by J. L. McCoy
A smarmy smile curled Boss-Man’s thin lips. “As you wish.” Like the Three Musketeers—more like synchronized swimmers—the demons charged forward.
Soren grinned. This was going to be fun.
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Bedtime Tales From The Apocalypse
Prologue To The Apocalypse
A short story by
Michael Hammor
© 2014
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The man straightens up from his work adjusting the coil of copper tubing coming out of the top of the still. The purpose of the coil is to dissipate heat and condense the vapor into a concentrated liquid. I might not have enough coil, he thinks to himself. He looks over to the garden and watches his daughter working the rows with her digging stick, working the weeds back into the poor soil. The potato plants are doing well. Combined with the still, this seasons harvest should gain them much needed extra trade goods. No matter the state of the economy, people will always need an escape.
Behind her in the distance he notices a dust plume coming from the area where the dirt road meets the highway. They seldom get visitors out here in the valley near the San Pedro River in Hereford, Arizona. It might be the sheriff come to run them off. They are technically squatting on someone else's land. Eight years ago, before things started to go south, he worked as a government IT contractor at Fort Huachuca. Now, he's a dirt farmer, barely keeping his family clothed and fed.
He calls to his daughter, motioning behind her since it’s not likely she can hear what he is saying. She looks for a moment, and then hikes up the skirt of her dirt-stained simple dress and trots towards him and the house through the afternoon sunshine.
"Hunny, tell your brother to get his rifle and get up to the roof. That might be the cartel again. You never know," he says to her.
"Yes, daddy!" she replies and darts into the ramshackle mobile home. She returns a few moments later with a rifle in her arms.
"Trent said to bring you this!" she says, handing him his old nagant. Trent was four years younger, but already had the heart of a warrior, which often drove his mother to distraction. The man hears two knocks come from the roof, which was the signal that Trent was in position behind the crusty old swamp cooler they no longer had the electricity to run.
"I want you to stay in the house with your mother and sister till we figure out what’s going on," he explains to her. Reluctantly she turns and goes. He can't help but notice the Springfield XD in the hand she was holding behind her back. It was the first gun he had ever purchased, and the last gun he would ever sell. She might seem to be a gentle soul, content to play with the farm cats, but there is steel in her spine.
The man walks slowly over to his old truck and pulls out a pair of binoculars. He slings the old rifle on his back. Bringing the binoculars to his eyes he can see it’s a truck, not dissimilar to his own, but blue to his trucks brown. There are three men in the cab and four in the bed. Armed. He sets the binos on the cracked vinyl seat and un-slings his rifle. He puts the engine block between himself and the fast approaching truck and with a well practiced ease lays the rifle across the hood. He eases the bolt back without looking and feels to make sure the chamber is loaded. Good. He has five shots of 7.62X54R FMJ. Trent has his .22 Model 60 Marlin on the roof with 16 rounds loaded. Trent has been taking rabbits at over 100 meters with that rifle since he was 6 years old.
The truck starts hooting its horn as it turns down their drive. Shave and a haircut, two bits, over and over. The man safes his rifle and peers through the binos just to make sure. It is the Sheriff and he has a posse with him. The man waves to the boy on the roof to stand down. He sets the rifle on the hood of the truck and steps to meet the truck as it grinds to a halt on bad brakes.
"Sheriff, what brings you out here?" he inquires before the man in the white hat can even offer his hand.
"Tom, you used to work on post in IT, right? Do you still have some computers and shit lying around?" the Sheriff asks. Something is wrong. His face is very pale and his lips are purple like a man having a heart attack.
"Yeah, I still have some stuff, why?" Tom asks as he pulls a small flask from his back pocket and hands it to the Sheriff. The Sheriff drains the four ounces of homemade liquor in a single go, grimacing at the burn.
"There has been an incident at the Border Patrol checkpoint. Somebody killed the two agents, tore them apart, and tried to trash the cameras and computers," the Sheriff confides, color returning to his face.
"Well, how bad are they trashed?" Tom asks, shaking the flask to see if there is any left.
"Like with a sledge hammer! However, they didn't know to smash the hard drives. Do you have anything to hook them up to and watch the video so we can find out if this was the Cartel or... something else," the Sherriff says.
Something else? There have been rumors in recent years. Likely just mass hysteria produced by stress induced paranoia. Society collapsing can do that to people. He can't deny the odd things he has seen and heard. He holds out his hand.
“Well, let me see them. We'll fire up the genny and see what I can do with them,” Tom asks.
The Sheriff hesitates. "The Feds have them at the checkpoint. They asked me to bring you there," he finishes awkwardly.
The Goddamn Feds! The Feds, specifically Special Agent Simmons, has been hounding him since the federal government retook control of the Sovereign State of Arizona. Some people can't put the past behind them.
"Simmons?" Tom asks.
"Simmons," the Sheriff confirms.
