9 Tales From Elsewhere 4

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  “So everything just stays the same?” Shana leaned into Tyson. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Eyeless started shutting down equipment. “I’ll get new eyes out of this, and the chance to make a difference, and you get something you didn’t expect.”

  “We have what we came for.” The second man started pushing them forward, out of the hatchway and into the corridor. “Eyeless, you will be rewarded.”

  Tyson looked to Shana. Eyeless laughed. The second man kept pushing them towards the hatch at the end of the corridor. They entered a small airlock of a submarine; the brass, copper and black piping throughout the small vessel dripped and hissed.

  “So the thought is all you really need?” Tyson put his arm about Shana as the hatch closed. The first man then closed the inner hatch and disengaged the docking system, flooding the corridor and rooms before releasing the sub. The first man pushed forward one of the three control arms set in the floor and the vessel moved. Eyeless watched as the two men manipulated the controls. Tyson took Shana and they stood out of the way. This was it. “Eyeless, I hope you know what is happening?”

  Eyeless leant up against the bulkhead, her glasses reflecting the brass surfaces like a rainbow. “I do.”

  Shana gripped on to Tyson and he knew the fear she was feeling because he felt it himself; the tightness of the gut, the rapid thinking and the urge to scream out.

  With deliberation and ease Eyeless pulled one of her guns and shot both men in the head, the sound causing Tyson and Shana to cover their ears and cower. Shana screamed. Tyson pulled her close expecting to be shot as well. Eyeless pushed the bodies away from the controls, moved several levers and checked gauges set into the hull.

  “Strang-ers.” She turned to him and Shana. “The humans only have blue eyes and this isn’t a human sub.”

  Tyson felt something was wrong the moment the men walked into the room. Eyeless and Shana said nothing, they played along, but why? Eyeless could have killed them then and there, she had already proved resourceful so the delay didn’t add up.

  “Why kill them here?” Tyson sat Shana on the deck. She was shivering.

  “I didn’t want to have to carry the bodies. This is a cleverly designed pair, the humans will be happy with them for research.” The sub rocked as Eyeless move two levers forwards. “I also didn’t want the self destructing.” She stepped over to the bodies and unzipped their suits. She rolled the first man over and with a small knife pulled from her boot she cut a slit in the man’s shoulder. After a little digging and tugging she pulled out shiny sphere. “All Strang-ers have one. You detonate when you fear being captured or killed by the Thoughtless.” She stood. “Your right shoulder feel stiff?” It was sore, he nodded. “I cut yours out while you slept in front of the fire. Your drink was drugged. Had to kill these two before they decided blowing us up was better.”

  “Besides, the bonus DNA should ensure she gets new eyes.” Shana rubbed her face.

  “And what happens to me?” He didn’t know hwther to be angry or thankful Eyeless had cut the device out. Would he have exploded?

  “You and I will be required to undergo testing for a time. Remember I’m also a unique entity, the first of my kind to be tested in the field. They might even want to see if they can reproduce you.”

  “So you’re taking me to the humans?” At least he wasn’t about to be pulled apart, and he would be with Shana.

  “Should be there in about five or so hours,” Eyeless said. “Will probably start to smell a bit ripe in here by then, but at least it won’t be rotting fish and seaweed.”

  Tyson settled, the sight of the two bodies should have troubled him, and if he hadn’t have experienced the loss that love brought and the joy it promised he might have cared for his fellow Strang-ers. It started making sense now, the communications Eyeless heard were these two coming to get him and the thought, a thought they didn’t even know existed. In a way he was glad he went through the ordeal and was satisfied most of the truth had been kept from him; if he’d known anything in advance he would have had a mind wipe and reprogram done. Shana looked down on him and he saw life in her smile and the shine in her eyes was clear enough.

  “I was the target all along,” he said looking at the dead men.

  “Yes.” Shana also looked at them.

  “Did la Strange know?”

