“What is it?” asked Nigel.
“It’s an angel.” Paul started walking again. “Come on, you won’t regret it, it’s absolutely beautiful.”
They turned and began to walk in the direction in which Paul had been walking, and were gradually swallowed up by the darkness as they left the soft glow of the street light.
Darkness slowly faded into grey, as the early morning sun rose on the horizon. The welcome light of a new day shone on red brick roofs and buildings, and signs of life slowly began to emerge from the silent houses into the empty streets.
A lone passerby found Nigel’s body lying on the footpath by the side of the road; he had been badly beaten and robbed of the small amount of money that was in his wallet. The area near the graveyard had always been notorious for being dangerous at night, and most people knew of the dangers of walking along the deserted and badly lit road.
As the first rays of sunlight shone on the motionless form on the side of the road, the foliage-laden trees whispered eerily, as their silhouettes swayed mockingly in the distant sunrise. Like sad memories, the dead leaves of autumn rustled along the empty roadway, seeking a place to decay and fade into the earth.
The angel of death sadly gazed over life and knew that its bounty would be great, for its emissaries were mighty and many. Spreading its diseased wings, its corrosive touch silently bled into the black shadows of the new morning.
What new terrors have you designed to amuse your twisted wit today?
* * * * *
After having completed an associate diploma in fine arts, Lawrence Salani decided that writing would help spur his imagination. He has always been interested in horror stories since schooldays, favorite writers being H.P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and favorite artist/writers Austin Spare and William Blake. Horror and death are analogous. His published works include: “A Fragment of Yesterday” with Eclecticism E-Zine and “Summer Heat” in the anthology Night Terrors. About what led to this story, Lawrence says: The contemplation of demise, the realization that nothing is permanent, and the inevitability of death.”
The Physician’s Assistant
By Dan Devine
“Who’s that tall lad with you, Thomp?” wheezed old man Markey, squinting up from his pillow. Doctor Thompson pushed him back down, thankful for the man’s fever-blurred vision.
“Just a boy from the college over in Highmeadow come to observe,” the doc lied. “Now try not to speak, you need to conserve your strength.”
Thomp studied the gray figure seated on the edge of Markey’s bed. A breeze from the window stirred the curtains and brushed back its cowl, revealing the humorless grin of a face composed of only teeth and bone.
Death was not an uncommon companion for any doctor, but Thomp always resented his presence. The physician concentrated on mixing his medicines, refusing to give in to the prevailing sense of doom. Thomp had stolen people back from the spectre’s grasp before and he wasn’t about to give up Markey without a fight. The man was practically an uncle to him.
Fortunately, the sedative Thomp had administered took effect before the farmer could take further notice that anything was amiss.
Markey’s infection was bad. There was only one treatment that might save the man, and it was probably just as likely to kill the old-timer as the bacteria that were multiplying in his blood. Death seemed to sense Thomp’s doubt, and flashed its cold grin in his direction once more.
The doctor shivered and mustered his resolve.
Markey was well past his prime. He never should have been working in the field in the first place. It had been such a senseless accident. Regardless, Thomp would do his best.
He pulled on his gloves and tied a thin mask before his face. Opening his satchel, he took a clear pouch and filled it from a cup of water beside the bed. Next, he withdrew a small amber vial from his bag and added just a few drops of acid to the pouch, causing the liquid within to boil with thick, frothy foam. Finally, he carefully removed the leaves of a purple-tinged herb from their paper wrappings and crushed them into the acidic solution to dissolve them.
Thomp dipped his scalpel into the mixture to coat it then heated it over a candle flame.
Pushing his seat closer to the bed, Thomp pulled back the blanket and made a careful cut into Markey’s puss-swollen side before withdrawing the blade. Unexpectedly, Death leaned forward to take a closer look, causing the doctor to flinch and jab himself in his other hand, but he soon steadied himself and completed his work. Thomp only squeezed out a few small drops of the mixture from his pouch into this incision in the farmer’s chest — any more would be dangerous — then he stitched the wound closed.
Over the next several hours, Thomp checked his patient’s temperature and breathing repeatedly, forcing water past his unconscious lips often. At last, the fever began to break. He reviewed his work with a satisfied nod towards his silent companion.
“You won’t have him today!” Thompson whispered sharply at the specter.
Death turned to stare at him with cold eyes for what seemed an eternity. “He is not the one that I have come for,” pointing a long, bony finger at Thompson’s hand.
Thomp followed its gesture and saw blood running from the thin cut made by the scalpel when had he flinched. He felt confused for a moment, then realized the blade must have punctured the pouch at the same time. A bit of the dangerous herbal concoction had leaked out onto his cut hand and he hadn’t noticed. There was no way of telling how much of a dose he had already taken.
Thomp began to feel woozy.
“Come, doctor,” said Death softly. “Let us dance. You have been a worthy opponent all of these years, but now your time has come.”
And as Death reached out its skeletal hand and touched Thompson’s wounded one, suddenly, beautiful, somber music filled the doctor’s ears, like nothing of this world. The music affirmed the human struggle for life despite the inevitability of death, even as it validated his own existence, and he closed his eyes and sighed in peace.
