets as clean and white as the light strewn casual about, I look down at the woman sleeping in my arms and I am content. We had been through so much to get to this point, and it is all worthwhile in the end.

She is breathing deeply and regularly, her naked flesh spooning with mine, our lovemaking over, for the time being. I stroke her hair gently and she coos softly, then snuggles even closer, our bodies melding into one. Looking up at the wall of windows I see the bright blue sky over the Mediterranean filled with clouds scudding leisurely across the horizon. The air smells of summer, sea and salt.

In a few days it will be time to return to our home in the forest, our European tour completed with this final stop in our villa. We had once dreamt of a time like this, when money was plentiful and time was ours to use. Now it is here, I am thoroughly enjoying it. A lot of pain led me up to this point; knowing what I know now, I would have welcomed the pain.

The afternoon is ours; there is an interview we have to attend later this evening, but looking out at the jewel-like water I think we’ll do some scuba diving first. Of course, knowing us, once we get our energy back we may never even make it out of the bed.

Twelve

2008-11-05T21:39:00.000-05:00

I will probably never understand my Master’s family; they cavort and cajole in ways which baffle me. They play games of a sort with which I am unfamiliar, and for which I have not the manual dexterity. Had I a grasp of the mechanics of their jocular diversions I would, perhaps, endeavor to join them, but they do not even feel the need to include me in their frivolous activities.

They eat food which to me often appears grossly unpalatable, or at the very least overcooked. Am I ever offered a sampling of their repast? Well, in the interests of utmost honesty, I must answer yes, they do indeed. But all too often the food proffered is not what I would consider as my first choice. Perhaps if they would set aside a small sampling uncooked, or at the very least undercooked? Is that truly too much to ask of people with whom I have spent the vast majority of my existence?

Their home annoys me to no end, and their eclectic choice of furniture sets my teeth on edge. It would appear they have little taste in the art of decorating, and they have the feng shui abilities of a lactating Canadian moose. If I could move the couch three feet to the left, I would. And don’t even get me started on the recliner. Is that lamp entirely necessary? Phah.

The carpeting is, by far and away, the last straw. A shag affair the color of a slightly moldy mustard seed, this carpet has not only stood the test of time, it is from the beginning of it. It was old when Larry King was conceived. And don’t even THINK of urinating on it! Want to get into hot water faster than a Maine lobster? Squat on their precious rug and see what happens. Maybe if they cleaned the goddam litter box once in a while! I mean, really. How is one to maintain a respectable level of personal hygiene when one’s toilet facilities are attracting more flies than a white trash buffet?

I cannot take much more of this. Some night, very soon, I shall secrete myself in their bedroom before “lights out,” as they so charmingly call out before retiring, and come out once they are asleep. I shall then lie upon their gaping maws, closing off the supply of oxygen with my ample (yet well-conditioned) body. Once they have smothered, I shall feast on their eyes! AH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Oh dear, I have overlooked two important considerations: who shall feed me, and who’s going to clean out my frigging litter box? Damn. Life sucks.

Eleven

2008-11-05T17:21:00.000-05:00

So in conclusion, it is reasonable to assume that the distinctive “ticki-ticki-ticki” sound emitted by the Estigmene bicurius is a genetic holdover from prehistoric times, when the small caterpillar was considerably more plentiful than today.

While some may contend that any such assumption opens the investigation and subsequent conclusions to question (and possible ridicule,) there is ample evidence to support this claim, as demonstrated in the previous chapters. Beyond any reasonable doubt we can say that when the caterpillar walked (or crawled) the earth in geometrically greater numbers, collision with its fellow larvae were inevitable and led to large-scale confusion amongst the creatures. Over the millions of years the caterpillar flourished they seem to have developed the soft “ticki-ticki-ticki” call as a warning or indicator to its brethren to beware; another caterpillar is nearby and must be avoided.

One can only imagine the wonder of an earlier prehistoric era, standing in the Forest Primeval, marveling at the low, incessant rumble of “ticki-ticki-ticki” all about you. What would primitive Man have thought? Perhaps it was some unknown, unseen monster ready to pluck life from you; maybe the mutterings of the gods, or perhaps even the Voice of the Earth itself. We shall never know.