  “They sent operatives down to get you didn’t they?” Eyeless set the controls and faced him. “I picked up the chatter after I sent a signal to the humans to pick us up. The Strang-ers did a good disguise job but their eyes and the fact they were still after the thought gave them away. That and the fact the humans said they’d send a fishing boat next low tide, not a sub.”

  “What now?” Tyson tried to convey the same emotion he saw in Shana. He knew she betrayed him, but at the same time she had saved him, given him something he never wanted to let go of.

  “After some studies the humans have said we can be together, if that’s what you want?” He could see tears welling in her eyes. “I understand if you...”

  “I want to be with you,” he cut her off knowing it was true. “I don’t ever want to be without you again.”

  “If they manage to reproduce the same conditions that gave you the ability to experience true emotional thoughts then the whole face of la Strange will change.” Eyeless knelt before him. “You are quite unique, Tyson and I hope whatever is working for you will one day work me too. I can feel some emotions but nothing like you, so in a way you are my hope.”

  “I’ll be alone in the human population.” Shana sat beside him and put her arms about his chest. “I don’t know if I want to be a freak.” Tyson returned the embrace.

  “In a way all three of us will, but it is a new beginning for the Thoughtless and the tower of la Strange.” Shana sounded confident.

  “Well, that’s it then.” Eyeless stood. “One thing we will know for sure. At least we won’t be strangers.”

  Something inside made Tyson smile at that, a feeling he quite liked. He didn’t know what the future was going to be like, but Eyeless was right, they knew each other and for the first time in his life that really mattered.

  THE END

  NO DOGS, NO IRISH by Conor Miggan

  Where do I start? The books all say start in the middle of the action. So here we go: a chase scene. Myself and Dorian are running through the back streets of London, away from a group of cross swinging angry shaven headed white boys trying to kill us. As if that wasn’t bad enough they’re still blasting that Jones prick’s speech on the loud speakers and screens on every corner.

  “They wish to take our jobs! Our Women!”

  Change the record lads, please. Why are they chasing us? Well I don’t want to insult your intelligence with really obvious exposition but I also don’t want to do that obvious Easter egg drop in out of nowhere reveal either so here we go.

  We’re Vampires. Take a second and let that sink in.

  You’re back? Good. We’re between 100-600 years old each, from Ireland. And since these EDL prats got in power they’ve been doing their best to get rid of us. Oh, and the Jamaicans, who also happen to be Werewolves. Title seems pretty clever now, eh?

  So back to the situation at hand I think. Myself and Dorian have been chased down an alleyway, backed into a corner by a gang of skinheads. Ever see those nature shows about lions and gazelles? Guess which one I felt like. I engaged them in smart arse back and forth for a bit to buy us time but I got the impression I was stalling the inevitable.

  “Listen lads, I don’t mean to be rude but I think I’m in the wrong place. I’m not into this back alley man on man action. And given that you caught my brother in bed with one of your wives I think that should tell you he’s not into it either. I’m not knocking it, if it makes you happy good for you. “

  They didn’t like that. When your belief system is so full of holes and based on lies it usually coincides with a pretty fragile ego.

&n
bsp; “You think you’re funny bruv? You’re outnumbered and you’ve got jokes. Are you mental?”

  They moved in closer, and I was certain I was done for. You normal, non-vampiric types would probably pray at this stage. A voice from the other side of the alley spoke in the dark, and I must admit it was pretty cool.

  “That’s the thing about these Irish bruv, they all mental.”

  The skinhead didn’t look back right away.

  “This is none of your business, fuck off.”

  It wasn’t until he lit the cigar that I saw it was one of the Jamaicans. I wasn’t so concerned with who it was, it could have been Whitney Houston for all I cared. The Jamaican lit his cigar a certain way that it made his eyes glow like the hound of the fuckin Baskervilles. The white boys backed off, we tried our best to contain our sense of relief. I was trying to figure out a cool, tough guy way of saying thank you but the Jamaican cut me off.

  “I think you and the boy best be getting home.”

  The only thing to do was to nod. We were on our way back when Dorian finally spoke.

  “Who was that?”

  “The fuck should I know. He was probably named Wayne or Steve or something.”