* * * * *
Dan Devine is an aspiring science fiction and fantasy author who has been published numerous times online and in print. His first novel, The Next Best Thing to Heroes, is currently available on amazon.com, and its sequel is due out soon. Dan was inspired to write this story for the anthology by the idea of a physical Death present in our lives and the stress it would place on those who struggle against it in their daily routines.
An Appointment in the Village Bazaar
By S S Hampton, Sr.
“We ain’t in fuckin’ Kansas no more,” Sergeant First Class Robert ‘Chief’ Nottingham chuckled from behind his dark ballistic eyeglasses and a puff of sulfurous smelling cigarette smoke, as Sergeant Caleb Justus staggered up the steep trail. Caleb stopped when he saw the rolling, rocky landscape of a thin forest with broken and splintered trees. Visible beyond the trees was a ruined village nestled below a low gray rise littered with skeletal trees. A chill wind moaned across the rugged, haunting landscape.
Behind them, such a deep contrast to the land before them, the valley they emerged from was a lush garden of green grass, brush, and pine trees.
“No shit,” Caleb, who usually didn’t swear, gasped. Sweat mingled with the cold drizzle that fell from gray clouds and trickled down his face. The platoon spread out and eyed an ancient narrow trail that wound through the ruined trees to a wide, rutted path that led to the village.
As the soldiers slipped between the trees, Caleb thought they resembled unearthly creatures moving through a blighted medieval landscape; each wore a camouflaged Kevlar helmet, Individual Body Armor weighted down with heavy ammunition magazines, first aid kits and combat knives, and grayish-green Army Combat Uniforms with dark elbow and knee pads. Each also wore the trademark dark ballistic eyeglasses that hid the eyes and gave the impression of emotionless, less-than-human
faces. They carried M4 Carbines with Close Combat Opticals, M249 Light Machine Guns, and M203s, a 40mm grenade launcher mounted under an M4.
He knew that in their minds, and in reality, they were the meanest SOBs in this valley, or any valley. He felt safe in their presence. It was a much needed feeling after almost being killed by an Improvised Explosive Device three days before.
“Don’t know how much drawing you’ll get done on a shitty day like this,” Chief commented as he ground the cigarette under his boot heel.
“That’s why I brought my Nikon.” Caleb patted a black bag nestled against the side of his IBA and first aid kit. His drawing kit dangled against his right hip, just above his holstered 9mm pistol. “If I have to I’ll take photos, maybe do some color pencil drawings, and when I’m back at my studio at Bagram, an oil painting or two from the best of the images.”
Caleb knew he was an almost mythical species that people rarely encountered — a soldier officially called a Combat Artist. Being selected for the Army Combat Artist Program had been one of the two proudest moments of his life — the other was the birth of his newborn son, Mikey, to him and his girlfriend Lesley. That he was selected was testimony to years of struggle to develop his drawing and painting skills under the guidance of a strict mentor, an art teacher at a community college in Las Vegas, who worshipped the techniques of the Old Masters as the standard which all artists should struggle to achieve and by which he measured them against.
The soldiers emerged from the trees and spread out along the path with weapons at the ready. They studied the landscape and the village while Chief lifted his head slightly, as if sniffing the air.
“Stick close to Chief Nottingham,” Caleb was told by his boss as he prepared to fly out by supply helicopter to Combat Outpost Fairfax. The square, cluttered COP, once a 19th century British police station, sat on a bluff overlooking a river deep in Taliban territory. It was manned, aptly enough, by two platoons of Virginia Army National Guard cavalry soldiers. “He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch, and half Cheyenne. He can spot sign at 300 yards and smell the Taliban a mile away. In four tours he hasn’t had anyone killed yet.”
Like all Native Americans that Caleb met in the military, Nottingham was referred to by the stereotypical nickname of ‘Chief’ by his men, in recognition of his heritage.
After his arrival at the COP the husky, broad shouldered, dark faced NCO introduced Caleb to a small, taciturn soldier. “This is Corporal George Weaver,” Chief said. “He’ll watch over you while you do your artist thing.”
The dark eyed soldier with a pale, sharply sculpted face gave Caleb a bleak smile. An uneasy tremor went through Caleb.
“Thanks, but I know how to take care of myself and fight.”
“Yeah, well, that’s fuckin’ great. George will watch your back.”
As Chief studied the terrain before them, Caleb looked over his shoulder. His bodyguard stood nearby, carbine held ready, his face shadowed by his Kevlar and his eyes hidden by the ballistic glasses.
“Is something wrong?” Caleb asked as he edged closer to Chief.
“Something don’t feel quite right.”
Caleb studied the village; most of the compound walls and homes were reduced to burned and scattered rubble, some of which lay across the rainy path that wound its way through the village. In the gray daylight and the thin, steady drizzle, everything had an eerie, otherworld feel about it.
Even the journey from Fairfax felt like a descent into a strange world. The wide path by the COP that doubled for a road turned into a narrow, dirt trail that wound along the bottom of rocky ridges until they reached the narrow, stony path that they climbed up to the high ground. The cold, misty rain only added to the bleakness.
