First Sight: A d20 Modern Story Hour (Updated 01-03-2008)

[Jodo Kast]

I hear something there
In the shadow down the hall
O you were a vampire
And now I am nothing at all.
-Concrete Blonde, Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)


Sal Colletti walks down the dark street, his threadbare winter coat wrapped tightly about him. He can't sleep, not with the police stomping around in the apartment above him. Stupid little bitch probably pissed somebody off with that attitude, like she's too good for anybody, he thinks. Probably wouldn't put out or something.

Sal is mostly bald, curly black islands above each ear the only remnants of what was once a thick head of hair. His ample gut hangs over his belt, and in the last few years he's developed a wicked set of man-tits. His arms and legs are spindly and awkward looking, out of place on his keg-shaped torso. He was handsome once, when he played third base and captained his high school baseball team to state semifinals. That was long ago. There are no mirrors in Sal's apartment -- he prefers to remember himself that way, wiry, long-haired, a rebel in blue jeans and square-toed engineer boots. From time to time he catches a glimpse of his true form on the face of a woman on the street or at the market, sometimes in a snide smile or a disgusted shake of the head, but most often in the way their eyes just pass him over like discarded trash.

Tonight Sal wanders down Piccine Street, his eyes flicking predatorily from side to side. He can usually find a hooker down in this part of town, a cheap one with glassy, drugged eyes that couldn't give a what he looks like. He's got a ten in his pocket. He knows it'll cost him at least twenty for a blowjob, and he'll have to haggle just to get the price that low. When it comes time to pay, he'll drop the crumpled up bill on the ground, and if the slut complains that he stiffed her, she'll get what's coming to her. And if she asks for cash up front, well, he might just take what he wants for free. The thought makes him hard, and he caresses the butterfly knife he keeps inside his coat. He carries it for defense -- this is a rough part of town -- but if he needs to use it on a bitch, he won't hesitate. In fact, he's sort of hoping he gets the chance.

It's late when he finds a suitable girl. His requirements are that the girl be young and alone. He doesn't want to deal with any pimp. A pimp might take offense if Sal underpays or stiffs his girl, and might get more than a little hot under the collar if Sal roughs up the goods. No, Sal prefers to work with independent contractors. And man if this one isn't something else.

She's walking down the street toward him, tall and thin, her head turned down so that long black hair falls over her face. She's wearing a long black overcoat, but it's open, and underneath she's got on a short black skirt and a half-shirt. She's all legs in sexy black calf-high boots. She has some blood and dirt on her shirt, what looks like a nasty red scar across her stomach, and when she looks up he sees a shiner raised under one eye. Sal smiles. Asian, he thinks with great pleasure, and she likes it rough, by the looks of her. This is going to be fun.

"Hey, you wanna party?" Sal's breathing is heavy as he asks, his hands squeezing into balled up fists inside his coat pockets, opening, closing again. It's freezing, but he's sweating fat beads of perspiration that roll down his head and nose. "You wanna date?"

The girl lowers her head again, mutters something beneath her breath, and keeps walking. Sal feels his cheeks growing hot, his heart beats loud in his ears, and his fists clench together tight enough that his fingernails draw little bloody half-moons in his palms.

"What did you say, bitch?"
The girl stops and lifts her head slightly, her hair falling to the side so that one gleaming eye is revealed. "Loser. I said what a ing loser. L-O-S-E-R."

Carol spoke to him like that once, just one time, and he had put her in a hospital for three months. If the bitch hadn't taken out a restraining order and moved back in with her folks (her old man was a hardass vet with a gun collection that some third-world militaries would envy), Sal might have finished the job. Thoughts of his ex-wife cause a rage to well up inside Sal, a hot cacophony of hate drowning out rational thought.

The girl turns down a side alley. Sal knows it's a dead end. He's breathing hard, full of hateful lust. He marches down the alley after her and grabs the girl by her arm. With his other hand he grips the cold steel of his butterfly knife, bringing it out for the girl to see.

"You see this, bitch?" he asks, his face pressed close to hers.

"Ugh. Watch the breath, pig, you smell like a garlic factory." She giggles. "Thank God all the legends aren't true."