  “No not him, the Jamaican fella.”

  “Pretty sure that was Jez.”

  “Seemed like kind of a prick.”

  “You’ve been listening to the old boys too long. How did he seem like a prick? He saved our hides just now.”

  When we get back home they’re all engaged in some obnoxious debate while setting up for the grand opening of The Hellfire Club. The club is our legitimate venture, a goth/burlesque club that we can then use as a cover for whatever else we may be doing that lands on the less then legitimate side. Cillian, if you can imagine a scrawny nerdy type sat with a laptop and Tommy a grizzly and scarred up war veteran is up a ladder fixing the lights. Tommy’s a miserable, hateful old bastard but he’s loyal. He served in the original IRA; broke out of Kilmainham jail on the day Dev, Collins and the boys were due to be executed. They’re debating the Jamaicans and they’re “marital practises.”

  “That’s disgusting. You're telling me they just gather up some group of young ones off the street, get them absolutely off their heads on this special brew premium wacky backy rigged up on the Pires then they all roll around and he takes turns riding them all? That's disgusting!”

  “Is it? It sounds alright to me. Remember Hugh Hefner? He spent his twilight years surrounded by a group of women who could have passed for his grandchildren. At our age ye take what ye can get. That usually means trying to get drunk enough to ride some decrepit old thing with a gash that smells like a dish cloth.”

  There was an awkward silence for a second while we all struggled with that visual. I thought I’d break it with a joke.

  “All the same though, don’t know how I'd feel about being an orgy baby.”

  Tara appeared from the back rooms, escorting two confused girls out who were swearing that they “don’t usually do this.” Tara shut the door behind them and joined the debate.

  “Oh I know love. You’ll be grand, bye….A what? “

  “An orgy baby. Most people are able to take solace in the fact that the two people who created them at least liked each other for a little while. These lads were conceived in a big sweaty orgy. That's got to fuck with your self-esteem a little bit. Though given how much of a tramp you are it would make sense.”

  “Fuck off Damien!”

  Ok I know that’s the first time you’ve heard my name, but I swear I didn’t do that on purpose. Could you imagine? After all of my high and mighty shite about exposition if I’d pulled that old trick out of the bag? I love that bit in the movies where they type the guy’s name out across the screen like it’s on a typewriter. I’ll hold on to that suggestion for the big screen adaptation, but back to the situation at hand. Tara notices Shane staring at her from across the room. Shane’s a little bit younger then Tommy, but no less of a mean and nasty bastard. Think Jayne from Firefly meets Tig from Sons Of Anarchy.

  “You better not let my daddy catch you staring at me Uncle Shane.”

  “Oh sorry love, I can’t help it. It’s just such a shame we lost such a lovely piece to the rug munchers.”

  Right on queue Dad appears. He loves to make an entrance in the suit, cloak and cane. Just as Shane stepped off the ladder where he was fixing the lights dad pulled his sword and levelled it just under his chin.

  “How many times am I going to have to tell you to leave my daughter alone?? You were at her christening for god’s sake.”

  Shane just looked him in his eyes and sniggered. Dad wasn’t impressed.

  “I'm warning you.”

  The stare down continued for a moment before Shane decided wisely to back up, albeit slightly reluctantly.

  “Alright, fine. Can you move that blade now please?”

  Dad left it there for a moment regardless.

  “Luke.”

  I stood up, preparing to have to get in between my Dad and Shane at any moment.

  “Look at it this way, when we open I’ll have some new distractions.”

  Shane was of course talking about the entertainment, the group of heavily tattooed dancers on stage practising for tonight. Even Dad’s eyes lingered for a minute. He turned on Tara then, who was crawling up the bar like a cat at the Bartenders, who for one reason or another were transfixed.

  “TARA!!”

  She froze like a cat then turned on the same baby of the family bullshit routine she always does where she comes off all sweet and adorable. Sweet and adorable my hundred year old undead arse!

  “I told you before leave Shane alone, dirty old prick doesn’t know any better but you do! What are we Welsh?”

  “But Da!”

