Picaro

by West, Terry M.

  Enjoy this preview of All of the Flesh Served

  Dr. Morgan had no first name. His title was a label affixed to his tube when he was engineered. His lifebrand was medicine, though he suspected a clerical error had occurred. He felt mercenary would have been a more appropriate calling. His large body could be quick and violent.

  Dr. Morgan’s temperament was wrong for his job. But his superiors forgave the rough edges, for he had outlived every field doctor in service. He was not as tolerant and compassionate as he could have been. His anger could boil. He often envisioned himself unleashing his rage upon another in a glorious and grotesque fashion. But, bloody fantasies aside, Dr. Morgan played the cards in his hand like a good and obedient soldier. The inhibitor buried at the base of his skull insured his compliance. It was an internal shock collar that he no longer tested.

  Even though his hide wasn’t an always comfortable place, he knew there were worse skins in which to dress. Hell, he could have gotten a bad shake from the vortex mixer and ended up front line fodder for the Red Guard. The Screaming Short Cutters, they were called. Couldn't wait to strap on bombs and fling themselves at paradise. Mental, they were.

  But deficiencies didn’t spare you, Dr. Morgan realized. Because all the flesh served and there was no wasting it in these dark times. He had watched many soldiers become corpses and long pigs, and he could see where stupidity fit in all this. Still, he envied the dim men who could kill.

  Killing was something he was sure he could be proficient at. He was a doctor, after all, and so he was familiar with the brush strokes of death. His hands were grossly overqualified.

  Dr. Morgan was with the Red Guard troop 468 for a month or so. The group cobbled survivors from three other subunits. The squad had started with twelve men and was now down to five. Reinforcements were coming, but not for a day. The enemy was called many things. Children of Cain and topsiders were the names the Chancellor used. The boys in the field used the more colorful slur of mutards. It was frowned on by the Ministry. But it wouldn't land a soldier in the brig.

  They were sweeping the capitol again. It was the headstone of a dead nation but still the Ministry refused to let it endure mutard occupancy. It was holy land.

  The hot wind lashed the angry sand into a storm with teeth, but it kept the sun off of them. He switched the goggles of his mask to night mode, but still saw little more than the soldiers ahead.

  Dr. Morgan made out the dark remains of the Constitution Hall beyond his comrades. The pillars had crumbled and the stone eagle ledge lay on the steps. He left the symbolism there to wiser men.

  "Ridgway, turn on your thermal and see if we're alone," Timpone, the commanding officer, spoke on the commlink.

  Ridgway fiddled with the controls on his wrist pad. He smacked the side of his helmet and shook his head. "Fucking chem-light battery I got going here! Can't get readings in this shit storm," he said. "But if the mutards were around, we'd know. By their stench if nothing else."

  "We're chasing our asses out here," Timpone decided. "It's time to hat up. Woodrow, find us a place to ride this out."

  Woodrow broke off and disappeared in the brown haze.

  "The Godless whores have given up," Carmichael spoke into the commlink.

  "Not likely," Timpone said.

  "This place holds no reverence for them. Why provoke us?" Carmichael said.

  "How long have you been out of the pod, Carmichael?" Timpone asked.

  "Six weeks, sir," the soldier replied.

  "They know it distracts the Chancellor. The topsiders come back every time we get too close to their core refuge," Timpone explained. "It keeps us busy and gives them time to find a new sanctuary."

  Dr. Morgan watched as Carmichael, ten or less yards away, regarded something on the ground.

  "Sir, come see this!" Carmichael said, excitedly.

  Carmichael bent down.

  Dr. Morgan reached toward the soldier and his lips formed to issue a warning. He couldn't see the bait that Carmichael had tugged from the earth, but he knew what it tethered. The soldier disappeared in a blinding flash of heat. The force of it threw Dr. Morgan to the dead earth. His head slammed against the hard soil. Frantic voices overpowered the commlink.

