by Graeme Hurry
‘Reginald, you were meant to search him.’ The necromancer sounds more annoyed than worried. He takes a step back. The floor glows a blue ring around him. Mystic symbols, protection against magic, rise from the circle.
The first member of the Cabal steps out from the right flap of Charlie’s coat. He’s young, blond, and blue eyed. He wears a black suit with silver runes woven into the fabric. ‘Your creature is under our control now.’ Reginald’s hands fall to his side and he slumps, lifeless but standing. The blond man mumbles an incantation. Green light shines out of his hands and wraps around the faces of the mobsters.
Two other men emerge through the mirrors in Charlie’s coat from the in between place. They are older than the blond man, grey haired and frail, but there’s a flash of power in each of their eyes.
The gunsels claw at the light around their faces, and fall to the floor screaming. The two men writhe, in whatever private hells, the Cabal sorcerer has sent them to.
Neal is unaffected. The green light falls off his face and fades into the floor. ‘What’s the matter? You think we’re all defenseless?’ He leaps on the blond sorcerer and they grapple to the ground.
The door opens and ghouls come streaming in. If the golem Charlie fought in the streets is the Necromancer’s servant in public, these are the monsters he uses away from the public eye, where appearances are not important. Their snarling, barking mix of animal and human speech fills the room. They reek of decayed flesh. Each differs in the level of transformation from man to monster. All are fanged, but some walk on human feet, others on cloven hooves. They don’t move as fast as the golem, but they’re faster than the shambling butler.
Charlie drops the lapels of his coat, and grabs one of the ghouls by its bony wrists, stopping it from slicing into him with its long claws. The ghoul pushes towards him. Charlie spins on the ball of his right foot, and uses the ghoul’s momentum against it, sending it crashing into its comrades.
The two older Cabal sorcerers start chanting. Swirling runes twist together forming a barrier against the ghouls. The ghouls flail against the arcane, connected symbols, howling in frustration.
Black smeared shapes fly through the walls near the ceiling and descend towards the melee on the floor. Charlie raises his hands to protect his face. One of the specters passes straight through him. Charlie falls to the ground, writhing in pain, electricity burning and shooting through his skin.
The Cabal sorcerers are knocked off their feet by the specters. Their barrier falls in a heap to the floor, the runes turn to cardboard stencils on the ground. The ghouls rush them before they can fire off another spell. The sorcerers are overwhelmed as the ghouls swarm around them.
A ghoul picks Charlie off the floor by his elbows, propping him up for its master to taunt.
The blond is picked off of Neal. ‘So you’re not defenseless, but close enough.’ Neal’s skin bubbles. Smoke comes out of his eye sockets and mouth.
‘Ah,’ the Necromancer interrupts. ‘But now you are unable to defend yourselves.’ He snaps his fingers. The ghouls slam the three Cabal spell casters to their backs on the ground. Three ghouls pin each sorcerer while another tapes their mouths shut.
‘I must thank you, Charlie for delivering yourself and the mighty Cabal to me.’
‘You forgot one thing. I really hate a man that hurts a woman,’ Charlie says. He wrenches his arms free from the ghoul holding him, reaches in his pocket for a roll of silver quarters, and his overhand punch connects with the necromancer’s jaw.
The light and power goes out of the necromancer’s eyes before he hits the ground. His servants go limp and fall to the floor. The specters dissipate to smoke and then to dust.
The Cabal triad stands. They bind the necromancer in a magic web and duct tape. The young one and the eldest stand over the necromancer, chanting and marking his skin with runes. His skin withers as his power is drained from his body.
The third sorcerer stops Charlie before he can sneak out. ‘We have dealt with your legal problems. Why don’t you work for us?’
‘No offense, but I’m not for hire.’
‘Is that how you want to live out your days? On a bar stool, drinking yourself stupid.’
Charlie crosses his fingers. ‘If only.’
‘Very well. I’m certain we don’t have to tell you that if that’s what you desire, you would do well not to cross us.’