  “TARA!”

  “Fine.”

  She waved to the bartenders and got off the bar. Their collective exhale of release nearly sent the whole counter of glasses flying.

  “Alright everything is on for tonight's opening, Tommy and Shane are going to go and collect the booze from the Jamaicans. “

  The two old guys groaned about going to see the Jamaicans. Dad turned his attention to Cillian. Cillian proved useful once he got a couple of degrees on computers and programming and all that bollox.

  “You! How are my fake passports coming along?”

  “Pretty well, the prints are near perfect.”

  “Good work, lad. For a fuckin geek you're proving semi useful. On to more pressing matters.”

  He turned in my direction. Fuck sake here we go.

  “Collecting the booze for tonight. Damien go with them, make sure things stay professional A steady source of revenue will keep the cops and the skinheads off our backs for a little bit. Apparently the only other place in the world they make Guinness is Jamaica, wouldn't ye know. “

  Cillian spoke up, trying to be funny.

  “So rather than get it from Dublin, an hour away we have to get it from them.”

  I think he had Dad caught out, but you’d never tell by his stone expression.

  “It's good for relations. Now shut up.”

  Cillian shrewdly put his hands up and went back to work. Dad explained this whole Goth club thing to me before; he reckons the Brits will be pleased if we give the goths and the freaks somewhere to go. In this brave new Nationalist Britain they feel a lot more comfortable when everybody looks the same, and that extends beyond race to include those of the pierced and alternative persuasion.

  “Da, come and have a look at this.”

  Tara pointed out at a line of JCBS and builders gathering outside. Some fat ugly wanker with a megaphone stood on top of one of the JCBS.

  “ATTENTION!! BY ORDER OF THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON YOU HAVE BEEN HEREBY GIVEN 24 HOURS NOTICE TO VACATE THE PREMISES. IT IS TO BE TORN DOWN TO MAKE WAY FOR A HOME FOR UNDERPRIVILEGED CHILDREN WHO WERE ORPHANED BY WOLF AND VAMPIRE ATTACKS. HAVE A NICE FUCKING DAY.”

  “Da what do we do?”

  �
��Relax. You heard him, 24 hours. Right now we do nothing. Business as usual.”

  Dad looked to be pretty serious so I got up and left in a hurry. See our family history is kind of funny, I happen to have a different Mother to Dorian and Tara. She was a human woman who died a long time ago. Tara’s story is actually somehow more complicated. She spent most of her formative years in England and as a result, has an English accent. Naturally dad hates it, I think because it reminds him of when she got taken away from him.

  Years and years ago before Dad was even turned the house got broken into by British soldiers. Bunch of scum bags, anybody they suspected of involvement in the troubles they’d ship their kids off to England “for the good of the child “apparently. So in storms this group of Brits, hold everybody at gun point and they drag Tara outside. When my Dad got turned his sole purpose was finding Tara. It took about 20 years for Dad to finally track down what orphanage she was put in and he was over to London in the bowels of some British Naval ship. He waited till the old creep who ran the place left and went in to her room. She almost didn’t recognise him at first but once she did the decision was easy. Once he turned her the first on the list was the old creep that ran the orphanage. The way dad tells it she threw the door open and stood there for a minute to let him get a good old look at who was about to kill him. Then she went in and by the sounds of it she ripped him into so many pieces they could have used a leaf blower to pick him up. You humans only get a superficial sense of release from revenge but us, we feel better. We are after all, cold blooded.

  Unfortunately over the years she revealed a few lasting effects of those years. Mainly, dreadful dating choices. This takes us to present day, and the English ponse she used to sneak in and out through the tunnels. Apparently Mum caught them once. I don’t know exactly what she said to him, and I can understand at the time why she didn’t tell us about it. The boy would have got ripped limb from limb in the worst way possible.

  So the time comes to go over to the Jamaicans factory, myself and Shane go inside and Tommy stays outside with the dog. Apparently two young lads saw the old man and decided to try and mug him. He was in a good mood so he decided to play the feeble old man routine.