  Finally, after a long howl from Ridgway proclaiming, Fucking rookie, things calmed.

  Dr. Morgan stared up at the churning brown air and a high pitched drone rang his head.

  Timpone's gas mask stared down at him. "Morgan? Are you okay?"

  Dr. Morgan nodded. It started a rally of pain in his skull. He offered his arm and Timpone helped him up. The commanding officer handed Dr. Morgan his med kit.

  "I've pissed myself," Ridgway confessed in the commlink.

  "Who was hit?" Dr. Morgan asked. Smoke still permeated around them.

  "Carmichael, the poor bastard. And what you caught of it," Timpone said.

  "Take me to him. Let me see how bad it is," Dr. Morgan said.

  "At ease, soldier. Carmichael has ascended."

  Dr. Morgan and the rest of the troop gathered around the blast area. Carmichael lay scattered in burnt pieces. The corpse looked like a half digested offering spit back from the devil's belly. A taunt from Hell. Nothing inspired a rumination of the infernal regions stronger than a tour of the holy land. There was comical irony in that. But Dr. Morgan's head ached too heavily for a proper snigger. And it was a tad sacrilegious. The capitol wasn't a good place for that.

  "Carmichael has ascended. But his duty does not yet end," Timpone said.

  "For God and the 45th! Private Carmichael has ascended!" the men said together.

  Woodrow returned and stared at the dead soldier.

  "Did you find a place, Woodrow?"

  "Yes, sir. The front wall's given out, but it'll be easy enough to defend."

  "Bring what you can to build a fire and collect what is still edible of Carmichael. Let's make camp, boys."

  ***

  Woodrow took them to a small brick structure with a large gap for an entrance. There were no windows, so the men didn't worry over the light of the fire. The men were black on rations and hadn't eaten in two days. Seeing a brother felled was always a sad but mouth-watering event. Choice cuts of Carmichael blackened over the fire.

  Death was handled very differently by the non-military personnel of the 45th. Most preferred cremation. A burial in the dirt was forbidden and looked upon as a crime. But on the battlefield, soldiers were expected to pledge their corpses to their comrades.

  Dr. Morgan looked around the building his unit used for cover. He could not say what the structure had been. The place was gutted and there were no clues. Ridgway was at the hole, keeping watch. The rest were hugging the warmth. They had shrugged their masks and gear off.

  "I heard that the mutards will hobble their own to cover retreat," Woodrow said, the fire dancing in his pupils. "They'll drug the weak ones and tell them the Red Guard will skin them alive if they are captured. They'll chain them to a post and give them an XT-97 and tell them to pocket the last slug for themselves."

  "That's complete bullshit, Woodrow. I've no love for topsiders but they are loyal to their own," Timpone said, picking Carmichael out of his teeth.

  Dr. Morgan's head still throbbed, but he had to add to the discussion. "They bury their dead."

  Woodrow's eyes rose above the fire and found the doctor. "What? You mean they put them in the earth? That's insane."

  "I've seen cemeteries. Crude gravestones carved with pagan symbols."

  Woodrow cringed. "That's disgusting, isn't it? Sacrilegious. What do they eat?"

  "Not their dead," Dr. Morgan said.

  "No wonder God hates them. Taking away the glory of the last supper," Woodrow said. He motioned to what was left of Carmichael.

  "Go ahead," Timpone said. "It's starting to burn, anyway."

  Ridgway came back and addressed Woodrow. "It's your turn to watch. Now go on, rookie. Find us a grid square."

  Woodrow rose, grabbed his rifle, and che
wed on Carmichael as he crossed the room.

  "Gentlemen," Ridgway said, taking Woodrow's warm spot. He dug for a cig.

  "You still smell like piss," Timpone teased.

  Ridgway gave his commander the V sign and grunted. "Shut your crumb catcher! I still smell better than your cunt, now don’t I?"

  Timpone laughed and stoked the fire.