Sal is now angry beyond reckoning, and he twists the girl's arm around behind her back, forcing it up hard enough to break it. "You goddam lippy little slut, you are going to get down on your knees and you are going to take what I give you in your mouth, or I swear I will cut your ing face off!" Sal pushes the girl's arm hard, trying to force her to her knees, and brings the blade of his knife up to her throat. Whether or not she does as he says, he has already decided that he's going to teach this bitch, this sharp-tongued stray alley cat, a lesson she's never going to forget. I see the way you look at me, I'm going to cut your ing eyes out you whore.

Suddenly her arm is twisting beneath his grip, wresting his arm around with amazing strength and wrenching it until a gruesome splintering sound erupts in the alley. The knife clatters to the ground. Sal is screaming and his pants are growing dark with a spreading pool of piss. The girl places her free hand on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees, and with the other hand pulls his shattered arm high and twists it around, tearing the bone free of its socket. When she releases it, the limb flops listlessly to the ground, hanging as if it were made of rubber. She bends over, bringing her face close to his, and licks her lips.

"You sure you want to put something in my mouth, big fella? Hope you don't mind if I use my teeth!" Her lips peel back, baring long, wicked fangs that shine bright in the dark alley.

Sal's eyes bulge until it seems certain they will escape his face. His hard-on is long gone and forgotten. All he can do is whimper like a small child. "No, no, no, please, no, God no...."

This is going to be so gross, Poe thinks as she forces his head to the side, exposing his neck. Her blood courses hot through her body, carrying in it a sickness that threatens to consume her if she does not feed. Her hunger wins out over her revulsion. She closes her eyes and, with the swiftness of a snake striking, buries her fangs in his neck.

© 2003 Austin Hale

 

[Lamprolign]

Heard a Bang Bang Bang, and down you go,
It's just a job I do,
Cos the harder you run the harder you fall,
I'm coming down hard on you, hard on you.
I got a name, I got a number, I got a line on you
I got a name, I got a number, I'm coming after you
-Genesis, Just A Job To Do

Gabe sat watching the cityscape roll past the train's windows. He was still a little dazed. He had arrived at the office to a demand for all of his unfinished case files. When he had stared quizzically back at his supervisor she had explained to him that he was being suspended with pay until the Jack Casey investigation was finished.

"Well," Mary began, "you said you needed a vacation."

"This isn't exactly what I had in mind," Gabe answered.

"It can't be all that bad. I mean, they're still paying you. And they didn't say you were a suspect or anything."

"They don't have to. Suspended, with or without pay still means pretty much the same thing," Gabe said. "It's not like any of this is easy to explain. Hell, I don't understand it myself." He let out a long sigh.

Gabe looked around inside the train car. Several people were staring at him, and there was a barren expanse of vacant seats around him in the otherwise crowded train.

"Well, this is just great," Gabe muttered. "There's always some crazy guy talking to himself on the train. Now I'm that guy!"

"Not my fault, you can always just think your answers."

Gabe noticed a boy of about fourteen staring at him intently. The youth had long bleached hair that was pulled out in myriad spikes. His face was covered in piercings. A chain ran from a ring in his ear to a similar one in his nose.

"Yes! There are voices in my head! They talk to me!" Gabe yelled.

The boy looked away quickly. Wonderful, even the freaks think I'm a freak.

* * * *

It was unseasonably warm for the latter half of January. Gabe walked with his over coat unbuttoned and was still comfortably warm. It was a long walk from the nearest train station to the New Haven Coalition for the Homeless. Mary badgered him until he agreed to go there that afternoon. It's not like I have anything better to do, he thought.

The building looked different in the afternoon sun. One could mistakenly believe that it was still a church. It was the first time that Gabe entered through the front doors. He walked through an enclosed vestibule, the narthex of the old church, before entering the cavernous main room. Here where once the faithful gathered for prayer, the hungry now gathered for food. The pews that once faced the altar were now turned to run parallel with long tables that filled the room. Suppertime was near. The smells were enough to make Gabe salivate. Somehow he never expected appetizing meals to be served in a shelter, but then he never expected to find witches or vampires in one either.

Gabe made his way between the tables and on toward the opposite end of the room. He paused where a narrower room bisected the main hall. The altar still stood at the far eastern end of the room. Above it on the wall hung a simple unadorned cross. Into the southern end of the bisecting room Gabe walked. In the center of the eastern wall of this room was a door which opened onto a flight of stairs leading down. He had never come this way before, yet somehow he new exactly where he was going. Odd, Gabe thought.

