Fight the MonSter: Find a Cure for MS

by Doug Dandridge

  Down, down in the darkness of the curving steps I creep, listening to the drone of distant voices muted by the mass of silent stone. A subtle glow lights the landing from the arched doorway to the right. I peer quickly from the edge of the frame to see a long hall, hung with dark tapestries and smoky sconces. A dark-robed cleric walks away from me down the corridor, his gaze trained on the codex in his hands. I slip past along the far wall of the landing and continue my descent, leaving him none the wiser. Past several more dim-lit landings and empty halls, the heavy scent of burning spice clouds my sense of movement in the air. I know I am close to my goal.

  Looking ahead, I see two more careful flights will lead me to the base of the stairs and the entrance to a wide hall; the location of the treasure room. Eagerly, I crouch against the wall by the archway to peer into the great room in the foundations of the sanctuary. I see a vast room, shadows intermingling with wavering pools of candlelight. Rich tapestries with weavings made indistinct by time and darkness adorn the walls, and graying veils of cobwebs drape the high ceiling. An ornate altar of some sort squats ponderously in the center of the room, and behind that- a solid door. I take hold of my excitement and continue to scan. There. Standing still and tall in front of the altar is one guard, dressed in the dark tabard of Cruor.

  I slide with the shadows along the wall to the left of my niche by the door, weaving my form with the murky wall hangings. Silent, I inch imperceptibly to the looming black of the corner, where I huddle for a moment and listen. The back wall is more well lit, but the guard will have to look past the candles burning on the altar to catch my swaying progress toward the door.

  I stop still when I am close enough to see the details of the door. I glance at the guardian to confirm he still stares straight ahead, away from my vantage point in the shadows by the wall. I appraise the locking mechanism on the portal ahead of me, and am filled with glee. It is an impressive lock, but a style I have worked on many times with success. More troublesome is the door itself. I see no chance of opening it to slip through without alerting the guard. His poor luck.

  Slowly, slowly, I move behind the monstrosity of an altar that stands between me and the unwary soldier. I am so close I can hear his regular breathing and the fitful creak of his armor when he idly shifts his weight. I free the weighty cosh from my belt pouch and ready my arm as I rise up directly behind him and swing over the altar to connect solidly with the back of his skull. He drops, bloodless, to the ground in a clatter of armor and useless weaponry while I leap to his side and confirm I need no longer be concerned with him.

  Picking the lock is now a simple task. With practiced movements, I twist my picks in the metal innards until I hear the satisfying click. I pull open the door slowly to avoid any creak, and I am confronted with yet another room, smaller and empty this time, and another locked door.

  I sigh. I knew the lock I just handled had been too easy. At least, from the unbroken expanse of dust coating the floor, this room was not entered often. I drag the guard's heavy body into the room and shut the door behind me. With the door closed, the small room is now blacker than night, so I strike a flint to my tiny shuttered lantern and leave it open enough to let me see the room around me.

  The inner door is massive; bronze inlaid with silver in the form of twining arcane sigils. The wan light from my small lamp glints across the glowing designs. It is a treasure in its own right, but not the one I am concerned with tonight.

  As I kneel in front of the door and arrange my lock picks, I stretch my fingers. I can feel the deep ache that will someday stiffen my bones and gnaw away at my skill. Now, though, the trade-off for the hours of practice is attunement to the slight flutter of the tumblers, and almost instinctive understanding of their movements.

  The lock barring this door is monstrous and cleverly wrought to portray the head of some fierce creature with gaping jaws and ruby eyes. The mechanism itself is unfamiliar, and this thought sends me a jolt of excitement tinged with a whisper of apprehension. I study the puzzle before me, and familiar patterns begin to emerge, overlaying the confusion. I had a place to start.

  I take a deep breath before I insert the picks into the dusty keyhole. With my ears trained on the smallest sound of picks on metal, I experimentally move the picks in increments in each direction, listening for the shape of the lock. Occasionally, I still hear the sound of muffled voices from outside in the keep, but that is only at the edge of my awareness.

  Once I can see the workings of tumblers and pins in my mind, I begin to pick out the master's knot in front of me. Pins fall, metal clicks, and a new tangle slides in place, a deeper layer of the mechanism to be overcome. Each triumph is followed by a new challenge as I delve into the heart of the lock. My legs begin to ache in my crouch, and a bead of sweat runs down my forehead with the precise, painstaking movements of my hands. The tiny flicker of my lamp's flame throws my shadow, crooked and shaking, on the walls of the empty room. I nearly shout in exultation as the lock clicks open beneath my hands. However, I stop myself and simply shoot a triumphant grin at the guard's crumpled form.

  Back to the task, I reach for the catch of the heavy door and ease it open. A rush of stale air causes my lamp to sputter but remain lit. A sickly sweet, musty smell permeates the air, registering as a faint spark of recognition in the depths of my mind. My gaze flicks around the space, eager to find my reward, but also to gather the layout of the room and any dangers I might be facing. The chamber is a perfect square of stone blocks, interrupted only by the heavy bronze door. It is covered in a velvet coat of dust, and motes hang thickly in the air, dancing in the uncertain light. The room is empty save for the huge chest in the center. Glimmers of gold and jewels shine from the dusty surface. At last!

