The vampires had risen, far more of them than anyone had contemplated. The Slayer and her friends, fellow warriors by now, had a fairly secure position. But there were a lot of the undead coming. The stock of arrows and crossbow bolts was running low. The experimental ammunition, with african blackwood rods swaged into lead bullets, worked, but the supply was also low.
The Sun had dropped below the horizon. The vampires weren’t bothering to wait for full dark, they were massing in a field a half-mile away. There were too many of them.
One of the Scooby Brigade said, more to himself: “We need a miracle about now.”
The Slayer said: “Listen.”
They could all hear it. It was the roar of very large piston engines.
“What the fuck,” someone else muttered.
They saw a large twin-engined airplane, a flying boat. It was painted orange and red and it was flying low. It was flying towards the vampires from the north.
The Slayer said: “Watch.”
The airplane came right over the vampires and dumped 1,400 gallons of water in a swath right across the assembled horde. The vampires began bursting into flame and shrieking. Another water-bomber came roaring in and sprayed the leading edge of the horde. The skies were lit up with the flames of burning vampires and the air was filled with their shrieks.
“Holy water,” the Slayer said.
The first airplane descended and touched down on a nearby reservoir, scooping up another load of water. Inside the airplane, at the top of the water tank, a priest in full regalia opened a small hatch as soon as the airplane began its climb. As the airplane climbed away from the reservoir, the priest chanted some blessings and did a few other things. Then he slammed the hatch shut and gave a thumbs up to a crewman, who yelled: “We’re good for another run!” into the intercom.
The Slayer and her warriors watched as the first airplane laid down a lane of water just in front of the retreating vampires. The front ranks skidded to a halt, afraid to try and run across the sodden and now consecrated ground. They were nicely bunched up when the second airplane dropped its load right on them.
“Let’s go, there’s some mopping up to do,” the Slayer said. She led her troops down from their redoubt and into combat. Overhead, the water bombers made some more passes, but now they were as much putting out spot fires caused by burning vampires as they were killing the undead.
There wasn’t much for the troops to do. The vampires who hadn’t been killed outright by being soaked with holy water had taken enough of the spray to be debilitated. It wasn’t so much combat as slaying the wounded. One of the wounded was Locutus, the vampire commander. His legs were gone at about mid-thigh and one of his hands had been burned off.
Locutus tried to straighten up as he said: “You think you have won this time, Slayer, but--” He disappeared in a shower of dust as a wooden arrow ran through his blackened heart.
The Slayer lowered her bow: “I have no time for famous last words,” she said to the dissipating cloud of dust.
One of her warriors trotted up and said: “I think we got them all, Boss.”
The Slayer nodded. “Well, you asked for a miracle,” she said.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, November 29, 2014
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Carrington- Pregnancy
Carly’s uncle Max and her father Bill were doing their morning rounds. Both had sidearms, Bill carried a .22 Henry and Max had a bow. The air held the hint of Spring.
“Carly’s pregnant,” Bill said.
“Whoa. No shit?”
“She told Sue last night.” Sue was Carly’s mother. “What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing we can do,” Max said. “Any idea who the father is?”
“She didn’t say, according to Sue. My guess it would that asshole Frank Anderson.”
“So when he tried to rape her, that wasn’t the first time? Why didn’t she tell anyone?”
“Probably because she thought we’d cowboy up and go hunt him down,” Bill mused. “And that would have started a feud.”
“So she waited her time and then shot him the next time he tried? Tough girl, our Carly.”
“Times make people pretty hard.”
“Yeah.”
“What life is this going to be for my grandchild,” Bill asked. “We, everyone, have been hanging on by our nails for years, now. Waiting for some sign that things are going to go back to the way they were, or get close to it. And when it does, then what? We’ve been trying to teach our kids science and math and other things, but they see none of that matters these days. Teach handicrafts or farming and they pay attention. Algebra and the like, not so much.”
“So if things do recover, they’ll be on the outside?”
“Like a Kalahari goat herder looking at a computer.”
“What if things don’t recover?”
Bill stopped walking and sat on a fallen tree. “Then we, as in humanity, are forever screwed.”
Max sat down next to him. “Why?”
Bill shrugged. “Because there’s nothing left. If we go back to the Stone Age, there’s nothing else. All of the steel and iron in buildings and cars and railroad tracks will rust away, sooner or later. And even if we did start melting them down into ingots, all we have is wood for a fuel source. All of the oil and coal that was easy to get out of the ground has been gotten. Same for iron, tin, copper. The industrial revolution took off because the Brits and then us had lots of coal that could be mined by hand. Took coal and coke to make steel available. Took electricity to make aluminum from ore.”
Max didn’t say anything.
Bill continued on. “Won’t happen overnight. There’s lots of steel and aluminum out there. A mile of railroad track has--” he thought for a few seconds “-- almost three hundred tons of high-grade steel in it, not counting the fish plates and the spikes. Harder to get at, since they welded it all. Not like the old days, you could break out forty-foot sections.”
“Bust a lot of hacksaw blades doing that, now.
“Yeah. You’d have to dig under the track, build a big hot fire, heat it up and maybe you could then beat it apart, I dunno.”
“So, what do we do?”
“I think we’d better get those books you bought out on how the Indians did things, back before the white man showed up, and we’d best teach ourselves and our kids how they made tools and things.”
Max looked skeptical. “So our grandkids and great-grandkids are going to be running around in moccasins, wearing buckskins, shooting bows and living in tepees or wigwams?”
“Yeah. Folks forget there were something like fifteen million Indians lived in this country before Columbus showed up, bearing gifts and diseases. Might even be better if they can hang onto horses and cows.”