"We are sharing dreams you know," Mary said. "You've picked up several of my memories. Of course, I've seen a lot more of yours. More than I ever wanted to, believe me."

Gabe shook his head wearily and navigated his way unerringly to the Sister's study. He was in the process of raising his hand to knock on the door when it opened. The Sister sat in her usual chair near the hearth. She looked up from the heavy tome that sat upon her lap to give Gabe a welcoming smile.

"Do come in Gabriel, Mary," she spoke.

"Hello!" Mary's perky greeting rubbed Gabe's already raw nerves.

"Hi," Gabe said without enthusiasm.

"Have a seat, Gabriel."

"Thanks." Gabe sat in the chair nearest to the window. He glanced through the window at the walled graveyard behind the church. "Wonderful view," he commented before turning back to face the Sister.

"Actually it is," the Sister responded. "When spring comes it will be alive with color."

"Do you remember Jenny Matthews?" Mary asked.

"Yes." The Sister's smile was replaced by an unreadable expression.

"She was killed last night."

The Sister closed her eyes and a heavy sigh escaped her lips. "How?"

"She was murdered," Gabe said. "It was a pretty ugly scene."

"It looked like she was ripped apart."

I wasn't going to go into details Mary, Gabe admonished silently.

"This is disturbing news," said the Sister. She rose and replaced the tome that she had been reading in a vacant spot on the shelves lining the room's walls.

"You originally thought she might have powers, didn't you?" asked Mary.

"Yes," she answered, "though none ever expressed themselves." The Sister stood gazing through the window. The snow had begun melting in the afternoon sun, exposing patches of brown grass and granite grave markers. Unheard by those inside a wind stirred the leafless branches that in summer would form a dense canopy.

"Um..." Mary began, "where is Poe?"

"I had hoped you would know. She did not return before dawn."

* * * *

Asher Russell stepped out into a brisk south wind on West Chicago Avenue. He zipped up the weathered bomber jacket that along with a plain button-up shirt, moderately faded jeans and hiking boots was his usual attire. Brilliant blue eyes peered from beneath a mop of unruly blond hair. Barely visible freckles flanked a smallish nose. Most would consider him attractive, though not exceptional. Asher walked briskly. The weather report called for mixed sleet and snow that evening, and although he considered himself quite the adventurer he still didn't fancy getting drenched and frozen before bedtime. He adjusted his satchel strap across his shoulder. Several unfinished articles resided on the hard drive of the laptop computer that was contained therein. His editor would skin him alive if he was late submitting again. Practically owning the crime page byline had its disadvantages...

It was the same routine every night, walk to the Chicago Avenue stop of the Blue Line, ride downtown to the loop and catch the Brown Line north to his flat in an old brick warehouse. The neighborhood was rough enough to give the last bit of the trip home a little edge, but it wasn't really dangerous. Just the way Asher liked things, some excitement with an escape route built in.

Asher was jolted from his mental meanderings when someone bumped into him hard enough to make him stumble.

"Excuse me," said a man with an accent that Asher couldn't place immediately.

The man walked on before Asher could respond. He shrugged his shoulders and hurried off. If he was lucky he'd make the 6:21 train and not have to wait the extra twenty minutes for the next train.

Asher reached the train stop with a few minutes to spare. He stood staring at nothing while he waited. He had a lot to ponder, the story he was working on was the best, or maybe the worst, he had ever covered. The details around the Abrams killings were sketchy and extremely bizarre, and the story was on the tongues of every citizen in the greater Chicago area. The national news was rooting around, and there was already a low murmur that Hollywood was planning a suspense film based on the murders. If I can pull this one off, it has Pulitzer written all over it. Asher grinned to himself as he rocked back and forth on his heels. He didn't notice the tall rangy man concealed in shadows at the edge of the platform. Nor did he notice that same man board the train when it stopped, or the intent stare when the man sat in the seat across the aisle....

© 2003 Austin Hale

 

[fenzer]

This is some really wonderful writing guys. Thanks for a great story. I'm on the edge of my seat here. Please post soon.

 

[WisdomLikeSilence]

Not only good writing, but a great story.

Would this Story Hour make for a good animated feature, animated series, movie or comic book?

I can see it very easily as a graphic novel. The style and tone fit the medium. I think it might be too bloody for a movie, and an animated series probably requires too many resources. If you're really interested in publishing, I'd recommend the comics route.