“Let’s go,” Chief said in a quiet though deep voice. A few soldiers hurried to take point, others moved to the left and right to provide flank security, while a few hung back to secure the rear. “Keep a sharp eye out.” He looked at Caleb and added, “There’s something in the air. It’s hard to explain. The village we’re going to sits right on infiltration routes from Pakistan. You never know when you might run into a bunch of fuckin’ Taliban.”
Caleb tightened his grip on his M4 Carbine that hung by a shoulder sling across his chest and stomach. Taliban ambushes were always announced by a shouted, rhythmic Allahu akbar, ‘God is great!’, followed by gunfire. He wasn’t sure Chief was such a highly regarded soldier due to being half Cheyenne, with all of the abilities that supposedly came with his heritage. He was sure that anyone who did four tours probably had a well-developed sixth sense that was essential to survival in a combat zone.
“How far to the village?”
Chief pointed at the rise. “When we reach the crest, we’ll see the valley below. There’s a river running through it. The village sits on the other side. Damned strange village. There’s only a few compounds, mostly near the river, a few homes, but most of the villagers carved homes out of beehive-shaped rock mounds scattered along the slopes. Sometimes real windows and curtains, some stone walls, and there’s stone stairs everywhere, even a few wrought iron railings for stairs. It’s like these people are halfway between being underground dwellers and surface dwellers.”
“It sounds interesting,” Caleb said as they entered the ruined village. He swallowed uneasily as he saw a skull among the rubble of a collapsed wall; the gaping eye sockets stared at him as if marking his presence.
“We’ve been working on the village elders since we got here. They’re starting to trust us, but not enough to give us intel on Taliban movements and locations of arms caches. Can’t really blame them. We visit, go away, and at night the fuckin’ Taliban show up. If they’re unhappy with the villagers, they shoot a few.”
“What happened here?”
“The Pennsylvania guys who were here last year set out a night ambush. They surprised the Taliban, but there were more of the bastards than expected. Fighting went on all night and helicopter gunships were called in. The village caught fire and all of the villagers, those that survived, left. Even abandoned their fields, poor as those were. That shit didn’t exactly win us any friends.”
Caleb felt a sudden chill go through him. He looked back and saw George a few steps behind him. Due to the ballistic glasses he couldn’t tell if the soldier was staring at him or not.
The trail up the rise, past broken, splintered, and fallen trees, was far easier than the steep trail that they climbed from their valley. The soldiers paused at the crest.
Caleb studied the narrow trail that wound down the opposite slope into the valley. Both the valley and the village were dark as if drained of life, or shrouded in deep shadows not associated with the rain clouds.
Pointed rocky mounds were scattered along the river and climbed bare, brown slopes that led to nearby gray hills and mountains. Near the river were half a dozen traditional walled compounds with family dwellings inside; pale green fields were scattered along the water, over which a trio of narrow bridges crossed — one at each end of the village and one near the center. Behind the village that looked so empty of life, he made out trails that wound up the slopes.
Chief lit a cigarette. “The Taliban come down this valley, and use the trails in the high ground behind the village. I know there’s arms caches hidden around here. Until we get these people to talk, we’re just tourists on a fuckin’ day hike.”
Caleb drifted away when the squad leaders joined Chief. He wandered along the crest, snapping photos of the valley and village, and the soldiers. He raised the camera to snap a photo of his bodyguard but the soldier barely shook his head no.
“Okay,” Caleb said, and shrugged.
Chief walked up, cigarette cupped protectively in his hand against the misty rain. “I’m leaving a squad and the weapons squad up here for observation. They’ve got a good view along this rise, the ground behind us, and the damned val
ley. That still leaves us platoon headquarters and two rifle squads. More than enough security for when we go into the village.”
Chief puffed on the cigarette — and Caleb wrinkled his nose at the strange sulfurous smell — then lifted his head as if sniffing the air.
Caleb had a sudden feeling that he didn’t want to go into the village.
“Sergeant,” Caleb said, and George stepped between them.
“Is something wrong?” The pale soldier with hidden eyes asked in a low, measured voice as a hint of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth.
“Uh, no.”
“Then let us not bother Sergeant Nottingham. He has a lot on his mind. I will walk beside you.”
That was the last thing Caleb wanted. It was bad enough that George walked behind him where he couldn’t see him, but now he walked beside Caleb, where he could see him. More, he finally realized he didn’t care for George, and didn’t trust him.
“Thanks,” Caleb began, but George turned his pale face to him. A cold, fierce determination filled the air around them. The valley below faded into deeper shadows.
“Let us go, Sergeant,” George suggested in a low, icy voice.
A tremor of fear raced through Caleb. It was a fear greater than when, taking part in a convoy security mission outside Bagram, the IED went off a split second after his gun truck passed by it. The IED could have torn through the up-armored door and shredded him.
“Who are you?”
George let out a dry chuckle. The sound was like brittle fall leaves tumbling across dry, wind-swept ground.
“I would have thought you had guessed by now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes you do.”
“Quit speaking in riddles,” Caleb hissed. “Who are you?”
“Your one true companion, your one true friend since your birth.”
Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper Page 21