  Soldiers had a harsher demeanor than other lifebrands. They were encouraged to be vulgar and cruel. They were permitted lust, as well. It wasn't purged from the testosterone the bloodthirsty bastards needed to serve. But they could only spend their seed on Ministry approved holoporn. Dr. Morgan spent his credits on the holo booth as well. But he used it to see pictures and videos of the world before the great war. Lush postcards mailed from the dead past. He had stood upon the highest crest of the Himalayan. Studied the Notre-Dame Cathedral from the Eiffel Tower. Traveled to the angry mouth of the Mauna Loa volcano. He often dreamt of that world and saw himself in it. Dr. Morgan hated waking out of those wonderful dreams.

  He rubbed his neck and winced at the pain.

  Ridgway noticed. "You okay, doc?"

  "I'll live," Dr. Morgan said.

  Ridgway chuckled. "Death lost his marker on you, didn't he? How many troops have you been assigned?"

  "More than I can remember," Dr. Morgan said.

  "You are the biggest Band-Aid I've ever seen. A titan must have jizzed in your dish," Ridgway teased.

  They were quiet for a moment. They pointed their thoughts at the fire. Ridgway spoke again.

  "So, you know about biology and shit, right, doc?"

  "You'd be well screwed if I didn't."

  "How do the topsiders breed like they do? With all the poison still out here? Shouldn't it have killed them off by now?"

  "Genetic compensation. They evolve to survive the conditions," Dr. Morgan explained.

  "The devil is in their blood," Timpone added. "They aren't pure in design, like us. If we let them, they'd rape our women, contaminate our line, and erase us."

  "Too bad mutard bitches don't do it for me. I'd return the favor," Ridgway said.

  "You're a grunt. You can't breed. Not even with a topsider. Imagine what nightmare that would spawn," Timpone said.

  "Well, there's always the holoporn," Ridgway said.

  "You'd save a fortune in credits if you had an imagination," Dr. Morgan said to Ridgway.

  Ridgway scoffed. "And what would a saint like you know about slapping the bald-headed lap chap?"

  "I'm not a eunuch, Ridgway. I've been issued the same hardware as you," Dr. Morgan said with a smile.

  "Picture that!" Ridgway said to Timpone. "This one having a whack in a holo booth!"

  The men all laughed.

  Silence caught them once more. They watched the drama of the fire until Ridgway spoke again.

  "Doc, do you think…"

  Woodrow fell back inside. He landed flat on his back. His upturned eyes reached for the hole in his head.

  "Fuck me!" Timpone cried out.

  He and Ridgway both caught a slug in the head. It whizzed into them like angry wasps. Their melons sprayed pink mist as they fell and died.

  Dr. Morgan stood and waited for his turn. Shadows grew from the hole. He raised his hands.

  Night Things: The Monster Collection

  "As someone who grew up on Universal's monsters, I was blown away by Terry West's modern interpretation of not only Dracula and Frankenstein, but the Mummy, zombies, werewolves and more! Every page crackles with sarcastic wit, horror and action." -Hunter Shea, The Jersey Devil

  "Think 'True Blood' in an urban setting, add a dash of 'The Sopranos' and blend in a big-budget action blockbuster finale, and you have something approximating Night Things."-Tracie McBride, Ghosts Can Bleed

  "A wild ride through some wickedly dark places."-Bram Stoker Award® winner Lucy Taylor

  Imagine a world just like yours with one startling difference: every creature of legend has stepped forward from the shadow and they now exist shoulder to shoulder with humankind! New York City has become a macabre melting pot. Vampires, werewolves, zombies and ghouls are now the new immigrants and they are chasing the American dream. The Night Things have become part of the system. But many humans feel the creatures are dangerous ticking time bombs.