Not, of course, that I have any special insight.

-WLS

 

[Lamprolign]

Many thanks for the kind words. We are trying our best to get at least one post online per week. If the muses are speaking freely we might manage two per week, but that'll be the exception rather than the rule.

 

[Broccli_Head]

You have another fan, guys!

really enjoying your story and the modern, horror elements.

thanks

 

[Lamprolign]

014

Bright is the moon high in starlight
Chill is the air cold as steel tonight
We shift
Call of the wild
Fear in your eyes
It's later than you realized
- Metallica, Of Wolf And Man

I should be at home working. Asher Russell tipped back his third Killian's Irish Red in thirty minutes at the Metro. Just off the great hall of Union Station, this was one of his favorite downtown haunts. The nostalgia here conjured images of Bogart, sitting in a shadowy booth with his fedora pulled low. Here's looking at you, kid. Asher downed the beer and slid his empty mug to the bartender, a thick man with a square jaw who could have played the heavy in one of those old films.

To have lived then, Asher thought, and started in on his fourth.

*****

Piotr gazed through the plate glass separating the circular bar from a room with a pool table. Nearby, a tall, painfully thin man circled the empty pool table with cue in hand. Occasionally he would stop, stoop, and line up a shot on a ball that did not exist. The old man's stark white beard contrasted his dark brown skin. Deep grooves lined his face, vertical crags beneath his eyes that looked as if they had been worn by corrosive tears. The man wore a long black coat, probably wool, and black trousers that fell over worn work boots. Every so often he paused to gaze through the plate glass with a warm smile for the patrons sitting inside. But he would always return to the empty table, contemplating a game only he could see.

The old man's gaze fell on Piotr each time he looked inside, lingering for a moment. Most people wilted under Piotr's intense glare, few ever holding his gaze for more than an instant. When the old man's eyes met Piotr's, however, he simply stared out from that weathered face and smiled his kindly smile. Though Piotr knew he could break the man's neck as easily as he might shake his hand, that stare unnerved the big Russian.

Crazy old man, Piotr thought and shrugged, feeling a bit foolish and more than a little annoyed. He shifted his attention back to the young man pounding mugs of reddish colored beer. Thus far his quarry had remained in crowded public places, surrounded by too many witnesses. Piotr was a patient hunter, however. Patience was the key to success in his profession. Watch. Wait. Stalk. Kill. Vanish. He swallowed a shot of Smirnoff and shook his head as he observed the antics of his prey on the other side of the glass. This one will offer no challenge, he thought with a hint of disappointment.

* * * *

"… I ain't got no CIGARETTES…."

"Hey pal! Hey buddy, you got to get off the bar!"

"Eh?" Asher glanced down just long enough to make out the stern face of the meaty barkeep before returning to his performance. He was just getting to the best part.

"I know every engineer on every train, all of their children, and all of their names…." Three middle-aged women, well heeled and attractive, sent up encouraging catcalls, and one of them tried to stuff a dollar bill into Asher's pants. A group of businessmen yelled for him to shut the hell up, while an old-timer at the end of the bar nodded approvingly in time to Asher's singing.

"Look clown, if you don't get down from there right now I'm going to throw your skinny ass down myself!"

"Why have karaoke night," Asher mumbled, barely coherent, "if you're not even gonna let a fella sing." By some miracle he managed to scramble down without spilling the half drained mug he clasped tightly in one hand.

"We don't have a karaoke night, jackass. There's no music. That's a beer you're singing into, not a microphone. I'm tossing you out, you drunk bastard!"

"I'm not drunk, sir," Asher replied with a comically serious expression. "I've been over served."

The bartender rolled up his sleeves and started around the bar. Asher donned his bomber jacket and tucked his unruly mop of blonde hair under a Cubs ball cap as he hustled through the door. He was going to need to drink a lot of water if he didn't want to wake up with a hangover. He paused for a second in the Station's great hall, staring like a tourist, but moved on quickly when it occurred to him that the bartender might have called the police. He hurried through the Station and stepped out into the night.

The temperature had dropped below freezing and flurries fell from an invisible sky. A glistening coat of ice bore witness to the freezing rain that had fallen earlier in the evening. Pedestrian and vehicle traffic moved briskly on Adams at this late hour. Asher walked east, hands shoved in his coat pockets. The closest stop for the loop was Quincy, too far away for his liking tonight. Why do I do this to myself, he wondered before hustling on, the cold northwest wind quickening his steps.