Estigmene bicurius is endangered and disappearing from its natural habitat, perhaps irrevocably. While their DNA has been preserved by the Insect Genome Project (IGP,) we cannot hope to save them unless steps are taken immediately. What a crime it would be to lose such a cheery and marvelous creature as this. I cannot imagine how lonely a world it would be if I could no longer stick my head outside the flap of my tent, cock an ear to the wind and listen to the enigmatic “ticki-ticki-ticki” of the bicurius.

What a lonely world indeed.

Ten

2008-11-03T18:38:00.001-05:00

Guillaume’s rifle cracked a sharp retort, the dinosaur’s eye erupted in a shower of blood, and it fell to the ground, dead. Simone was safe.

Leaving the safety of the cairn of boulders where they had gained refuge, the children ran to their mother, seeking assurance that she was, in fact, unharmed. Guillaume slipped the rifle back into its holster on the palomino and strode over to see for himself.

Looking up into his rugged face, Simone whispered, “I love you.” Guillaume nodded, reached a rough hewn hand down to caress her chin and replied, “Me too.”

Overhead a pterodactyl swooped around the tree tops, screeching an echoing cry that made Pilar cover her tiny ears. “Make it stop, Papa!” Her father laughed, picked her up and placed her effortlessly on his shoulders. “I’m afraid we’ll have to let that one get away, my sweet.”

He led them away from the carnage, Antoine leading the horse by the reins. Within a short time they had located the path to the caves and headed down it. Guillaume had no idea how they would survive in this world-gone-mad, but it was up to him to make certain they did.

As dusk approached, covering the prehistoric land with a deceptive calm, they reached the cavern. Shooing the children in, Simone crept up from behind, encircling Guillaume with her slender arms, hugging him close, enjoying the warmth of his body.

“I don’t know how…” he began. Simone shushed him gently, burying her face in the strength of his back. “I understand, my love. You will keep us alive here, and perhaps someday we will find a way back.” She spun him gently around to look into his tired eyes. “Until then, we will survive.” She took his arm, placed it around her shoulder and stood beside him as they watched the raw sunset color the sky blood red.

“It’s all we can do.”

Nine

2008-10-30T21:42:00.000-04:00

Bobby and Sally said farewell to their newfound friends and headed down the path that would lead them out of the Talking Forest. The trees sang them gentle songs and wished them well. “Thank you for freeing us from the evil magician’s spell,” they cried out.

“You are very welcome,” replied Bobby, doing his best to sound chipper, while all the time his heart was aching from the thought that he might never again see the Talking Trees. They had helped him more than once, and he hated to leave them behind.

“Don’t feel sad,” Sally said to him as she noticed his frown. “We may yet be able to come back and see them someday. Until then, we’ll have their song in our hearts.”

As they neared the end of the path that took them to the Door in the Rock, Bobby looked back. Sally was right, of course; she almost always was. His older sister had a way of making the darkest day seem a little brighter. Bobby waved at the trees, said a quiet “Goodbye,” and turned away.

Just as it had when they first discovered it, the Door sensed their approach. A soft, comforting golden glow peeked out through the cracks around it, and the lock snicked open. Sally reached for the enormous carved knob, turned it effortlessly and pulled the door open. Soundlessly it swung wide, and the children walked into the golden light. The Door closed silently behind them, and they found themselves where they had started just four short days ago. Bobby looked at the wall behind them, but the Door was gone. All he could see was the cowboy and Indian wallpaper his mother had put up so many years ago.

He took his sister’s hand as a single tear formed in his eye. She looked down at him, wiped moisture from her own eye and told him, “I know; I’m going to miss them too.” She led her brother down the hallway to the stairs, and then down into the kitchen where their mother sat reading her magazine. The morning sun was peeking in over the yellow curtains covering the window.

“Well, it’s about time you two got out of bed. It’s almost 10 o’clock! Have some breakfast, now.”