They arrive at the border patrol checkpoint a few hours later. A man in a blue polo shirt with a pistol on his hip greets them as they get out of the truck.
"Tom! So good to see you again!" Agent Simmons says as he takes the rifle from Tom's hands.
"Simmons. You have some hard drives for me to look at? Why didn't you send them to your own lab for recovery?" Tom asks flatly.
"Its Special Agent Simmons. We need these drives recovered ASAP. We don't have time to send them out. We believe the Mexican government might be getting ready to make a major push into our territory, under the guise of the Cartel. Plausible deny-ability and all that," Simmons states.
"You think an advance scouting party hit this checkpoint?" Tom asks as they walk towards the small square building. There are only two other agents and one vehicle, the standard black SUV. "Where is the rest of your crew?" Tom finishes.
"This is it, cut backs. Washington feels this area is secured now that we have quashed any dissenting parties after that little secessionist flap a while back," Special Agent Simmons replies, making pointed eye contact.
They pause at the door. Simmons fishes in his pocket and pulls out a small jar of menthol rub. He holds it out to Tom. "It's been a few days since they were killed. It’s August."
Tom accepts the menthol rub and applies some below his nostrils. Simmons dons blue nitril gloves and puts his hand on the door knob.
"Once inside touch nothing. Tell me what you want me to retrieve, and I will retrieve it for you. Understand?" Special Agent Simmons instructs Tom.
Throat suddenly dry, Tom nods in agreement. Special Agent in Charge (of practically nothing) Simmons opens the door.
The stench is horrendous and instantly takes Tom back to Fallujah 2004. He sees the face of a young boy perched over what he will find out later is a toy rifle. He feels his finger tighten on the trigger.
"Tom!" Special Agent Simmons shakes his shoulder hard. "Reality, buddy! Stay in it!"
"Sorry. The smell..," Tom replies shaking his head. The smell of rotting human flesh is unmistakable. Once you smell it, you wil
l never forget it.
They enter the building. There is gore painted on the walls. They step over a leg still covered with dark green fabric and part of a pocket. Debris is strewn everywhere. The fluorescent light fixtures are hanging from the ceiling. Grey tubing of some sort hangs from the mostly everything. Tom feels his gorge rise when he realizes he just moved a coil of intestine out of his way.
"Simmons!" he yells.
"Over here is where the computers are, were," Simmons replies, pointing to a pile of broken plastic and circuit boards piled on a desk.
Tom examines the pile for a moment and points out a few items.
"No, the square ones. Grab those grey flat cables, too," Tom instructs as Agent Simmons carefully moves the pile piece by piece.
Something clatters to the floor. Tom instinctually reaches down and grabs for the objects in case they may be important. He looks at them lying on his palm. Teeth!
"These are Goddamn Teeth, Simmons! What the fuck!" Tom screams as he flings them across the room.
"Focus. Is there anything else you see that you will need?" Agents Simmons asks, motioning to the pile.
"No, that’s it. Just the hard drives and cables. I have everything else in the truck. Let’s get the fuck out of here!" Tom says wiping cold sweat from his forehead. The shakes were starting. He practically runs from the building. The vomiting continues for some time.
The sun is starting to set. Tom paces back and forth, puffing on a bummed cigarette.
"So you know about them? Seriously? What are you guys smoking?" Tom says.
"I know how it sounds. He is what he is. We have collected more than enough evidence. We even captured one of them. They are real," Simmons answers calmly.
"I can't wrap my mind around what I just watched! It’s impossible!" Tom yells frantically.
"I'm going to need to you keep this to yourself, Tom. Like I kept that shit about the IEDs to myself. You owe me," Simmons reminds him.
"Who do you think I'm going to tell? Vampires? Are you fucking serious?" Tom drops the unfinished cigarette to the ground and stomps it out.
"Did you know they did this before you brought me out here?" Tom asks, face stiff with anger.
"Not 100%, but I suspected. They are usually more cautious and hide their kills better," Special Agent Simmons answers lighting his own cigarette.
"How long has the government known about this?" Tom queries, reaching for the pack of smokes.
"Officially, it doesn't. Unofficially, since 1905. Lazarus, that's the big guy's name, the first records we have of him date from the Bisbee area right before the 1905 fire. He has popped up every few years since. World War one in France 1918, he fed on the wounded on both sides. 1929 during the stock market crash and the Great Depression. The list goes on," Agent Simmons finishes.
"Why is he here?" Tom asks.
"We don't know for sure. Last we knew he was deep in Mexico and had been there for years. Now suddenly, he's killing on this side of the border again and this time he has friends," the agent says.
"I don't understand the purpose of all this. What is the fucking goal?" Tom asks.
"The goal is I kill him. I stake his ass, cut his head off, and let the sun burn his remains to ash. That's the goal," Agent Simmons says gruffly.
"I want nothing to do with this. Nothing! Take me home. Now!" Tom says.