* * * *

Piotr watched his target walk east on Adams. He would have to follow until Asher left the densely peopled downtown area. He stayed twenty paces behind, careful not to lose sight since the wind robbed him of his prey's scent. Watching the reporter's stumbling, staggering progress, Piotr grinned. At least you enjoyed your last night. He quickened his pace, following the reporter toward a bridge crossing the Chicago River.

* * * *

Asher's buzz was beginning to wear off. I'm going to need to drink a lot of water if I don't want one hell of a hangover tomorrow. His thoughts turned to his editor's admonition that he had better have something on the Abrams story ready for tomorrow's evening edition, or else. His editor said "or else" frequently. Asher had yet to learn exactly what his editor meant by it, but he didn't particularly care to find out, either.

"Well crap," Asher muttered. In his musings he had taken the wrong turn off of Adams and found himself in a narrow alley. He looked around, shrugged his shoulders, and kept walking. He was still headed in the right general direction.

* * * *

Piotr stopped and squatted on his haunches at the entrance to the narrow alley, his face held high to the wind. He smelled the booze on his prey, of course, but there was something else. For the first time on this hunt, he smelled fear on Asher Russell. It was a good smell, high and pungent. Piotr smiled. Nowhere to run, comrade. Your good fortune has come to an end.

* * * *

Gooseflesh rose on Asher's neck, and a strange thought crossed his mind. A shadow just fell across my grave. He laughed nervously at the odd notion, but quickened his pace nonetheless. A glance over his shoulder revealed nothing. Great, now I'm drunk and paranoid. But he could not shake the feeling that somewhere in the shadows someone watched him.

* * * *

There was always the pain. Bones warped, shifted, realigned. Muscles stretched and writhed, skin quivered, body hair grew thick and coarse. Piotr raised his arms skyward, long bestial claws outstretched, caught in the throes of agony and ecstasy. There was always the pain, but with it came the power. He would not risk a full transformation with so many people nearby, but against his drunken quarry this form would more than suffice. A low growl in his throat, the man-beast that had been Piotr bolted down the alley with long running strides and leaps.

* * * *

Ok, that time I definitely heard something. Asher looked back in time to see a large silhouette bound over a fallen trashcan in the alley, land silently, then charge toward him in long strides, hunkered low to the ground. What the…!? For a crazy instant Asher froze, staring at the impossible beast that bore down on him. Then instinct took over. He whirled and sprinted toward the distant end of the alley, the wind catching the brim of his cap and peeling it from his head. Behind him the sounds of his pursuer's footfalls grew louder, the fast, rhythmic beat matching his pounding heart. Asher's legs pumped as they had not in years. Rational thought rebelled at the thought of the beast after him, a creature that could not possibly exist. But deep in the corners of his mind, something long denied stirred.

High above, a fire escape, decayed from years of neglect, shuddered slightly in the wind. As Asher passed the fire escape swayed side to side, clanging loudly against brick wall. The structure groaned in protest. Rivets, more rust than steel, popped from their moorings.

Asher hazarded a glance over his shoulder. The beast was overtaking him. He could see a human face, but the bones and muscle seemed to swim beneath the skin, transforming the face into a shifting blur of hair and feral eyes and impossibly large teeth.

! He had no breath to curse aloud. Adrenaline flooded his body. The sound of twisting steel caused him to risk another look behind. The ancient fire escape tore free from the wall, collapsing just as the beast passed under it. There was a deafening crash, and the monster disappeared beneath two tons of tangled steel. His attention fixed behind him, Asher did not see the raised manhole cover that caught his foot and sent him sprawling face first into the alley. His chin hit pavement with enough force to draw blood and chip a front tooth. Bright lights exploded in his vision, and it took a second for him to clear his head. All was silent for a moment, but then behind him the steel began to groan and move.

It was still alive.

Asher pushed himself to his feet with palms that were raw from his spill to the asphalt. Ahead he saw the mouth of the alley, light, people and cars moving down a busy street. He ran as fast as he could, his left knee painfully protesting. The knee of his jeans was torn out, and he was bleeding there too.

A roar echoed through the night as the beast freed itself. No longer manlike at all, it ran on four legs. The face had become fixed, a bestial muzzle bristling with fangs. Wiry gray fur covered it in an uneven coat, thicker along the spine. It was the perfect killer, knowing neither pain nor fear, only the thrill of the hunt.

