Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

  They discussed news and rumors about British occupation. Also potential weak points in the British Royal Army, as well as the Crowned Monarchs, the steam-powered automatons functioning as overseers in places such as Beijing, Luoyang, Fuzhou, and Guangzhou. Maps were analyzed. Potential battle schemas were drawn. Soon they would make their move, Zheng assured, once their talents had maturated.

  ***

  One day Li Xi was called to Zheng’s office. There, Zheng presented him a long black case, which Li Xi opened to find a trident-blade of his own. He waved the blade before him, and the three prongs gleamed. The steam-filled tubes and wires ran along the middle section of the blade to the hilt, where the two Chinese characters of his name were inscribed.

  “I had our special blacksmith personalize it for you,” Zheng said. “He is the best in all of Xi’an.”

  Li Xi nodded, remembering the man. He chuckled at his own sentimentality.

  You old fool, you are about to cry!

  “Something amusing?” Zheng asked.

  Li Xi shook his head, then nodded. “Yes—I mean... no. I am honored. Blessed.”

  “The White Lotus Society feels honored and pleased to have you as well, Master Xi. Over the past several months you have proven yourself to be a fine master of the elements. This merging with the trident-blade marks you as a true Initiate.”

  “Thank you, master,” Li Xi said, bowing. “I will not let you down.”

  “No, I don’t believe you will. Now, run along. Back to your studies. There is much you must learn regarding your weapon.”

  Li Xi bowed again and rushed out of the room. That night he slept with his blade nestled closely against him. He could not recall ever sleeping so soundly.

  ***

  It began in Luoyang. After two months of planning and preparation, thirty members of the White Lotus set out under cover of darkness, cloaked in spells of invisibility on the rising winds, like man-sized birds. They made the journey which would have taken weeks on foot in the space of one night, arriving on the outskirts of the city in the morning mist.

  Crouching in the rice paddies, they observed British forces on patrol: stiff-backed men dressed in red and white tunics, wearing feathered hats, and shouldering fire-sticks.

  As they moved in, cloaked again, they easily cut down the outer garrison, wielding trident-blades as swords only, keeping the elements silent. Some villagers dropped to their knees, raising hands in prayer.

  Inside the village they dropped their cloaking and engaged the British forces in earnest, erecting walls of earth before them to deflect the fire-stick bullets. The Lotus summoned strong wind to swipe away their sticks, afterwards plunging three-pronged blades into hearts, saturating the earth.

  The scrambling British troops wheeled out their Crowned Monarch, a hulking metal-steel warrior that resembled George IV in full regalia, puffing steam from a matrix of gears and tubes. The mirror Eyes of the city spun violently back and forth, endeavoring to capture everything.

  The lumbering Crowned Monarch, whose arms were equipped with massive fire-sticks of grandiose propulsion, volleyed enormous steel cannonballs at the White Lotus. The Initiates, in turn, summoned pillars from the earth which shattered as the cannonballs smashed against them.

  Sho Shen, eldest member of the Lotus, swooped down upon the Crowned Monarch and decapitated it with one slice of his fire-infused blade. The metal head of George IV flopped to the ground, expelling nuts, springs, bolts. The rest of the automaton collapsed into a heap.

  Li Xi grew enthralled by the vision taking place around him: the true power of his people revealed. The White Lotus proceeded to finish off the remaining British forces occupying Luoyang, and then one by one they shattered the watching Eyes.

  Villagers cheered, bowing to them under a burning Union Jack. It was a victorious day for the Chinese people and the White Lotus Society.

  ***

  Further attacks were executed.

  Kaifeng, Nanjing, Hankou, Hangzhou.

  Reclaiming them from the British. Crowned Monarchs toppled. All watching Eyes shattered.

  Even the seacoast city of Shanghai was taken by Li Xi and forty others, cloaked atop the water itself and skimming valiantly across it. They sent fireballs from their trident-blades into the hulls of British clipper ships.