*
Charlie sits on his barstool, eyeing his glass of rye. He drains the glass. ‘Same again, Harry.’
She pours, and waits for him to start drinking. ‘You alright, Charlie?’
He cocks his head to the right, straightens it and shrugs. ‘I’ve been a little on edge lately, but I think taking some time to myself has fixed that.’
‘Time or the whiskey?’
‘Harry, whiskey here in this bar, is all I mean by time to myself.’
They clink glasses.
‘Charlie, it’s nice to provide a place for you to spend the time to yourself.’
‘You’re the only one I can trust.’
‘Are you talking to me or the whiskey?’
The door opens. Charlie ignores the steps heading up to the bar. Harry has that same look of fear on her face. Another red head. Trouble. But Charlie keeps his focus on the glass in front of him.
IN HIS EYES
by Milo James Fowler
The night he came I remember well.
The sky black and cold, the air heavy and thick with the presence of an approaching storm. Papa had finished tending the stock and was locking the farm for the night. He stood inside the front doorway, his hand hovering over the wall-mounted scanner. He looked over his shoulder at me with half a smile, refusing to succumb to the exhaustion already slumping his knotted shoulders.
‘Dinner ready, Aurora Baby?’
‘Yes, Papa.’ I turned back to the kitchen. The security system bleeped as it read his handprint.
‘Securing the perimeter,’ droned the electronic voice of the AI.
Papa watched the grid on the screen as pinpoints of red blinked on in a rectangular pattern. He seemed to be looking for something. The system let him know when every fence and gate was locked tight and electrified. He waited until the computer had finished its task before he came into the kitchen, dragging his boots a little. With a sigh, he collapsed into his chair at the small dinner table.
‘Tired, Papa?’ It was something I asked him every night without realizing it.
‘Yes.’ His answer was always the same. He covered his face with his hands—big, strong hands; old, weary hands—and collected himself. When his face eventually emerged, he was smiling again. ‘Mmm…’ He took a deep breath as I set his plate before him with care. ‘Your cooking, Aurora. It’s worth living for.’
‘Thank you, Papa.’ We were having beanloaf—a poor substitute for meat—and fresh potatoes. He always complimented my culinary skills. I wonder if he knew how good it made me feel inside.
I carried my plate from the stove and sat down across from him. Papa said grace. I remember he prayed that the coming storm would not damage any of the crops or flood the irrigation channels he’d worked so hard to dig earlier in the season. I prayed the roof would not spring another leak. We both prayed the central computer and all of its components would remain protected from the expected downpour. There was always a lot to pray for when a storm came our way looking for trouble.
‘NetCentre says we’ll get the worst of it,’ Papa said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. He was always matter-of-fact about such things. ‘But we’ll do all right. We always do, more or less.’
I remember he asked me about school. I had just gotten my grades back from BioNet, and I’d passed all of the science tests with superior scores.
‘You’ll be moving up to the next level, then?’
I nodded. I think he could tell I was uneasy.
‘You’ll do fine. I know you will. In no time at all, you’ll be a scientist at NetCentre. ‘Doctor Aurora S
pringfield’—How does that sound?’
I remember blushing.
Papa chuckled. ‘You’ll be telling me everything I’m doing with this place is wrong—that I should be planting hybrids, or using that synthetic water substitute they’ve got now.’
I shook my head. ‘You’re not doing anything wrong here, Papa.’
‘Well, thank you.’ He chuckled again. ‘But I doubt your teachers would agree. Lord knows the Committee doesn’t. I haven’t used much of their precious technology with this place. And you know what they think of the old ways. If they wanted to, they could shut us down. They already think we’re a menace to the community.’ He winked at me.
He made light of it, but I knew he was serious. He’d been on edge ever since the Committee rejected our last corn harvest. They had suggested that he modernize. He had taken their suggestion as a threat. Our new security system was as modern as he had become.