“And all of our culture and literature and music and shit like that’ll be gone?”
Bill nodded. “Pretty much. None of it’s worth a turd if you’re living a subsistence life. Things don’t recover, in a hundred years, there won’t be fifty people on the planet who’ll know who Shakespeare or Neil Armstrong was.”
“But life goes on.”
“It do. As long as we don’t give up. Best sign of that’s Carly’s baby.”
“Gonna be tough, with another mouth to feed.”
“Yeah. But that kid’s the future. A long as people keep having kids and raising them and teaching them to survive, we go on. And maybe, sometime, they’ll figure out a way to get back to things like science and art and shit.”
Max stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants. “But we’ve got work to do, now.”
“Yep.”
“Carly’s pregnant,” Bill said.
“Whoa. No shit?”
“She told Sue last night.” Sue was Carly’s mother. “What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing we can do,” Max said. “Any idea who the father is?”
“She didn’t say, according to Sue. My guess it would that asshole Frank Anderson.”
“So when he tried to rape her, that wasn’t the first time? Why didn’t she tell anyone?”
“Probably because she thought we’d cowboy up and go hunt him down,” Bill mused. “And that would have started a feud.”
“So she waited her time and then shot him the next time he tried? Tough girl, our Carly.”
“Times make people pretty hard.”
“Yeah.”
“What life is this going to be for my grandchild,” Bill asked. “We, everyone, have been hanging on by our nails for years, now. Waiting for some sign that things are going to go back to the way they were, or get close to it. And when it does, then what? We’ve been trying to teach our kids science and math and other things, but they see none of that matters these days. Teach handicrafts or farming and they pay attention. Algebra and the like, not so much.”
“So if things do recover, they’ll be on the outside?”
“Like a Kalahari goat herder looking at a computer.”
“What if things don’t recover?”
Bill stopped walking and sat on a fallen tree. “Then we, as in humanity, are forever screwed.”
Max sat down next to him. “Why?”
Bill shrugged. “Because there’s nothing left. If we go back to the Stone Age, there’s nothing else. All of the steel and iron in buildings and cars and railroad tracks will rust away, sooner or later. And even if we did start melting them down into ingots, all we have is wood for a fuel source. All of the oil and coal that was easy to get out of the ground has been gotten. Same for iron, tin, copper. The industrial revolution took off because the Brits and then us had lots of coal that could be mined by hand. Took coal and coke to make steel available. Took electricity to make aluminum from ore.”
Max didn’t say anything.
Bill continued on. “Won’t happen overnight. There’s lots of steel and aluminum out there. A mile of railroad track has--” he thought for a few seconds “-- almost three hundred tons of high-grade steel in it, not counting the fish plates and the spikes. Harder to get at, since they welded it all. Not like the old days, you could break out forty-foot sections.”
“Bust a lot of hacksaw blades doing that, now.
“Yeah. You’d have to dig under the track, build a big hot fire, heat it up and maybe you could then beat it apart, I dunno.”
“So, what do we do?”
“I think we’d better get those books you bought out on how the Indians did things, back before the white man showed up, and we’d best teach ourselves and our kids how they made tools and things.”
Max looked skeptical. “So our grandkids and great-grandkids are going to be running around in moccasins, wearing buckskins, shooting bows and living in tepees or wigwams?”
“Yeah. Folks forget there were something like fifteen million Indians lived in this country before Columbus showed up, bearing gifts and diseases. Might even be better if they can hang onto horses and cows.”
“And all of our culture and literature and music and shit like that’ll be gone?”
Bill nodded. “Pretty much. None of it’s worth a turd if you’re living a subsistence life. Things don’t recover, in a hundred years, there won’t be fifty people on the planet who’ll know who Shakespeare or Neil Armstrong was.”
“But life goes on.”
“It do. As long as we don’t give up. Best sign of that’s Carly’s baby.”
“Gonna be tough, with another mouth to feed.”
“Yeah. But that kid’s the future. A long as people keep having kids and raising them and teaching them to survive, we go on. And maybe, sometime, they’ll figure out a way to get back to things like science and art and shit.”
Max stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants. “But we’ve got work to do, now.”
“Yep.”
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Carrington; Morning Watch
Carly woke up when her brother Sam touched her on the arm. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. She quickly got dressed, strapped on her revolver, put on her boots and went downstairs. Sam was in the kitchen, yawning. The kitchen was dimly lit, only a faint glow came through the glass panel of the wood stove. It was four in the morning.
“‘Anything new,” she asked while stretching.
He shrugged. “The chickens were making a little bit of noise, but I didn’t see anything.”
“Did you use the flashlight?”
“No.”
Carly nodded. Uncle Max was big on not showing light at night. It had better be a dangerous situation to justify using a light. Uncle Max said that lights attract attention, especially the bad kind. More than one of the kids had taken a beating for it.
“What’s it like out,” she asked.
“Not too cold, maybe 40 or so. No wind, clear sky. Moon is still up, but it’ll set in an hour or so.”
Sam handed her an orange whistle on a lanyard cord, the night watch rifle and two spare magazines. Carly removed the magazine from the rifle, checked to verify that there was a round in the chamber and re-inserted the magazine. The rifle was a Ruger 10/22 with a flashlight and a silencer that Uncle Max had built. The silencer had been illegal at one time, but nobody had seen a cop in four years. Uncle Max was fond of saying that the law was what was in your holster. The whistle was to be used only in an utter emergency. Sound carried these days, since there wasn’t any background noise to speak of.
She put on her coat, hat and gloves, picked up the rifle and went into the light lock. The “light lock” was a mud room with a door on either end, one into the kitchen and one to the porch. The inside was painted flat black. At night, the windows in the doors and in the mud room were covered with heavy drapes. Carly figured that the term “light lock” came from her cousin Tyler’s love of science fiction.