  Later, following Zheng’s orders, the forty or so upper-level Initiates, including Li Xi, moved into the southern region and took back Chongqing, Fuzhou, Guangzhou, and even Hong Kong.

  In spite of their advanced scientific knowledge the British forces proved no match for the elemental warfare of the White Lotus. Within a month over half of China had been returned to its people.

  Zheng Shi then declared the cessation of trade with the British, including a ban on opium. News of this reached Britannia via the mirror watching Eyes and, outraged, they quickly prepared a full-scale attack. In the national press they released a statement claiming, “If there’s one thing the British people cannot, and will not, abide, it is a severing from the most predominant source of black tea.”

  Li Xi and the others returned victorious from Hong Kong to Xi’an, where Zheng called an emergency meeting to discuss the coming British attack.

  “Dark days lie ahead,” he told his Society. “But, as we have seen, those from the West are no match for our form of spiritualized combat. And so, we shall be victorious, however it’ll take a strong will and a firm resolve. We may lose some of our beloved brothers in the process. It will require that we fight with our hearts.”

  Zheng stared out over the sea of faces. “We are going to travel to Beijing, and to the Forbidden City. We will make our new headquarters in that ancient fortress.”

  Applause erupted throughout the cavern.

  ***

  A month later and they had battled their way to the heart of Beijing and the towering walls of the Forbidden City. They had gathered in the magnificent stone courtyard. Li Xi looked around at his brothers, standing proudly beneath an overcast sky. No more than twenty had perished, and these younger members, still green with respect to their abilities.

  The White Lotus had fortified themselves within a ring of fire. Zheng stood at the front, eyes closed in solemn meditation. Li Xi moved through his brothers to him, touching his master on the shoulder.

  “We have made it this far, friend,” Li Xi said. “I do not expect we shall fail.”

  Zheng forced a grin. Blood streaked down his chin and neck. “There are a dozen Crowned Monarchs in there,” he said. “We will need to move swiftly.”

  “Like the wind, my brother.” Li Xi patted the man’s shoulder fondly.

  Zheng nodded and rallied the rest of the Lotus with battle cries. Then he waved his hands, causing the curtain of fire to descend from about them. Red and white tunics lined the walls and ramparts of the Forbidden City, and the twelve automatons of George IV stood beneath the main gate, puffing and chugging great gusts of steam. Beyond them stood more British soldiers, fire-sticks aimed straight ahead.

  Zheng gave the word. The White Lotus powered up their trident-blades—leaping through the air like a horde of jaguars. They charged toward the ancient city of their ancestors.

  ***

  Li Xi stood atop the bluff of the great cliff, watching the mirage-like fleet of British clipper ships approaching Hong Kong on the horizon. He had done this before. But all that seemed a dream. A vision of another world. Now he was a full-fledged member of the White Lotus Society.

  His life had meaning; his heart had purpose.

  The next wave of British forces was about to arrive.

  He turned back to the rows of men in white uniforms standing at the base of the cliff, every one of them holding a flashing trident-blade.

  He smiled. If there was one thing he knew about himself, it was that he had a family. That he belonged. He was helping restore honor to the Chinese people. His life could have no greater significance.

  He spotted Zheng near the front and nodded to him.

 
Yes, my brother. They are coming…

  The Grand Leader nodded back and turned to face his men. Li Xi glided down on a current of air, falling in among the others.

  The battle had only begun.

  About the author: Aaron J. French’s fiction has appeared in many publications including Dark Discoveries, Black Ink Horror, Something Wicked, After Death…, Beware the Dark, Chiral Mad, The Lovecraft eZine, and others. His zombie collection Up From Soil Fresh was published by Hazardous Press. “The Order,” Aaron’s occult thriller novella about a Lovecraftian secret society, was published in the Dreaming in Darkness collection. His novella “The Stain” appears in The Chapman Books available from Uncanny Books. His single-author collection, Aberrations of Reality, will be released 2014 by Crowded Quarantine Publications. He is an active member of the Horror Writers Association.