‘Maybe…’ My shoulders shifted under my cotton blouse.
‘Maybe what, Sweetheart?’ He put his big warm hand over mine on the table and I could feel the hard calluses. He smiled at me with that twinkle in his eye, the one that told me I was the most important person in his universe.
‘Maybe I’ll be able to change some things. If I’m accepted.’
He watched me for a long moment. Then he squeezed my hand gently. ‘Maybe you will.’
Something knocked against the front door. I jumped with a start, spilling my soymilk.
‘Just the wind.’ Papa helped clean up the mess with his napkin.
‘But it—it sounded like—’
‘Nobody’s out this way,’ he tried to reassure me. ‘The system would’ve let us know. Nobody breaches the grid without it telling us.’
Of course he was right. The AI would have warned us of any movement close to our perimeter, and an alarm would have sounded had anyone entered the farmyard.
‘When you’re off advising the Committee in a few years, I’ll have to fend for myself around here. Might even have to get me one of those housekeepers, teach it to make the beanloaf just the way you do.’ He winked again.
I groaned inwardly. ‘Don’t even say it, Papa. I’ll be home every night to cook for you. That won’t change.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment, but…’ He grinned. ‘Won’t be long before you meet a fine young man and decide it’s time to make your own life together.’ He held up one hand. ‘I know, I know, it’s still a long ways off. I’m just bracing myself for the inevitable. Maybe getting one of those housekeepers isn’t such a bad idea. Might free up more of your time for other pursuits.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t trust them. Those aliens. We don’t know enough about them.’
He chuckled. ‘We’ve been sharing this planet for decades—generations now. They seem harmless enough to me.’
I frowned. ‘I’ve been hearing things—rumors, I guess. Word around NetCentre is the Greys might have certain abilities we can’t fully comprehend.’
‘Greys,’ Papa muttered. ‘Is that what you kids are still calling them?’
I shrugged, parted my lips to reply. But that’s when a harsh whistle ripped across the roof.
‘Just the wind,’ Papa repeated, tossing his soggy napkin into the sink and taking a fresh one from the holder. ‘Remember that last storm we had? Sounded like a whole army was—’
The knock sounded again. I looked at Papa.
It wasn’t the wind.
‘You stay in here, Aurora.’ He watched the front door, his voice low. I don’t remember him looking scared. He didn’t even seem surprised. It was like he’d expected it. He took me by the shoulders and sat me down on the kitchen floor as if I were a small child, my back against the cupboards, their knobs digging into me. His eyes never left the front door. ‘You stay in here,’ he said again. He reached for one of the long knives in the utensil rack and gripped it in his strong hand. The blade gleamed in the kitchen light.
‘Papa—’ My thin frame shuddered.
He looked at me one last time. ‘Everything’s fine.’ He gave me a brave smile. Then he switched off the lights.
I hugged my knees to my chin and sat painfully still, listening as hard as I could. In the darkness, all I could do was listen. Papa’s footsteps moved deliberately toward the front door, his boots landing with heavy, steady thumps. The knock came again.
‘Who’s there?’ Papa’s voice was sharp. He didn’t sound frightened at all. ‘Answer me!’
The knock answered. There was a long pause. Papa didn’t make a sound. In the silence, all I could hear was the unsteady rhythm of my heart as it climbed into my throat.
‘Papa…’ I whispered.
The security system bleeped as he unlocked the door.
Why did he unlock the door? Don’t open it!
The door crashed. Thunder shook the sky above. Papa screamed. I screamed.
I covered my mouth with both hands. My voice died in my throat with a squeal. I strained to hear, but the only sound was the heavy splatter of rain coming through the open doorway.
‘Papa?’ I whispered. I tried to swallow.
Why had he screamed? Had the thunder startled him? But that was a foolish thought. Thunder and lightning didn’t scare adults.
‘Papa?’