Carly paused on the porch to let her eyes adjust, which didn’t take very long. It was scarcely brighter in the kitchen than it was outdoor, She thought for a few seconds, then opened the door to the mud room and pulled out a white poncho, more of a cloak, really. She didn’t know if anybody was about, but why give them an edge, she reasoned.
She went out and made her rounds. The barn was secure, the sheep, chickens and the few cows were quiet. She still was not used to how few animals there were in the barn anymore. It was a lot harder to make good hay ever since the nights that the sky burned, which meant that fewer animals had be fed through a winter. The pigs were long gone, there was hardly enough food for the people, let alone scraps for pigs.
The night security watches, when everyone else was asleep, were the only times that Carly made the next stop on her rounds: The family graveyard. There were no tombstones, only carved wooden boards. She stopped at the grave of Billy, her brother. People once called her and Billy “Irish twins;” Billy had been eleven months older that her.
Fourteen months ago, Billy got a bad cut on his arm as he and Sam were skinning a deer. Back in the old days, that would have meant a trip to the emergency room for some stitches and ten days’ worth of antibiotics. Billy might have then had a small scar to talk about. Now there were no ambulances, no emergency rooms and no antibiotics. Billy had died of blood poisoning five weeks later. They couldn’t even bury him until the Spring thaw.
There was a little snow on the marker. Carly brushed it off with a gloved hand. There had been no real time for her to mourn or grieve. Life was hard since the skies burned and it seemed to her that each year was harder than the one before. If it wasn’t for having been Billy’s primary nurse as he slid down towards death, Carly would have thought that he was the lucky one.
It was getting on towards sunup. Carly went back to the house. She built the makings of a fire in the wood cookstove in the kitchen, then used a stick to transfer fire from the wood stove to the cookstove. The cookstove had been in the basement of the small barn for decades, too heavy to take away and too beat-up to sell. It had taken the men and boys days to move it into the kitchen and to move the propane stove out to the small barn. They counted themselves lucky to have it; lots of families were cooking now in their fireplaces.
Carly then went to the sink in the basement and used the hand-pump to draw water for the morning meal, She was carrying the second pail up from the basement when she felt the first kick. Hell of a thing to be born in this day and age, Carly thought.
Carly was sixteen years old.
“‘Anything new,” she asked while stretching.
He shrugged. “The chickens were making a little bit of noise, but I didn’t see anything.”
“Did you use the flashlight?”
“No.”
Carly nodded. Uncle Max was big on not showing light at night. It had better be a dangerous situation to justify using a light. Uncle Max said that lights attract attention, especially the bad kind. More than one of the kids had taken a beating for it.
“What’s it like out,” she asked.
“Not too cold, maybe 40 or so. No wind, clear sky. Moon is still up, but it’ll set in an hour or so.”
Sam handed her an orange whistle on a lanyard cord, the night watch rifle and two spare magazines. Carly removed the magazine from the rifle, checked to verify that there was a round in the chamber and re-inserted the magazine. The rifle was a Ruger 10/22 with a flashlight and a silencer that Uncle Max had built. The silencer had been illegal at one time, but nobody had seen a cop in four years. Uncle Max was fond of saying that the law was what was in your holster. The whistle was to be used only in an utter emergency. Sound carried these days, since there wasn’t any background noise to speak of.
She put on her coat, hat and gloves, picked up the rifle and went into the light lock. The “light lock” was a mud room with a door on either end, one into the kitchen and one to the porch. The inside was painted flat black. At night, the windows in the doors and in the mud room were covered with heavy drapes. Carly figured that the term “light lock” came from her cousin Tyler’s love of science fiction.
Carly paused on the porch to let her eyes adjust, which didn’t take very long. It was scarcely brighter in the kitchen than it was outdoor, She thought for a few seconds, then opened the door to the mud room and pulled out a white poncho, more of a cloak, really. She didn’t know if anybody was about, but why give them an edge, she reasoned.
She went out and made her rounds. The barn was secure, the sheep, chickens and the few cows were quiet. She still was not used to how few animals there were in the barn anymore. It was a lot harder to make good hay ever since the nights that the sky burned, which meant that fewer animals had be fed through a winter. The pigs were long gone, there was hardly enough food for the people, let alone scraps for pigs.
The night security watches, when everyone else was asleep, were the only times that Carly made the next stop on her rounds: The family graveyard. There were no tombstones, only carved wooden boards. She stopped at the grave of Billy, her brother. People once called her and Billy “Irish twins;” Billy had been eleven months older that her.
Fourteen months ago, Billy got a bad cut on his arm as he and Sam were skinning a deer. Back in the old days, that would have meant a trip to the emergency room for some stitches and ten days’ worth of antibiotics. Billy might have then had a small scar to talk about. Now there were no ambulances, no emergency rooms and no antibiotics. Billy had died of blood poisoning five weeks later. They couldn’t even bury him until the Spring thaw.
There was a little snow on the marker. Carly brushed it off with a gloved hand. There had been no real time for her to mourn or grieve. Life was hard since the skies burned and it seemed to her that each year was harder than the one before. If it wasn’t for having been Billy’s primary nurse as he slid down towards death, Carly would have thought that he was the lucky one.
It was getting on towards sunup. Carly went back to the house. She built the makings of a fire in the wood cookstove in the kitchen, then used a stick to transfer fire from the wood stove to the cookstove. The cookstove had been in the basement of the small barn for decades, too heavy to take away and too beat-up to sell. It had taken the men and boys days to move it into the kitchen and to move the propane stove out to the small barn. They counted themselves lucky to have it; lots of families were cooking now in their fireplaces.