Asher skidded around the corner, out of the alley and onto a well-lit street. He was not certain where he was. The streetlamps and taillights of cars blurred in his vision. Engine noise and honking horns and voices were drowned out by his pounding heart and ragged breathing. Asher ran alongside the row of parked cars that lined the street.

The creature barreled out of the alley, taking a short bound and gathering itself for the leap that would bring down its prey. Just then, a car door opened in its path. Unable to stop, the beast slammed into the door, bending it backwards on its hinges in a clamor of popping steel and shattering glass. The creature sat back on its haunches and shook its head. Somewhere deep in its brain, a small scrap of human thought registered that the car was empty. The beast sprang to its feat and leapt back into pursuit.

Asher ran in terror. Ahead he saw a CTA bus pulling to a stop. The side was plastered with a banner ad for his newspaper. "START YOUR MORNING WITH THE TRIBUNE." I'll be lucky if I live to see the morning at all, much less read the paper. He poured everything he had left into a last sprint.

The hiss of releasing airbrakes announced the bus's slow departure. Asher ran alongside it as it rolled away. Just when he thought he would surely collapse there on the street, the door in front of the bus' rear wheel folded open. Asher jumped, catching the handrail and pulling himself up into the bus. Distracted by traffic, the bus driver had not noticed his entrance. Several passengers glanced curiously at the disheveled man, but looked away soon.

Asher hauled himself into a seat, panting heavily with fear and exertion.

What the hell was that thing?! He glanced around the bus. It was unusually crowded for this time of night, but then it was a Friday.

Asher breathed a little easier. He had escaped. He did not know what he had escaped from, but he was safe. By morning, he might convince himself that it had just been a stray dog. He looked out the back window, and his heart skipped a beat. Barreling down the sidewalk, the creature gained on the bus as it slowed for the next stop.

"Don't stop!" Asher yelled, bolting toward the front of the bus.

Looking in his mirror, the driver saw what seemed to be a crazy man screaming up the aisle. Panicked, the driver stomped the brakes.

The sudden stop sent Asher reeling off balance to the front of the bus, slamming into rows of seats along the way. He spilled forward and tumbled into a heap of limbs in the front stairwell. The bus driver, an old man with close-cropped white hair and thick glasses, looked down his nose disapprovingly at Asher. Just then, the bus' rear door exploded inward, followed by a nightmarish creature that leapt in from the night. A woman screamed in a high, shrill voice, and soon all the passengers were on their feet, gripped in panic.

Asher disentangled himself and saw the driver's terrified expression as he looked toward the back of the bus. Asher lunged for the door handle and it folded open. "Get out of here!" he called to the driver, in a voice that barely rose above a whisper. His knee buckled, spilling him out onto the sidewalk.

Inside the bus, the beast tore through the press of frantic people. Blood sprayed the windows as it raced from rear to front. The driver's foot hit the accelerator and the bus lurched forward. Tires screeched and horns blared as cars swerved to avoid collision.

Asher scrabbled to his feet. He spotted a taxi not a dozen yards away, and ran for it with his last bit of strength. He threw open the door and jumped in the back seat. The cabbie, busy watching the spectacle of the bus lurching across traffic, whipped around at Asher's sudden entrance.

"Go!" Asher yelled. "Just drive!"

He dumped the contents of his wallet in his hand, grabbed a folded hundred dollar bill, and waved it through the small opening in the Plexiglas barrier between the front and back seat.

The driver's scowl disappeared when Asher dropped the bill on the front seat. He pulled the car out into traffic, cutting off another cab and drawing a profane gesture from its driver. The driver sped away, calling back, "Where to?"

Oblivious to the driver's inquiry, Asher peered through the rear window to see the bus careen into a semi. A diesel fireball enveloped the vehicles. As the inferno shrank in the distance, Asher saw a large form explode through the bus's rear window to disappear into the night.

* * * *

Poe stood outside the Haven for almost an hour before going in. She had slipped back into a barbarism she struggled with every moment of her existence. But the arrogant pig had pushed her, tested her when she was weak. He deserved it, she thought, recalling the encounter. She spit on the ground and wiped her mouth absently. Poe hoped the Sister would not find out.

"We are not to judge mankind," the old woman had said many times. "We are very much a part of the whole. Understand who people are and why they act as they do."