The two children shared a puzzled look. Not a day had passed in their home, despite everything they had just experienced. Bobby looked up at Sally, who smiled and shook her head almost imperceptibly. “No,” she said silently, “let’s not say anything. No one would believe us anyway.” Bobby understood completely, and they both ran over to the counter where Mother served them the best breakfast they had ever eaten in their lives.

Outside the window the wind blew gently through the trees, and they sang a gentle song which only the children could hear.

Eight

2008-10-29T21:35:00.000-04:00

And so the Field that once stood behind my childhood home was now nothing more than a shadow of its former beauty. Where once the neighborhood children had run freely from end to end, unhindered by building or road, strangers now parked their SUVs and visited doctors who could just as easily have practiced their medicine in an office in the village, technician answered calls from angry customers around the globe, and children were no longer safe to run where the rabbits had once been bountiful.

When I was young I could look out from my backyard and see nothing but a vast expanse of tall grass bordered by blue sky; an inviting playground provided by Nature for all to use. The Field was egalitarian; it accepted all, rejected no one. Perhaps that was its downfall. We saw it with the nearly-innocent eyes of children…all were welcome, and it never showed signs of running out.

The developers looked at the Field and saw money, and when money meets idealism there is never any doubt which will win. The Field was plowed under, roads were sown, foundations poured. My childhood became a vast parking lot for outsiders; interlopers who showed no respect for the sanctity of what had been a part of my very being. While now children sit before their Xboxes and plug themselves into a secretive world of iPods, we would fly kites, launch model rockets, play hide-and-seek, build forts, and meld with wonder around us.

We had no concept of communing with Nature; we simply did it. We could hear the song of the wind whistling past us as we rode our bikes helter-skelter down the path that transected the Field; we felt the vibration of the Earth in our very core. All was well while we were in the Field. It was our protector, and greedy men had taken it from us.

Every now and again I look into my eyes, reflected back by the mirror, and I am looking into the eyes of that 10-year-old boy who lived in that Field day in and day out, and I find myself silently apologizing to him for what the adults have done. Adults are so often an empty animal; the Child has drained from their soul, and they chase a dragon they can never catch, and wonder why they are unhappy.

Seven

2008-10-28T22:04:00.000-04:00

So if you feel as if you have no one left to turn to, no one left to listen to you, try turning to and listening to yourself. You may think there’s no one in the world who can understand you, and you may be right, but there’s always you. You are the most important person in the whole world, so don’t forget it!

When the day is gloomy and rain clouds threaten to drench your poor soul, kick those clouds in the pants and say, “Goodbye, gloom!” You make of your life whatever you want; if you want to be a doctor, then by golly, go out and be a doctor!* Just stop complaining. No one likes a complainer, especially a gloomy one. If you feel you must say things out loud, then at least have the courtesy to make them cheerful.

“I don’t want to be a doctor,” you say, petulantly. Very well, become a pilot, or nurse (if you’re a girl) or even a priest. God loves priests, and you can get all the best parking spots, although that’s not really the best reason to become a priest. Handicapped people, too. They get good parking spots as well.**

Whatever you choose to do with your life, do it with gusto! And remember what Albert Einstein said so many years ago: “If I hadn’t been so smart, I would have ended up collecting other people’s garbage!” So don’t be a lazy lout; go get the future you want! And always keep in mind our three part strategy:

1. Don’t criticize others unless you are in the right
2. Don’t worry about tomorrow; anything you break today can be easily fixed
3. Don’t throw away anything made of metal or plastic. They will be rare someday after the Apocalypse, and if you have them, you’ll be rich!***

Thanks for reading, and now, “Go Get ‘em, Tiger!”

*The publisher of this book in no way endorses practicing medicine without a license.
**The publisher of this book in no way recommends becoming handicapped in order to get good parking spots.
***This statement is in no way intended as a guarantee. In the event of an Apocalypse, move to the nearest shelter or army/navy surplus store

Six

2008-10-28T21:47:00.000-04:00

hill. Sergeant Mullroy lowered himself to the ground and rested against an old gnarled chestnut tree, nursing his leg as the wound threatened to reopen. The radio crackled as Johnson contacted HQ to report the successful completion of their mission.