Carly then went to the sink in the basement and used the hand-pump to draw water for the morning meal, She was carrying the second pail up from the basement when she felt the first kick. Hell of a thing to be born in this day and age, Carly thought.
Carly was sixteen years old.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Carrington, Pt. 2
Carly met her father, her uncle Max and her brothers Sam and Josh when she was half-way back to the homestead. All were carrying rifles or shotguns, which told Carly that they had heard the shot she had fired and were coming to investigate. Uncle Max was very strict about not using firearms for hunting, only for emergencies, such as fighting. “Bows for hunting, guns for killing,” Uncle Max liked to say.
The concern on her father’s face lessened somewhat when he saw that she was alive and walking. “We heard a shot,” he said.
She nodded. “Frank Anderson wanted to rape me.”
“You get him?”
She nodded again and pointed back up the trail. “He’s a few hundred yards from the river.”
Her father looked at her gravely. “Go on back home with the water. Boys, you go with her, get a couple of shovels, a pickaxe, a heavy rake and meet your uncle and me back up near the river. Don’t leave your guns home.”
Uncle Max added: “Don’t any of you say anything to anyone else. There will be consequences if you do.” When Uncle Max spoke of “consequences”, that meant anything from extra work to an ass-whipping. Carly and her brothers were ten yards down the trail when Uncle Max added: “You come back with them, Carly.”
The three were out of earshot of their father and uncle when Sam asked: “So what happened, Carly?”
Carly shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She didn’t. It took them 20 minutes to walk home. Carly slowed them up a little as she was carrying the water. Neither one of her brothers offered to help her with the load. When they got home, Carly took the water to the tank. There, at least, Sam helped her pour the water into the tank. She had almost finished putting the yoke and jugs away when her mother came up behind her. “Carly, come help me with the baking.”
Carly shook her head. “Can’t, Mom. Dad and Uncle Max told me to go back with Josh and Sam.”
Her mother looked sharply at Carly’s face. “What happened, dear? Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine, Mom. But you have to ask Dad.” Carly’s mom moved to hug her daughter, but Carly shook her off, muttering that she had work to do. She went to the gun room, picked up her rifle, a .30-30, made sure it was loaded, grabbed some extra shells, and slung the rifle. Josh and Sam were waiting for her in the yard. Josh handed her a rake and a shovel to carry; he and Sam had two pickaxes and two more shovels. They set off back down the trail to the river.
----------------------------
Uncle Max and Carly’s father, Bill, were examining the body. Max looked at the hole in Frank’s face. “Your daughter’s a pretty good shot,” he commented. “Doubt if ol’ Frank here felt a thing.” He turned Frank’s head and saw the large exit wound in the back of his head. “Nope, he probably didn’t.”
Bill was of the opinion that Frank should have suffered terribly, but he kept quiet. “How far away you think she was?’
Max looked closer at Frank’s face. “No powder marks on him, it wasn’t too close.” Max noted that there were brain and blood spatters in one direction. He stood up and moved slowly down the trail in the opposite direction, looking at the scuff marks in the dry dirt. “Looks like about here’s where she was.” He looked back at Frank’s corpse. “Fifty feet or so? Doubt if Frank would have stood still and let her take a bead on him, so she had to have shot quick. Damn fine shooting.” Max looked around. “Let’s find a spot for him.”
--------------------------------
By the time that Carly and her brothers returned, their father and uncle had found a likely spot and had dragged Frank over to it. Uncle Max ordered Josh to go further down the trail to the rise, hide, and hotfoot it back if he saw anyone coming. Then the four of them began the work of digging the hole. It took them four hours to dig a hole five foot deep; two working, two resting and on lookout.
They were ready to toss Frank into his grave. Bill said: “You think we should strip him?”
Max thought it over. “Yeah, we can use his stuff for mending and patching. Leave him his underwear, though. And toss his hat and knife in, those are kind of distinctive.” He turned to Carly. “You do it.”
Uncle Max’s tone was no-nonsense, Carly did what she was told. She bundled up Frank’s boots and clothes in a bundle made from his shirt. Then they rolled Frank into the grave. They threw in a layer of dirt, then some heavy rocks to discourage scavengers from disinterring Frank, then they filled the grave, occasionally stopping to tamp down the dirt layers.
When they finished, the rest of the dirt was scattered about. They raked over the grave to remove marks and then threw some branches and leaf litter onto it. They also raked over the spatter from the shooting. Bill sent Sam to go find Josh and when the two returned, they all went home.
Nobody missed Frank. Nobody in the homesteads in the area ever mentioned him. His family didn't go looking for him.
It didn’t bother Carly at all. Too much bad shit had happened since the Day the Skies Burned and shooting Frank was, to her, a minor thing.
The concern on her father’s face lessened somewhat when he saw that she was alive and walking. “We heard a shot,” he said.
She nodded. “Frank Anderson wanted to rape me.”
“You get him?”
She nodded again and pointed back up the trail. “He’s a few hundred yards from the river.”
Her father looked at her gravely. “Go on back home with the water. Boys, you go with her, get a couple of shovels, a pickaxe, a heavy rake and meet your uncle and me back up near the river. Don’t leave your guns home.”
Uncle Max added: “Don’t any of you say anything to anyone else. There will be consequences if you do.” When Uncle Max spoke of “consequences”, that meant anything from extra work to an ass-whipping. Carly and her brothers were ten yards down the trail when Uncle Max added: “You come back with them, Carly.”
The three were out of earshot of their father and uncle when Sam asked: “So what happened, Carly?”