This time Poe felt righteous in her judgment. Had she not been who she was, what she was, the bastard would have probably raped and killed her in the alley. This time was justified. Poe believed that even the Sister would agree. The Sister was incredibly compassionate, but once convinced of a wrong, she could be vengeance itself.

There were more urgent things to discuss with the Sister tonight. The man she fought on the rooftop, for one. She had a feeling she had not seen the last of him.

The Sister rested in her usual chair by the fireplace, her foot pumping a steady clacking rhythm on the treadle of an 18th century Canadian spinning wheel. The wheel's black enameled spokes flashed in the soft firelight. A bright red double drive band linked the wheel to a flyer. The spool inside it neared the halfway mark of a single-spun merino wool.

"Welcome home." She smiled from behind the wheel as Poe entered the study.

Poe watched the wheel, mesmerized by the flashes of light from its enameled surface. She closed the door softly and took the seat furthest from the fire.

"There is a werewolf in the city," Poe stated without inflection.

The Sister slapped a hand on the top of the wheel, bringing it to a sudden stop. She peered intently at Poe.

"You are certain?"

Before Poe could answer, the study door flung open. A wild-eyed man stomped into the room unbidden.

"Asher!" Poe and the Sister gasped in unison.

"Why the hell..." he paused for breath, "...why the hell is one of your freaks trying to kill me?!"

© 2003 Austin Hale

 

[Broccli_Head]

014
["Asher!" The Sister and Poe said in unison.

"I..." he paused for another breath, "...why the hell is one of your freaks trying to kill me?!"

© 2003 Austin Hale

Wow! That's a surprise!

 

[Lamprolign]

015
Early this morning
I heard you knock upon my door
Early this morning
I heard you knock upon my door
I said, "Hello, Satan,
I believe it's time to go"
Robert Johnson - Me And The Devil Blues


"Boring," Mary sighed.

Gabe lowered the copy of Rainbow Six, the last Clancy novel he'd picked up from the used bookstore.

"No it isn't, and it would be a lot easier to read without constant interruption."

"Excuse me," came the sarcastic reply. "Don't you want to go somewhere, or do something? You've been moping around ever since you were suspended."

Gabe only grunted and resumed to reading. He was just reaching the climax. The terrorists were about to release their engineered virus at the opening ceremony of the Summer Olympics in Sydney. He was startled back to reality by a loud knock on the front door.

"What now?" he wondered aloud as he hauled himself off the couch.

Gabe peered though the peephole. Chris Ebbing stood on the front porch. Gabe watched him for a few moments, and when Chris reached to knock again Gabe quickly pulled open the door.

"Damn! I wish you'd stop doing that!" Chris said after almost striking Gabe's forehead instead of the door.

"Yeah, I probably will when people start using the doorbell." Gabe stepped back into the house, holding the door open. "Why do you darken my doorstep?"

"Oh, no reason, just thought I'd pop in, see how your vacation was going."

"Vacation, huh? That's putting it nicely."

"Hey dude," Chris replied, "it could be worse. They could have taken you off active duty and made you sit in the office pushing papers. At least you're getting some downtime out of the deal."

Gabe smiled slightly and shook his head. An asteroid the size of Texas could be hurtling toward certain impact with the Earth and Chris would find something positive to say about it.

"So, how are things at the office?"

"Mucho loco, man," Chris said. "Catch the news today?"

"Nope." Gabe waved his dog-eared paperback in Chris' face. "Been reading." Or trying to, anyway, he thought pointedly.

"There was a bus accident last night, broadsided a semi, then the gas tank went up. Kablooie!" Chris waved his arms in the air to emphasize.

"No ," Gabe responded, jaw agape. "Body count?"

"Fourteen crispy critters. The story gets better, though." Chris paused dramatically. "Witnesses said they saw a bear jump on the bus."

"A bear," Gabe responded flatly. He favored Chris with a deadpan stare. "And were these so-called witnesses smoking crack? "

"Maybe. But maybe not. I talked to my buddy down at the coroner's office. He says some of the dead that were brought in looked like they'd been mauled before they were fried."

Gabe arched an eyebrow. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Jenny Matthews?" Chris offered hesitantly.

"Jenny Matthews," Gabe replied with a grin. "See, I told you if you stuck with me you'd get the hang of this. Now, tell me about the lab reports on that hair...."