  The Shadow of the Unknown

  FOREWORD

  First of all, I would like to thank you for purchasing a copy of this anthology. I put a lot of hard work into its final completion, and neither myself or any of the talented writers adorning these pages received any payment or compensation. This book is strictly the result of a mutual love and respect for H.P. Lovecraft and his works and influence on the horror genre. So I’d like to thank all of the writers in the table of contents, as well, for offering up their invaluable stories. Several of these pieces are reprints and have appeared in such fine publications as Morpheus Tales, House of Horror, Bare Bone, Nightscapes, SNM Magazine, Nil Desperandum, and The Innsmouth Free Press.

  While this is a Lovecraftian anthology, it is more a collection of tales inspired by the unknown/uncertainty element employed in Lovecraft’s writings. Additionally, a heavy influence is given here to his metaphysical ideas, and how he used them in his stories. But don’t worry, there are plenty of straight-up Mythos tales thrown into the mix.

  I think one of the biggest draws for people to Lovecraft’s work is his ability to unmake the world around you, so that you start believing what he’s writing about might actually be real. In this way, an unknown element penetrates into the fabric of your reality, shapes it and refashions it, until you’re never quite the same again.

  It is my humble hope that the stories included in this collection will provide a similar experience. Enjoy!

  Aaron.J. French (editor), 2011

  It Tears Away

  Michael Bailey

  He pulls the triangle flap on the top of his thigh and it starts to crawl out of him, the thing living underneath responsible for killing John Parkinson. It’s part liquid—this warm afterbirth of nature—and runs down his leg as he tears at the layers to get to Ward Phillips.

  Why did you do it? Why did you kill him?

  There is no laughter, but he can sense the sarcasm.

  I didn’t kill anyone, Ward tells the enveloping black.

  Solitary confinement. The box. His third day.

  The thing crawling out from under his skin knows the secret. The shell of the man trapping Ward had nothing to do with the death of John Parkinson or any of the others. He was in prison for tax evasion and embezzlement; he wasn’t responsible for the bad things.

  You had me sharpen a spoon by rubbing it against our cell floor. I slid it across John’s throat while he slept, but we both know that wasn’t me behind the wheel.

  That wasn’t death you gave him, says Ward.

  We murdered him.

  That was rebirth.

  He was our cellmate and he is dead, which is why we are in this sarcophagus. He was a good man, someone sorry for the sins he committed, someone paying his dues. He was getting out of here in six months and now he’s—

  And now he’s home.

  Another layer lies beneath, yet so much still traps the one inside. The skin stops peeling and when he gives it a tug, it rips free. The thought crosses his mind to devour the nasty thing, to let his body digest and destroy the chassis. He instead drops it by the other pieces and starts over again, digging into the soft skin on the inside of his bicep. Fingers rake across his body over and over again.

  Why are you hurting yourself this way?

  To let you free, Ward.

  Why?

  The family of four in Calsbury. You broke into their home and stabbed the father in the heart and the mother when she woke, killed both of their children while they were sleeping, propped the entire family upright on the couch in their living room on blood-soaked cushions until the early hours of morning, taped their eyes open so they’d watch the bad things... the schoolgirl in Brenden you kept from screaming by stuffing her throat until her body stopped resisting and then tossing her into the bushes... the young mother with the tattoos and her unborn—

  I saved them all.

  When authorities showed us the crime scene photos, you turned away. You wouldn’t look at them, but I had to. There is no saving for someone like you. You are a monster. A destroyer of worlds. And now you’re in a box like me and need out. I’m helping you escape this prison, Ward. All of this black you see around you—that’s your freedom, a taste of purgatory. I’m letting you out so you can see what your Hell will be like, so you can see—

  There is nothing to see. My eyes are closed.

  The man in solitary claws at his eyelids and tears them away so that Ward underneath has no other option than to forever see when the doors to solitary finally open.

  Your eyes are the gateway, Ward. You can never close them again.