Carly shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She didn’t. It took them 20 minutes to walk home. Carly slowed them up a little as she was carrying the water. Neither one of her brothers offered to help her with the load. When they got home, Carly took the water to the tank. There, at least, Sam helped her pour the water into the tank. She had almost finished putting the yoke and jugs away when her mother came up behind her. “Carly, come help me with the baking.”
Carly shook her head. “Can’t, Mom. Dad and Uncle Max told me to go back with Josh and Sam.”
Her mother looked sharply at Carly’s face. “What happened, dear? Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine, Mom. But you have to ask Dad.” Carly’s mom moved to hug her daughter, but Carly shook her off, muttering that she had work to do. She went to the gun room, picked up her rifle, a .30-30, made sure it was loaded, grabbed some extra shells, and slung the rifle. Josh and Sam were waiting for her in the yard. Josh handed her a rake and a shovel to carry; he and Sam had two pickaxes and two more shovels. They set off back down the trail to the river.
----------------------------
Uncle Max and Carly’s father, Bill, were examining the body. Max looked at the hole in Frank’s face. “Your daughter’s a pretty good shot,” he commented. “Doubt if ol’ Frank here felt a thing.” He turned Frank’s head and saw the large exit wound in the back of his head. “Nope, he probably didn’t.”
Bill was of the opinion that Frank should have suffered terribly, but he kept quiet. “How far away you think she was?’
Max looked closer at Frank’s face. “No powder marks on him, it wasn’t too close.” Max noted that there were brain and blood spatters in one direction. He stood up and moved slowly down the trail in the opposite direction, looking at the scuff marks in the dry dirt. “Looks like about here’s where she was.” He looked back at Frank’s corpse. “Fifty feet or so? Doubt if Frank would have stood still and let her take a bead on him, so she had to have shot quick. Damn fine shooting.” Max looked around. “Let’s find a spot for him.”
--------------------------------
By the time that Carly and her brothers returned, their father and uncle had found a likely spot and had dragged Frank over to it. Uncle Max ordered Josh to go further down the trail to the rise, hide, and hotfoot it back if he saw anyone coming. Then the four of them began the work of digging the hole. It took them four hours to dig a hole five foot deep; two working, two resting and on lookout.
They were ready to toss Frank into his grave. Bill said: “You think we should strip him?”
Max thought it over. “Yeah, we can use his stuff for mending and patching. Leave him his underwear, though. And toss his hat and knife in, those are kind of distinctive.” He turned to Carly. “You do it.”
Uncle Max’s tone was no-nonsense, Carly did what she was told. She bundled up Frank’s boots and clothes in a bundle made from his shirt. Then they rolled Frank into the grave. They threw in a layer of dirt, then some heavy rocks to discourage scavengers from disinterring Frank, then they filled the grave, occasionally stopping to tamp down the dirt layers.
When they finished, the rest of the dirt was scattered about. They raked over the grave to remove marks and then threw some branches and leaf litter onto it. They also raked over the spatter from the shooting. Bill sent Sam to go find Josh and when the two returned, they all went home.
Nobody missed Frank. Nobody in the homesteads in the area ever mentioned him. His family didn't go looking for him.
It didn’t bother Carly at all. Too much bad shit had happened since the Day the Skies Burned and shooting Frank was, to her, a minor thing.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Kathy Had a Blog
(Flash fiction entry to this challenge)
Kathy had a blog. It was a bit of an adult one in content, for she was very much into the “alternative lifestyle”.
All right, let’s be honest: Kathy was kinky. The blog was open to all, it was on a website that Kathy owned through an offshore shell company. The website, which hosted in a small island nation, provided for a fair number of sexual offerings, all for a fee, of course. The website had some rigorous security protocols, for which Kathy paid a lot. The website made her more than that. A lot more than that. She had a nice house on a large piece of land in the North Carolina hills; the website made the mortgage payment and more.
Kathy thought that she was pretty careful. But one day, some asshole began hassling her about what she did to make a living. It started with snide comments on her blog about the “whore of Babylon”. Kathy was not religious and her first thought that the writer was referring to Donald Rumsfeld’s deal in the `80s with Saddam Hussein. But the comments soon became nastier and more personal.
She deleted them as fast as she could. Then she put on full comment moderation. The asshole retaliated by coordinating with some of his zealot buddies, they tried to take down her site with a denial-of-service attack and they came close to doing it. Her IT consultants set up mirror sites in other countries to prevent that from ever succeeding.
The asshole then ratcheted matters up. He began sending her e-mails with more and more personal data. When he sent her an e-mail with her real name and address, Kathy went to the cops. They were amused, at best, and told her that until the clown did something other than send her nasty e-mails, to just ignore him.
When she found her cat on her front porch, gutted from sternum to anus, Kathy stopped being scared. She got mad. The obvious steps were to install an alarm system, better locks, and start carrying her Glock 23. Her daddy had always told her that the way to win a fight was to not wait for her enemy to strike, but to take it to her opponent.
So Kathy did.
She set up another bank account in the Cayman Islands. Then she went to an Internet café and researched hackers. She found a hacking forum, joined it and posted that she was being cyber-stalked, she wanted to know who the guy was, and that she would pay for the information. She struck a deal. In four days, she had the name and information she needed. She put the agreed-upon amount into the bank account and gave her hacker the account number and transfer codes.
An attorney friend of hers in Boston sent the asshole a cease-and-desist letter.
Asshole sent her a truly threatening e-mail, along the lines of “no attorney can stop me from bringing down the wrath of the heavens upon you, you whore.” That pretty much was the opening salutation. It went downhill from there.
Kathy contacted her hacker friend and asked if he could hack into asswipe’s computer and not leave any traces. He said he thought so. Kathy told him what she wanted to have done. The hacker demurred, he was worried about his legal risk. But he vouched for her to a group of Ukrainians in Kiev, who were more than willing to look into doing what Kathy wanted.