  I creep into the room, taking each step carefully, as the dry weight of ages seems to settle over me oppressively. The chest isn't even locked. The arrogant fools had trusted in their "unbreakable" lock to secure their secret. I touch the top of the chest reverently, clearing the filth from a ruby the size of a bird's egg, and the worked gold around it. I recognize some of the same strange symbols I had seen on the door. I slowly lift the heavy lid, anticipating the gleam of gold and jewels, or the long rolls of ancient writings detailing the means of gaining immortality, but there is only... dust.

  "No," I whisper in disbelief. All of my work and research- the wretched lock, were all for this. My dreams of eternity, the take of a lifetime, and I am rewarded with dust.

  I reach in to scrape my fingers through the dust, but instantly, there is an arm around my throat, deathly strong and pulling me backwards. The rancid sweet smell is overwhelming as I gasp and reach for my dagger. I stab back at my captor and hear a crunch and a hissing cackle before the sharp pain in my neck paralyzes me. I stare, wide-eyed and unable to move at the arm holding me. It is gray and thin, with withered skin showing through rents in a ragged, filthy shirt.

  Panicked, I break free from shock and struggle. The arms holding me seem to have grown impossibly stronger, but I stab again, back and up this time, and I tear myself away, feeling the skin on my neck shred in my escape.

  I turn, with my dagger in front of me to face my enemy. The specter of a man stands before me; burning eyes and hollowed flesh. My blood drips from his mouth as his lips curve in a feral smile. The same crumbling laughter grinds from his desiccated throat, and before I can act, he is on me again. Fast, impossibly fast, he twists my head sideways to bare my neck, and that pain pierces to my bone again. His grip is like iron, and I cannot resist. I feel a drowsy warmth seep through my limbs, and I feel somehow detached from my body.

  In a haze, I realize aimlessly that the impossible lock was never meant to keep me out. It was meant to keep him in.

  Black overtakes me, and I know I am dying. This fiend has taken my soul, and I am dying inside this filthy room. When he tosses me to the floor, I don't even feel my bones hit the stone. Through deepening shadows, I see a man in stained clothing standing over me. He is beautif
ul, and he is smiling at me with blood red lips. I imagine he speaks to me, but perhaps it is my last lingering dream of this life, "Rest now, daughter." Then he too fades, into a darkness unlike any I have ever known

  ****

  The night is my life. I'm a thief- a damn good one. I take what I want in the dark from the fools who never see me and never know I was there, and I laugh at their misfortune. I survive in the shadows, in the deepest black corners of this age-old stone city. Tonight, though, is a very special night...

  This night is endless.

  10

  Blood and Sand

  by Jason Kristopher

  Over the Gulf of Sidra

  Mediterranean Sea

  August 1981

  Z-Day - 30 years

  1845 Hours Local Time

  The bullets ripped along the wing, through the fuselage, and into the rudder, jarring him in his seat and causing the A4 Skyhawk to yaw sharply to starboard. He didn’t need the now

  useless controls to tell him the jet was doomed.

  “Splash one,” he heard his wingman call. “Blue Eagle 102 is hit. Skip, come in.”

  John ‘Skip’ Barker looked out over the azure waters of the Gulf of Sidra, the setting sun

  in his eyes. In any other situation, it would be a breathtaking view. Of course I’d be hit and frozen headed straight toward land, he thought. This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be

  here; I should be at home, meeting my little girl for the first time.

  “Handbook, 102 is hit and going down. I have no control. Repeat, Handbook, Blue Eagle

  102 is at zero control and going down.”

  “Roger, 102,” came the reply from his ship, the USS Forrestal. “Scrambling SAR now.”

  He checked the systems yet again, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that the rounds from the Libyan Su-22 hadn’t taken out both his aileron and the rudder ... but there was

  no arguing with the lack of control he had; his ride was shot, literally, and it was going to take him down with it. The broken and fused rudder assembly on his A-4 Skyhawk had forced him

  into a south-by-southwest course, and with no way to turn, he was stuck heading over Libyan territorial waters.

  Better to ditch. Just have to hope the SAR boys can get to me before the bad guys.

  His training had long since taken over by that point, and his conscious mind barely registered his communications with the carrier and his wingman, letting them know he was bailing out - ejecting over the Gulf.

  God help me, he thought, and yanked the seat firing handle. In the span of a few heartbeats, the canopy breaker smashed the cockpit above him, the catapult launched him upward, and the rocket fired, propelling him away from the dying Skyhawk. He expected the metaphorical kick to the gut that came with such rapid acceleration, but it still took his breath away, leaving him gasping into his mask and holding tight to the straps.

  A few tenths of a second later, the seat-man-separator motor fired, and he watched as the seat fell away, leaving him to jerk again as the drogue parachute opened above his head, slowing and stabilizing his descent toward the water, followed by his main chute opening. He felt the downward tug of his survival pack, and looked up as he saw his wingman circle at a safe distance, no doubt reporting his position.