  Night Things: The Monster Collection presents the first three Night Things/Magic Now books in one volume:

  Dracula versus Frankenstein

  Undead and Kicking:

  Monsters and the Magic Now

  Experience Terry M. West's entertaining blend of classic horror and dark fantasy and see your favorite monsters in a remarkable new light.

  Buy it now!

  A Preview of Night Things: The Monster Collection:

  Prologue

  The Northern Ice

  Many, many years ago

  The creature sought warmth near the fire. Night had fallen on the ice and this cave in the frozen mountain would serve the monster well as a new sanctuary. His old cavern had been buried that day by an avalanche. He had lost little; a bed he had fashioned from branches and dead leaves and a worn fishing spear. As he sat near the fire, he used a rock to sharpen the end of a thick branch and fashion a new lance. He had snapped the limb from a large tree near the tundra. The fiend with no name had also hauled a parcel of firewood from the timberline to birth flame and warm his new home.

  He was hungry, but the blistering wind at this time of night would cut even his strong hide. He would ice fish at dawn.

  This frozen hell continued to test him, and the cold always soaked his bones; even near the blaze of a campfire. There was no idea in him of how long he had existed in this bleak place. It could have been weeks, years or centuries, for all he knew. But it was quiet here. Quiet and too dangerous for man to intrude.

  He looked to his hands as they performed their task. Both had been harvested from strangers and sewn to forearms that he merely borrowed. His body was composed of orphaned parts and he often wondered about their origins. The stick was sharp enough to pierce scales, so the monster set it aside and warmed his uneven hands on the fire.

  When he could feel them again, he ran them gently over his face, feeling the scars that no longer bore laces. They had fallen out long ago but he still felt them, hooked beneath his skin. His long, dark hair rested on his shoulders, warming them. He wore a polar bear skin over his clothes that were irredeemably filthy. At least his reborn flesh didn't promote a beard, so there was a chore he needn't attend, though it might have helped keep his chin and cheeks a bit warmer.

  Here, he had forgotten how hideous he was, how badly his clothes reeked and how frighteningly hellish his face glowed in the fire. Here he was a man of endless days living in peace.

  "I have sought after you for months," a voice spoke from the darkness behind him.

  The creature snarled, grasped a burning log from the fire, and twisted upward. He panted angrily.

  "You would be wise to leave this cave," he warned. "I am a murderer stitched from dead men and I will add you to my victims if you do not depart at once."

  The trespasser stepped slowly into the light of the fire. He was an attractive and pale man with dark hair and features. His height rivaled the creature's. Though it was cold enough to kill a man wrapped in several layers of clothing without a fire nearby, the stranger wore a dark greatcoat and breeches that spoke aristocrat and his breath was invisible on the freezing air. The man should have been dead, dressed as he was, in this temperature.

  "What are you called?" the man said, with a calm smile. "I deserve to know the name of my executioner, yes?"

  "I have no name," the creature said. "I have been labeled demon or monster. Linger and I will show you why."

  "Why do you seek seclusion in this God forsaken place?"

  "Because I am done with man," the creature said. "This is their world, so let them have it. Now leave, mortal. This is your final caution."

  "But I am not a mortal, my good fellow," t
he stranger insisted.

  "Then what are you, besides one who places little value on his life?" the creature asked.

  The man's eyes suddenly blazed and fangs grew from his mouth. He hissed.

  The creature drew back. "What are you?" he asked again, his voice fearful.

  The stranger reverted back to a friendly countenance. "I am vampyre. The oldest of my kind. And, like you, I have been unjustly pursued by superstitious mortals. We are kin, my friend. And there are many like us out there, hiding in shadow."

  The vampire slowly came nearer.

  "I have heard the tale of your creation," the vampire said empathetically. "Your father, he abandoned you. He left you alone the very day of your birth to perish in the night. You arrived naked and unloved and no creature should have to endure such a thing. But you survived. Because you are superior. Like me. We deserve better than caves and coffins and dreary castles to be stormed by angry mobs. We deserve a place of our own. A world of our own."