Two weeks later, they e-mailed her hotmail account to tell her they could do the job. Kathy set up another bank account in the Cayman Islands and had her agent there manually deposit the down payment, in cash. (Kathy was no fool, she was not willing to do a wire transfer with hackers of this caliber on the other side.)
-----------------------------------------------------
AP WIRE. Virginia Beach, VA.
A third year law student at Regent University was arrested early yesterday morning in a raid conducted by FBI agents and local police. Sources in law enforcement say that the student had over one hundred images of child pornography on his laptop computer.
Possession of child pornography is a Federal crime, punishable by up to twenty years in prison.
The name of the law student was withheld by police.
-----------------------------------------------------
Kathy had her agent in the Cayman Islands deposit the rest of the fee for the Ukrainians. She added a 20% gratuity.
Kathy had a blog. It was a bit of an adult one in content, for she was very much into the “alternative lifestyle”.
All right, let’s be honest: Kathy was kinky. The blog was open to all, it was on a website that Kathy owned through an offshore shell company. The website, which hosted in a small island nation, provided for a fair number of sexual offerings, all for a fee, of course. The website had some rigorous security protocols, for which Kathy paid a lot. The website made her more than that. A lot more than that. She had a nice house on a large piece of land in the North Carolina hills; the website made the mortgage payment and more.
Kathy thought that she was pretty careful. But one day, some asshole began hassling her about what she did to make a living. It started with snide comments on her blog about the “whore of Babylon”. Kathy was not religious and her first thought that the writer was referring to Donald Rumsfeld’s deal in the `80s with Saddam Hussein. But the comments soon became nastier and more personal.
She deleted them as fast as she could. Then she put on full comment moderation. The asshole retaliated by coordinating with some of his zealot buddies, they tried to take down her site with a denial-of-service attack and they came close to doing it. Her IT consultants set up mirror sites in other countries to prevent that from ever succeeding.
The asshole then ratcheted matters up. He began sending her e-mails with more and more personal data. When he sent her an e-mail with her real name and address, Kathy went to the cops. They were amused, at best, and told her that until the clown did something other than send her nasty e-mails, to just ignore him.
When she found her cat on her front porch, gutted from sternum to anus, Kathy stopped being scared. She got mad. The obvious steps were to install an alarm system, better locks, and start carrying her Glock 23. Her daddy had always told her that the way to win a fight was to not wait for her enemy to strike, but to take it to her opponent.
So Kathy did.
She set up another bank account in the Cayman Islands. Then she went to an Internet café and researched hackers. She found a hacking forum, joined it and posted that she was being cyber-stalked, she wanted to know who the guy was, and that she would pay for the information. She struck a deal. In four days, she had the name and information she needed. She put the agreed-upon amount into the bank account and gave her hacker the account number and transfer codes.
An attorney friend of hers in Boston sent the asshole a cease-and-desist letter.
Asshole sent her a truly threatening e-mail, along the lines of “no attorney can stop me from bringing down the wrath of the heavens upon you, you whore.” That pretty much was the opening salutation. It went downhill from there.
Kathy contacted her hacker friend and asked if he could hack into asswipe’s computer and not leave any traces. He said he thought so. Kathy told him what she wanted to have done. The hacker demurred, he was worried about his legal risk. But he vouched for her to a group of Ukrainians in Kiev, who were more than willing to look into doing what Kathy wanted.
Two weeks later, they e-mailed her hotmail account to tell her they could do the job. Kathy set up another bank account in the Cayman Islands and had her agent there manually deposit the down payment, in cash. (Kathy was no fool, she was not willing to do a wire transfer with hackers of this caliber on the other side.)
-----------------------------------------------------
AP WIRE. Virginia Beach, VA.
A third year law student at Regent University was arrested early yesterday morning in a raid conducted by FBI agents and local police. Sources in law enforcement say that the student had over one hundred images of child pornography on his laptop computer.
Possession of child pornography is a Federal crime, punishable by up to twenty years in prison.
The name of the law student was withheld by police.
-----------------------------------------------------
Kathy had her agent in the Cayman Islands deposit the rest of the fee for the Ukrainians. She added a 20% gratuity.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Carrington
Carly walked down the long path that led from her family’s home to the river. She lightly carried a wooden yoke. Dangling from either end of the yoke was a woven sling. In each sling was an empty clear plastic jug with a blue top. Carly also carried a bucket with a funnel that had a screen. The well at the house was not providing a lot of water these days. It was necessay to supplement the well water with water from the river, which was a mile or so away.
It was a coldish day. Carly wore work boots, jeans and a sweatshirt. Over that was a knee-length denim coat that had been lined with flannel. A wool watch cap and gloves completed her ensemble. There was nothing stylish about it, only functional. The concept of “fashion” had disappeared years ago. Surviving was what people worried about.
She reached the river, which was sort of a glorified stream. Carly set up her equipment. Her routine was to draw a bucket of water, let it sit for a minute, pour off what was on top and then slowly pour three-quarters of what was left in the bucket through the funnel and into the jugs. The last bit of water was dumped back into the river. Then Carly would rinse out the bucket, back-wash the screen and repeat the process. It probably took her a half-hour to fill the jugs.
Carly shouldered the now heavy yoke, picked up the pail and the funnel and started back for home. She was about three hundred yards from the river, moving through a patch of woods, when she thought she heard something. She stopped and listened. She heard another noise. Carly didn’t think it was an animal.
“Who’s there,” she asked in a quiet tone.
A man wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, a denim jacket, boots and a brimmed hat stepped out from behind some trees about sixty feet away.