  Judging from his distance to the shore, he was well within Libyan waters, or would be shortly. Now that the sun was going down, his chances of being rescued by SAR operations from

  the carrier were slim. Assuming the Libyans didn’t get to him first. The carrier was already scrambling the rescue personnel, but it would still be some time before they arrived, and sunset

  was the worst possible time to try and locate someone on the water, given the reflecting sun.

  From what he could see up here, it didn’t help that the currents seemed to be heading inland at

  the moment. Of course, those currents did explain the fishing trawler headed his way as he prepared to splash down in the cold water. About twenty feet off the water, he hit the quick-release for his chute, and dropped like a rock. His survival pack hit first, and he had about a second to brace for the impact before the water closed over his head. He heard the automatic inflation of his survival raft, and clawed his helmet off, reaching for the sun and, more importantly, oh-so-necessary fresh air.

  As he popped to the surface, he saw the raft bobbing next to him, the survival pack still tethered to his harness by the lanyard. He hoisted himself over the side, splashing into the

  inflatable craft and coughing up what felt like a few lungfuls of salty water. His emergency beacon had automatically been activated, sending out its radio-pulsed SOS, along with the

  flashing strobe. He quickly covered the beacon, not wanting to attract attention from the fishing trawler, hoping it would pass him by in the gathering dusk.

  Unfortunately, his luck was determined to continue its current trajectory, and within fifteen minutes, the boat had pulled alongside, a spotlight shining down on him and the

  fishermen yelling at him in Arabic, gesturing to him to get out of the raft and into the boat.

  His choices were few: stay in a flimsy raft and hope that the SAR crews were authorized to violate enemy airspace to retrieve him, or go with the fishermen, hoping that he would somehow be rescued.

  It’s a shit sandwich either way you look at it, son, he thought. Still, better to be off the water, especially at night.

  He looked out to sea as he climbed aboard the trawler with the help of the men, but the carrier was far too distant to see. The men pulled his raft aboard as well, handing him the

  survival pack. He bowed his head in thanks, murmuring one of the few Arabic phrases that he knew: “Shukran. Thank you.”

  The burliest of the men, probably the captain, grunted and threw him a dirty, stained jumpsuit. He spoke without expression in rapid-fire Arabic, indicating that Barker should wear it, pointing to the patches and insignia on his arms and flight suit and shaking his head. An argument sprang up between the captain and one of the younger men aboard, who glared at

  Barker with unconcealed hatred while he argued. The captain answered him calmly, and when the young man continued to raise his voice, the captain just as calmly backhanded the younger man across the face, staggering him into the boat’s gunwale.

  Naturally, this only caused him to glower even more at Barker, but he broke off and went toward the front of the boat when the captain grumbled a command his way. Shaking his head, the captain turned back to the pilot, studying him. Barker was not a small man, but this fisherman towered over him by a good six or eight inches, with arms the size of trees and a beard ... Well, it would’ve done Paul Bunyan proud.

  “You ...” Said the captain, in broken English. His mouth moved as though he was tasting the words before saying them, clearly an unfamiliar situation for him. “Sit. Here. You sit

  here,” he said, pointing to a crate just inside the wheelhouse, barely big enough to sit on. The captain motioned again to the jumpsuit, then to the crate, and Barker got the message.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, pulling the wide legs of the jumpsuit over his boots and trying to ignore the smell of the clothing’s former owner - or owners. To his credit, he only gagged a little

  as the smell wafted up, and he zipped it shut. Voila, no more American pilot. Just a white man in a dirty jumpsuit.

  The other men snickered, eventually heading back to their work, but one of them threw a stocking cap his way, and he was grateful. The breeze off the water, combined with still being

  mostly soaking wet, had him pretty chilly. Hopefully, he’d dry off before they hit land, and he spent the next half-hour trying not to think about what would be coming next.

  ****

  USS Forrestal

  1935 Hours

  The search-and-rescue helicopter finished up its second pass over the location reported by Commander Barker’s wingman, and the ship’s executive officer, Tom Sanders, took the report from his ra
dar operator, repeating it to the ship’s captain, Clarence Armstrong.

  “Negative contacts, skipper. They’re not seeing him out there. Should they come around for another pass?” asked the XO.

  The captain stared at the screens before him, hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought. “Where are we with the radio beacon?” he asked, turning to his communications officer.

  “We’re having trouble localizing it, sir,” the young man said. “Some sort of interference, possibly sunspot activity, sir.”

  “Sunspots? But it’s ...” Said Sanders.

  “Pardon me, sir,” continued the comms officer. “But the day or night cycle here on Earth makes no difference. We’ve been noticing some increased radio interference over the last few days; I mentioned it in my report, sir.”

  “Can you find our man, sailor, or can’t you?” asked the captain.

  The comms officer swallowed hard. “Yes, sir, I can. It’s just going to take a little longer.”

  “Then stop talking to me and get to it. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the officer, and started to leave, then turned back. “Sir? I can tell you this: the signal appears to be headed toward shore, sir.” With that, the comms officer left the

  compartment.

  The captain turned to the XO. “Stand down from SAR operations. Get me Captain Batzler on the Nimitz. I’ll take it in my quarters.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the XO.

  “And Tom ...”

  “Sir?”