Cold, wet air invaded the kitchen. Goosebumps prickled up my arms. I stifled a shiver as I rocked forward onto my hands and knees. I hesitated, my limbs stiff. I grit my teeth together and crawled out of the kitchen, the floor cool and clammy like my skin. My knees slipped.
My pulse pounded in my ears as I came around the corner of the hallway. I hesitated only a moment with a sick dread squeezing my bowels.
Then I looked.
A bolt of lightning sent a white flash searing through the front doorway for just an instant. In the glare, I saw Papa lying on the floor, on his back. The kitchen knife was in him, standing up, imbedded haft-deep in the middle of his belly.
Then everything went black.
I remember hearing a strange whimper escape me, like that of a small injured animal. My knees trembled. I stared into the darkness and hoped—
Thunder boomed above. The rain drove harder, pouring inside, splashing across the floor.
I had to shut that door. We needed to be safe again.
Mechanically, I rose to my feet and felt my way along the wall in the dark. I didn’t want to turn on the light—not until the door was shut and locked. Not until we were safe.
I prayed my toes would not bump into Papa’s body. ‘Oh God—God, please…’ my voice choked, sounding like it came from someone else. I reached the door and held my hand up for the scanner.
‘Identity confirmed,’ droned the AI.
I shut the door, and the steel bolts slid into place. Then I switched on the light. But I did not turn around. I could not face what waited for me. He was there, I knew, lying on the floor behind me, and I knew I couldn’t change things, no matter how long I stood staring at the wood-like grain in the front door. That one glimpse in the lightning had been too much.
It could have been ten minutes that I stood there, frozen in time. The AI finally jarred me from my silent reverie.
‘Intruder alert,’ it droned. The red pinpoints on the screen flashed.
My abdomen tightened. I stared at the display.
‘Intruder alert,’ repeated the AI.
The knock returned, and I cried out, jerking back from the door. I covered my mouth with my hands and swayed on my feet. A sick chill jittered down the back of my neck.
Someone was out there. Whoever had stabbed Papa—
Another knock.
‘Go away!’ I screamed, fists clenched.
Another.
My hand shot to the security panel, swiping the screen. A grayscale image filled its frame from an exterior viewpoint fixed just above the door. A dark figure stood on the front porch in a hooded cloak, soaked to the skin. I could not see the person’s face.
My lungs shuddered against an inter
nal chill. I reached for the panel again and pressed the intercom.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
The figure’s head lifted, and the hood slid back. A smooth, grey face emerged. Glistening black spheres eyed the camera cautiously.
‘I am… Markus,’ his alien voice came through the speaker. He held out empty hands, long fingers with too many knuckles. ‘I am a messenger—’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘The Committee has sent me—’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘There was no time. Your wheat, you see—it is contaminated.’
‘That’s a lie.’
He shook his head, gazing up at the camera. ‘People are ill in the village. They are dying.’
‘You killed my father?’ I clenched my teeth. ‘Just because the Committee doesn’t like our wheat?’
‘I did not.’
I looked back at Papa. My gaze darted up from his boots, along his trousers, across his denim work shirt… There wasn’t much blood—just a thick trickle from the handle of the knife. The stain was small. I thought it would have been bigger.
‘You killed him,’ I grated out.
‘It was the wind.’
‘What?’ My eyes darted to the screen.
‘A gust of wind threw open the door once it unlocked. Your father was holding the knife. The door struck him.’ He stared without expression.
‘That isn’t possible!’ Papa couldn’t have been so clumsy.
‘It was human error, Aurora.’
I clenched my teeth and shivered. ‘I don’t believe you.’ The stranger’s eyes—black, unblinking orbs—seemed to watch me through the screen. How had he known my name?
‘You must remove the blade.’
I didn’t understand what he was saying. ‘You’re not human,’ I told him. That much was obvious, but at the time I had not seen many of his kind. The Committee used them as messengers—glorified servants. It was said that these alien creatures could live a thousand years; but no one knew the secret of their longevity. There was so much we still didn’t know about them. ‘You came to kill him.’