“Frank,” she said. It was a statement, not a greeting.
“Hi, Carly, it’s been a long time.” Frank had been a rough kid, back when the high school was still open. He looked rougher now.
Carly asked: “What do you want?” She was pretty sure she knew what he wanted.
“Well, now, I thought we might have a bit of fun, you and I.” The way Frank answered her made it clear to Carly what sort of fun he had in mind.
“Frank Anderson, I don’t have time for your foolishness.”
Frank started walking towards her. As he walked, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a heavy folding knife, the “commando” kind, which could be opened with one-hand and had a blade that locked open. The click was audible as he flicked it open. “Well, that just makes it even more fun for me,” he said with a look that was both predatory and anticipatory.
Carly’s right hand barely seemed to move as she apparently made a large caliber revolver appear from nowhere. Frank had time to widen his eyes in surprise as his brain registered the sight of a weapon being pointed at him and the sound of the hammer of the revolver being brought back.
The heavy lead slug from Carly’s pistol caught him low in the center of his forehead. He was dead before his knees buckled.
Carly stood stock-still, listening for any movement, any sign that Frank was not alone. She then removed the fired cartridge case, replaced it with a fresh round, re-holstered her sidearm and resumed her trip back home.
She would send her brothers to bury Frank.
It was a coldish day. Carly wore work boots, jeans and a sweatshirt. Over that was a knee-length denim coat that had been lined with flannel. A wool watch cap and gloves completed her ensemble. There was nothing stylish about it, only functional. The concept of “fashion” had disappeared years ago. Surviving was what people worried about.
She reached the river, which was sort of a glorified stream. Carly set up her equipment. Her routine was to draw a bucket of water, let it sit for a minute, pour off what was on top and then slowly pour three-quarters of what was left in the bucket through the funnel and into the jugs. The last bit of water was dumped back into the river. Then Carly would rinse out the bucket, back-wash the screen and repeat the process. It probably took her a half-hour to fill the jugs.
Carly shouldered the now heavy yoke, picked up the pail and the funnel and started back for home. She was about three hundred yards from the river, moving through a patch of woods, when she thought she heard something. She stopped and listened. She heard another noise. Carly didn’t think it was an animal.
“Who’s there,” she asked in a quiet tone.
A man wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, a denim jacket, boots and a brimmed hat stepped out from behind some trees about sixty feet away.
“Frank,” she said. It was a statement, not a greeting.
“Hi, Carly, it’s been a long time.” Frank had been a rough kid, back when the high school was still open. He looked rougher now.
Carly asked: “What do you want?” She was pretty sure she knew what he wanted.
“Well, now, I thought we might have a bit of fun, you and I.” The way Frank answered her made it clear to Carly what sort of fun he had in mind.
“Frank Anderson, I don’t have time for your foolishness.”
Frank started walking towards her. As he walked, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a heavy folding knife, the “commando” kind, which could be opened with one-hand and had a blade that locked open. The click was audible as he flicked it open. “Well, that just makes it even more fun for me,” he said with a look that was both predatory and anticipatory.
Carly’s right hand barely seemed to move as she apparently made a large caliber revolver appear from nowhere. Frank had time to widen his eyes in surprise as his brain registered the sight of a weapon being pointed at him and the sound of the hammer of the revolver being brought back.
The heavy lead slug from Carly’s pistol caught him low in the center of his forehead. He was dead before his knees buckled.
Carly stood stock-still, listening for any movement, any sign that Frank was not alone. She then removed the fired cartridge case, replaced it with a fresh round, re-holstered her sidearm and resumed her trip back home.
She would send her brothers to bury Frank.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Hilary's Scars
(A response to this post)
Hilary took her shower that morning as she had for the last three years- with the lights of the bathroom off. She did not turn the lights on until after she had taken her shower, toweled herself off and put on her robe. Hilary changed clothes and got dressed either with the lights off or her eyes closed. When she went to the gym, she came and went in her exercise attire, she never showered there.
The reason was simple, really. Below where her cleavage started, there were scars. Scars crisscrossed her once gorgeous breasts. There was a deeper scar in her abdomen and there were surgical scars in the same part of her body. Scars from where surgeons had cut in. Scars from drains.
Three years ago, Hilary had been dancing at a nightclub. A man tried to dance with her, she spurned him. He grabbed her arm, she threw a drink in his face. He tried to hit her and she kneed him with some force. The bouncers ran him out the hard way.
He grabbed Hilary two blocks away from the club and Hilary fought back. He knocked her senseless, carved up her breasts, raped her and then stabbed her in the belly. He left her for dead in the alley but Hilary didn’t accommodate him. She dragged herself into the street and was found by a passing hack, who called 911. The doctors were more interested in making sure that they stopped the bleeding and repaired her insides rather than worrying about minimizing the scarring. And scar up she did.
There was no DNA recovered from the attacker. There were no security cameras at the bar. Hilary was very good with faces. She never forgot anyone she met. She sure as hell didn’t forget him. But all the cops would have had to go on was her memory. Hilary told the cops that she never saw his face. She didn't tell the cops that the jerk on the dance floor had attacked her. After Hilary gave the detective on the second interview her "I'm sorry, I don't remember anything" schtick, the detective gave Hilary his card, asked her to call if her memory returned, and he moved on to other cases.
Hilary had friends who were willing to do her favors and then forget that they had done them. One of them had pulled all of the credit-card slips from the nightclub for the three weeks prior to the night she was nearly killed. Another cross-referenced the credit card slips with records from the Registry of Motor Vehicles. Hilary was given copies of those licenses. She had a match.