  The man is slippery; it’s difficult to pierce the skin, his fingers sliding in the syrup. The pain should be overwhelming, but he had stopped caring after the second day in solitary.

  Pain, a simple reminder of purpose. A penance.

  When they let us out of here, I will be all but gone. They will see that you are nothing like me. You will be reborn and they will see what kind of monster is underneath all of this.

  What if I want out—

  Don’t worry, you’ll get out.

  —of you? What if I am the reason you are doing this, controlling your body so that I have a means of finding this black ‘freedom’ you think is so... unfortunate? Have you thought about that? Do you think John Parkinson was a mistake, that I regret staring through your eyes as you straddled him on the cot and sliced his neck open, that I wasn’t laughing inside—my body within your body—as they discovered you in our cell with that flabbergasted look on your face after you realized what you were doing?

  Salty copper enters his mouth as he bites the back of his hand. He pulls until a chunk of his hand comes away. Hot liquid Ward gushes down his throat. The back of his hand pulses as more of him escapes. The room, so small, is suddenly smaller, the walls closer. His elbows and knees scrape against the inside walls of what had been coined ‘the box’ by fellow inmates. The place they put the really bad people.

  I can control this.

  Footsteps approach as he shreds his cheeks. With no room left underneath the fingernails, his face grates like a block of cheddar. He breaks the strings dangling from his chin and goes at it again and again until his face is skinless. Outside the box, two men—unaware of his transformation—converse in muffled voices; inside the box, the man housing Ward Phillips finishes removing the shell.

  I am almost free.

  Someone laughs and pounds the outside of the container... his coffin.

  His feet slide in the mess. The air is thin.

  You are almost free.

  Handfuls of hair are yanked from his head. He peels the scalp, wet dreadlocks of matted hair between his fingers.

  I didn’t kill anyone, he tells the white as the door opens.

  There are no more layers.

  Ward had everything to do with the death of John Parkinson and all the others. He was responsible for the bad things.

  This isn’t death I’m giving you, he tells Ward.

  I murdered them.

  This is rebirth.

  And now you’re home.

  About the author: Michael Bailey is the author of the non
linear horror novel, Palindrome Hannah, a finalist for the 2006 Independent Publisher Awards. His second novel, Phoenix Rose, was considered for the 2010 National Best Book Awards for horror fiction. He is also the author of the short story and poetry collection, Scales and Petals, and is working on his third novel, Psychotropic Dragon, which may get him committed. His first foray into editing is an anthology of psychological horror, Pellucid Lunacy, which was recently released by his imprint Written Backwards. Visit his strange world online at www.nettirw.com, or check out his Facebook page at facebook.com/nettirw.

  Graffiti Sonata

  Gene O’Neill

  (1st Movement)

  Lake Merritt: The lights in the windows of an apartment along the shore, shrouded in heavy fog. A few people out along East Lakeshore Drive, anxious to get in out of the misty night... Except for a lone figure... dressed in dark clothes... lurking in the shadows of the four-story complex on the corner, spying up at a lighted second floor apartment. Standing, watching...

  ***

  For a moment after McKay opened the door of his Oakland apartment and saw Elise standing there, he felt his spirit surge. In the next instant, he realized his wife hadn’t brought their daughter, Ty, along: only some folded-up cardboard boxes under her arm. His elation faded. Before he could say anything, Elise held up her hand, reinforcing his inference, “I’m done talking, Mac. Just here to pack a few more things.”

  He nodded and said, “It’s good to see you,” knowing any weak arguments he had left were pre-empted. Three weeks ago Elise and their six-year-old daughter had moved out to a friend’s vacant apartment over on Lake Merritt. In a week, they were taking off to Elise’s sister Lauren’s place down at Pismo Beach. Watching Elise unfold the packing boxes, McKay yearned to tell his wife how much he missed her flute playing, her classical CDs, the three of them laughing together—the essential joyful sounds of his life. He said nothing, realizing the time of effectively pleading his case had passed.