Mullroy knew this would be his final mission. They were lucky to have survived this long, this deep in enemy territory. Nazi patrols came close to uncovering their position too many times; God was watching over them, but Mullroy doubted even He could protect them much longer this far across enemy lines. Berlin was a day’s walk from where they sat, and Hitler still commanded the might of the Third Reich.

His squad had indeed completed their mission, but it was only a single piece in a much larger puzzle. Thomas was dead, Riccards limped along with shrapnel in his chest, and Becker never returned from his reconnaissance. What remained of his command would get them back across the battlefields and to their rendezvous with the British on the Channel, but could accomplish little else. He would have to be content with that.

Something nagged at him, however. While they had, indeed, succeeded in destroying the munitions factory and ammo dump, there was still the matter of the secret Nazi lab. Mullroy had been briefed of its existence, but told little else. He alone in the squad knew it was a target of opportunity, one to be sought if at all possible. He paled at the thought of moving even deeper into Germany. His body ached to be back in Brooklyn with his wife by his side and a hot meal on the table. Too many nights had passed seeking shelter from the rain; too many days had passed hiding from German troops.

A bomber and fighter escort droned by overhead, no doubt heading for a raid on some defenseless British town. Mullroy pictures families deserting their supper tables at the sound of the air raid sirens, diving for desperate cover in homemade shelters. It angered him. It solidified his resolve. It brought him to a fateful decision.

“Men,” he said, pulling himself up to a standing position. “Do you trust me?” To a man they answered, “Yes!” “Then I have no choice but to tell you our work here ain’t done.” His men looked confused; confused and exhausted. “We got one more target to hit, and I have a feelin’ it’s gonna be the toughest of all.” He looked each of them in the eye as he spoke. “We could go home right now, but if we do, then Jerry is gonna be knockin’ on our doors next. One last job…that’s my promise to you. Then I’ll get you all home.”

They looked at him, at each other, and then Johnson answered, “Let’s kick some Nazi ass, Sarge.”

These were his men, and he knew they would walk through fire if he asked it of them. And he just might have to.

Read the conclusion of the story in volume 3, “Assault on Stalag 12”

Five

2008-10-28T17:10:00.000-04:00

Lord Spangler the Munificent surveyed the land below, glorying in its magnificence. It was his, all his, and he made sure all the Little People knew it. Serf, peasant, lowly farmer, they all paid him tribute. As well they should. Hadn’t he just rescued them all from the grips of the fiery dragon? All right, perhaps it was in reality his father who had done so, but his father was now dead, and technically Lord Spangler had been in the general vicinity of the conflict, so by right s he could take at least partial credit for the kill.

And hadn’t he reduced their tax increase just last season? Instead of twenty additional draloons, they now only had to pay 18 per month. What a savings! How could they possibly complain about him now? Determined to give his subjects more reason to love him, Spangler had ordered that all executions would now be held in the early morning so his people would have time to watch tax evaders lose their heads and still be able to get to their farms and start raising crops for the castle. And still there were complaints!

He would never understand.

Lord Spangler looked forward to a quieter time. The excitement of the last two months had taken their toll on him, and he was determined to move back into his life of ease, no matter what the cost to those below him (and wasn’t everyone below him now?) Shadrack the Hero was now languishing in the oubliette, Vanessa the Chaste was carrying his child, and all the lands of Permia were his to plunder. Thank God he was born into royalty. He would have hated to be one of the lesser people, toiling day in and day out for their entire short lives just to make his life (rightfully) easier to live.

“Fool!” he called to his jester, Slappy the Pungent. “Bring me my dinner!” Slappy bowed and ran from the hall toward the kitchen. As he sank back onto the throne…his throne…he marveled at how God must love him to treat him so well.

What he failed to consider, however, was that perhaps some of Shadrack’s friends might have access to rope.