Hilary now had a name. She had an address. Once she was out of the hospital, as recovered as she was going to ever be, she began to plan. First, she confirmed that the photo on the license was indeed the attacker.
Hilary's attacker likely saw Hilary a number of times after she had recovered. Whenever he did, however, Hilary was always wearing large glasses and she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Hilary had 20/15 vision and never wore her hair pulled back.
Every morning during the work week, between 11 and 11:30, Hilary’s attacker walked from his office to a coffee shop. The trip took two blocks. Hilary noticed that there was a nondescript and old brick apartment building across the street just before the coffee shop, which offered furnished rooms and “move-in” specials.
Hilary took a furnished room. Paying double the security deposit, in cash, worked to waive the credit check. Hilary wore leather gloves the entire time and told the apartment superintendent that her hands were damaged “from an accident of industry.” Hilary told the super that her name was Ivana Petrova. She had ID in that name. He didn’t ask to see her ID, the Benjamins that Hilary gave him were all that he needed to see.
Hilary never stayed overnight in the room. The super seemed to think that she had rented a tryst-pad and Hilary let him think that. The few times that Hilary spoke with the super, she spoke in a very correct, very formal and almost stilted manner. The super complemented her on her English, he thought she was Russian and Hilary let him think that. Hilary paid the monthly rent in cash. The super never gave her a lease or receipts and she didn't ask for either. She assumed that the super was skimming the cash and that there would be no record of the apartment being rented. She was right.
Hilary had other friends. Friends who had the ability to modify hardware in ways that were heavily frowned upon. Which is why, one day, Hilary’s attacker, who was returning to his office and carrying a venti latte with extra foam, dropped dead on the sidewalk from a heavy 9mm bullet which had been very quietly fired from a third-floor room across the street and which had smashed into his skull.
He never knew why.
After all, confronting the target of one’s vengeance was an act of an amateur.
For Hilary was on a busman’s holiday.
Hilary took her shower that morning as she had for the last three years- with the lights of the bathroom off. She did not turn the lights on until after she had taken her shower, toweled herself off and put on her robe. Hilary changed clothes and got dressed either with the lights off or her eyes closed. When she went to the gym, she came and went in her exercise attire, she never showered there.
The reason was simple, really. Below where her cleavage started, there were scars. Scars crisscrossed her once gorgeous breasts. There was a deeper scar in her abdomen and there were surgical scars in the same part of her body. Scars from where surgeons had cut in. Scars from drains.
Three years ago, Hilary had been dancing at a nightclub. A man tried to dance with her, she spurned him. He grabbed her arm, she threw a drink in his face. He tried to hit her and she kneed him with some force. The bouncers ran him out the hard way.
He grabbed Hilary two blocks away from the club and Hilary fought back. He knocked her senseless, carved up her breasts, raped her and then stabbed her in the belly. He left her for dead in the alley but Hilary didn’t accommodate him. She dragged herself into the street and was found by a passing hack, who called 911. The doctors were more interested in making sure that they stopped the bleeding and repaired her insides rather than worrying about minimizing the scarring. And scar up she did.
There was no DNA recovered from the attacker. There were no security cameras at the bar. Hilary was very good with faces. She never forgot anyone she met. She sure as hell didn’t forget him. But all the cops would have had to go on was her memory. Hilary told the cops that she never saw his face. She didn't tell the cops that the jerk on the dance floor had attacked her. After Hilary gave the detective on the second interview her "I'm sorry, I don't remember anything" schtick, the detective gave Hilary his card, asked her to call if her memory returned, and he moved on to other cases.
Hilary had friends who were willing to do her favors and then forget that they had done them. One of them had pulled all of the credit-card slips from the nightclub for the three weeks prior to the night she was nearly killed. Another cross-referenced the credit card slips with records from the Registry of Motor Vehicles. Hilary was given copies of those licenses. She had a match.
Hilary now had a name. She had an address. Once she was out of the hospital, as recovered as she was going to ever be, she began to plan. First, she confirmed that the photo on the license was indeed the attacker.
Hilary's attacker likely saw Hilary a number of times after she had recovered. Whenever he did, however, Hilary was always wearing large glasses and she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Hilary had 20/15 vision and never wore her hair pulled back.
Every morning during the work week, between 11 and 11:30, Hilary’s attacker walked from his office to a coffee shop. The trip took two blocks. Hilary noticed that there was a nondescript and old brick apartment building across the street just before the coffee shop, which offered furnished rooms and “move-in” specials.
Hilary took a furnished room. Paying double the security deposit, in cash, worked to waive the credit check. Hilary wore leather gloves the entire time and told the apartment superintendent that her hands were damaged “from an accident of industry.” Hilary told the super that her name was Ivana Petrova. She had ID in that name. He didn’t ask to see her ID, the Benjamins that Hilary gave him were all that he needed to see.
Hilary never stayed overnight in the room. The super seemed to think that she had rented a tryst-pad and Hilary let him think that. The few times that Hilary spoke with the super, she spoke in a very correct, very formal and almost stilted manner. The super complemented her on her English, he thought she was Russian and Hilary let him think that. Hilary paid the monthly rent in cash. The super never gave her a lease or receipts and she didn't ask for either. She assumed that the super was skimming the cash and that there would be no record of the apartment being rented. She was right.
Hilary had other friends. Friends who had the ability to modify hardware in ways that were heavily frowned upon. Which is why, one day, Hilary’s attacker, who was returning to his office and carrying a venti latte with extra foam, dropped dead on the sidewalk from a heavy 9mm bullet which had been very quietly fired from a third-floor room across the street and which had smashed into his skull.
He never knew why.
After all, confronting the target of one’s vengeance was an act of an amateur.
For Hilary was on a busman’s holiday.
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