****

Asher woke up in a familiar room. The study was unchanged in the seven years since he had lived here. A fifteen-year-old run-away scrounging a living on the street, he had found respite from the outside world within these old walls. For five years he had hung his hat at the restored church, but he had never called it home. The Haven brought back to many painful memories from his youth, memories he preferred to leave forgotten. It often seemed to Asher that his life really began when he started college at Northwestern. He knew the Sister had pulled some strings to get him a scholarship, but he had earned everything after that himself. He graduated with honors from Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism, and received his masters in journalism there nine months later. After short stints with two small midwestern papers, Asher recently managed to land a job with the Tribune as a beat reporter. He was the first in town to break the Abrams story, and it had seemed that the sky was the limit. The Haven, and older memories buried deeper still, had been the furthest thing from his mind. That was before that ... thing tried to kill him. After escaping, his first thought, once he was capable of forming a rational thought again, had been that the beast had some connection with the Haven. And, as usual, his hunch was correct.

"Good morning." The Sister was staring through the window. A dark calico cat was draped across her shoulders, its tail swishing very slowly.

"Says you," Asher grumbled. "Oh !" Asher jumped up from the chair he'd been sleeping in. "! I lost my laptop! ! ! This is bad."

"There are worse things that could have happened," the Sister replied calmly.

"I don't know. I might be better off if that thing had caught me!" Asher feared he would finally learn what his editor meant when he roared, "Or else!" "Damn it! I have to get home. I have to get to work. "

"Until we find out what is going on, you should stay here where you will be safe."

"No way, Sister."

"We discussed this last night, Asher. You are the third person with ties to this place that has been attacked this week, and the only one to survive. There is no reason to think that your attacker will not return to finish the job."

" I'll take my chances," Asher said. "I'm not going to hide behind your skirt tails like the others. I'm not like them. I'm normal."

"Indeed," sighed the Sister. "Will you deny it until the end?"

"There's nothing to deny. I'm not one of your freaks."

****

A loud knock resounded through the small hotel room, startling Piotr from slumber.

"Chert voz'mi!" He rolled from the bed, landing in a crouch.

Again came a knock on the door. In his week's stay he had yet to be disturbed during the day. Whoever it was would pay dearly. Piotr slipped silently to the door and pulled it open.

"Good afternoon, Mister Mironov." The deep voice rumbled with the force of stone grinding against stone. Piotr was forced to crane his neck to look up at the face of the huge man on his doorstep. "You created quite a spectacle last evening. She is not pleased."

Piotr stood for a moment, anger and embarrassment turning his face crimson. He was unaccustomed to failure, and unaccustomed to ungrateful clients like these. "There were... complications."

"Indeed." The man's shoulders barely fit through the door as he walked into the room. The dark gray hat atop his head brushed the doorframe. He wore a long gray coat, and the two trunk-like legs that supported the giant were clad in light gray trousers and ended in black oxford shoes. Piotr backed away like a wolf confronted with an angry grizzly. "Your reputation seems to have been greatly exaggerated, Mironov. The first time you are presented with a challenge, you run to your den with your tail tucked snugly between your legs."

"You might learn if my reputation is deserved first-hand, comrade." Piotr growled out the words.

"That would indeed be entertaining, but it will have to wait until you have finished Her business." The man smiled with glacial warmth. "There is much that remains, and you have yet to deal with Asher Russell."

Piotr glared at the giant. The big man smelled of cologne and gun oil, an unpleasant mixture to Piotr's hypersensitive nose. "The contract called for three," Piotr said. "Any more will require an additional payment."

"That shall be addressed when the time comes." The giant walked to the window and looked down on the street below. A drug deal was going down in the alley across the street. He watched bemused as merchandise and cash exchanged hands. A glint in the shadows caught his eye and one of the participants crumpled to the ground. The other pulled the body behind a cluster of garbage cans and calmly walked out onto the street.

"You have excellent taste in accommodations, Mironov." The giant turned and walked to the door. "Do not disappoint Her a second time." He smiled and pushed back the brim of his hat. For the first time his chiseled face was clearly visible. A long scar ran from his chin across a frigid blue eye, cutting through a thick black eyebrow to disappear under the hat's brim. "You will find that while She generously rewards success, She is equally intolerant of failure."

© 2003 Austin Hale

 

[fenzer]

This is great writing guys. Please post more, soon.