It’s been over a week since Lazarus and his small coven were able to retrieve the hard drives from Agent Simmons and properly destroy them. They properly destroyed Agent Simmons as well. Lazarus was able to glean the location of the computer man that helped Agent Simmons from the agent's mind as he fed from him.
The group waits in the desert a few hundred meters from the trailer. They can see the computer man sitting in a chair outside the front door. He is drinking from a bottle. Earlier they watched his children as they did their evening chores. Lazarus was transfixed by the oldest. It was her! After all this time it was her. She had the same raven hair, the same pert nose, and the same eyes. However, this girl's face was smooth and pleasant, unworn by time and sorrow. This girl's step was light and bouncy, where the other girls gait was tired and plodding. This girl was a few years younger. This girl was human instead of vampire.
Lazarus couldn't be sure of what he was seeing. Even he admits that sometimes he sees what he wants to see. This isn't even his original reality. What is reality? Is it what you believe or what you perceive? They have been watching the trailer for days, hiding nearby in abandoned structures during the day. Lazarus gathers his coven and prepares them to leave. They do not question him. They wouldn't dare. They would be back, he assured them. They would be back once he figured out what’s going on in his head.
Tom never explained to his family why they moved so suddenly to the mountains. 'We needed a change.' was all he would say. They now lived in a mostly intact two story house. They farmed and raised live stock. Life was harder. Water was always in short supply. It was farther from town which meant people ventured out their way less often to trade. The oldest daughter grew prettier as the months wore on. Her father spent long hours just staring into the woods, a worried look on his face. He could almost feel them.
Lazarus watches the house from the woods. It was eerie how the computer man, Tom, would stare at him. It was almost as if he could see him.
"It's time. We get her tonight," Lazarus tells his small band of followers when he returns to the abandoned mine they have been sheltering in for months. They have been careful with their hunting, but the few remaining people in this area are getting scared.
"What’s the plan, Lazarus?" asks Isaac, always the bold one.
"I turn her. That's the plan," Lazarus replies.
"What about the rest of her family?" the female vampire, Aletha, asks her master.
"What about them? Just save her father. For her first meal," Lazarus replies.
They kill the dogs first. The round up the two younger children and the parents and gather them in the living room. Lazarus sends Aletha up stairs to get the girl.
'...and so it begins,' the thinks as Aletha throws the struggling girl to the floor in front of him. Aletha grabs her brother and buries her face in this throat as he begins to scream.
He grabs her face roughly and stares intently into her eyes. He combs through her mind but finds no memory of himself. How can this be? Is his recollection of her just a figment of his damaged mind?
"Don't be afraid," he says to her. 'Welcome to your future!"
He smiles at her, his fangs slowly descending and locking into place.
She begins to scream.
The End
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History of Fire
(A Dark Faerie Tale Novel)
Alexia Purdy
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. If you did not buy this e-book, please purchase your own copy.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.
History of Fire
A Dark Faerie Tale Novel
Copyright © August 2014 Alexia Purdy
Cover Design by Alexia Purdy
Model Photography by CJC Photography: Christopher John
Model: Jona Frederick-Fritchie Light-Cali
All rights reserved
Prologue
The Pyren
“What is this place?” I peered around, studying the countless magical artifacts. I never knew my mother had this hidden sanctuary deep under our home. She forgot about it herself for seventeen years due to a memory
charm placed on her by her faery husband, causing her to forget everything magical about herself and forget all about him to keep her safe. She just recently recalled its existence along with the rest of her unique elemental magical talents.
“It’s our Pyren Sanctuary. Only witches, warlocks or sorcerers of elemental magic have them. It’s a safe haven, hidden from the world in which we hide all the magic history of our family. It passed down to me since I’m an elemental witch and Evie was more of fey blood. It contains all the history of our fire element, back through hundreds of years. Every weapon and every spell our family has ever wielded is housed here. My mother brought all of this from her old Pyren when we moved here.”
Anna’s eyes scanned the enormity of the collection occupying every nook and cranny of the room. I didn’t even have any snarky words left to describe the brilliance of it. Piles of grimoires filled every desk and hard surface, stacked to the ceiling in precarious towers. Weapons and artifacts were arranged neatly around the room on mismatched shelves and desks. The whole place vibrated with the energy crawling across every object.
“What do you do with it all?” Anna reached for a long, polished birch wood staff with a large, dull, turquoise sea glass rock affixed to the tip. Jade, our mother, didn’t stop her, but watched with an elated expression lighting up her face as her daughter touched the staff. It was simple, yet sleek and beautiful. Anna curled her fingers around the age-worn wood and watched the cool blue-green stone begin to glow softly, illuminating her face with its eerie warmth.
“It’s humming under my skin.” Anna glanced at Mom, hoping it wasn’t a bad sign. I could feel its magic reaching towards me, too, but I stepped back. It felt strange, like crawling bugs testing my skin with their antennae.