[Mercury]

From the Crypt -

Hello, all my little wasteland trick-or-treaters. With Halloween drawing near I am happy to announce The Shop's first contest - The 2009 Halloween Narrative Contest. Along with The Shop, The Saints have joined in the sponsorship of this event, allowing us to offer even greater prizes. So pull out your pens, pads, laptops or papyrus and get ready to spin a tale worthy of a shiver. Below are the details for the contest:

The Shop - 2009 Halloween Narrative Contest

Rules
1. All entries must be submitted by the end of October 28th, 2009. Entries should be submitted to theshopfe@gmail.com. The winning entries will be announced on Octoboer 31st, 2009.
2. Each story must be kept under 2500 words.
3. Stories can cover a range of topics within the FE world, from digging around in a crypt for treasures, fighting off blight wolves or even throwing a Halloween party at the shop. Topics that do not fit a Halloween theme will be disqualified.

Prizes
1. First place will receive 45 blue chips in game and your choice of an Electric Motorbike or a Dune Buggy.
Note: The top winning entry from The Shop, even if not part of the top 3 overall entries, will receive the "Tales of Terror" medal designed by yours truly.
2. Second place will receive 30 blue chips in game and whichever vehicle is not chosen by the winner.
3. Third place will receive 20 blue chips in game.

Judging
I, Mercury Jones, will judging the entries. Each entry will be judged based on general creativity and how well the theme of Halloween is used in the story. After I have announced the winning entries, I will post the winning entries on the Fallen Earth forums. I will also post the winning entries, along with any Shop submitted stories on The Shop's website forums.

Note: I am open to having a couple people judge the entries along with myself. If interested, please contact me through theshopfe@gmail.com.

Good luck, everyone. I hope to find myself unable to read the submitted stories without a light on!

- Mercury Jones

[Mercury]

UPDATE: Due to the work of our membership, as well as the generous co-sponsorship of The Saints, the prizes have now been increased by a large amount.

[Mercury]

A quick reminder to everyone that you have till the end of the 28th to submit your entry.

[Krystalle]

Bump for the love of good stories.

Can't wait to read them!

[Mercury]

The Shop and Saints Incorporated are happy to announce the winners of the 2009 Halloween Narrative contest. All the entries were wonderful and ran the gambit of topics. The most shocking ending of all was the 3 way tie for 3rd! Each person who tied for 3rd will receive their own 3rd place prize. With that said...Here are the winners:

1st Place: Alexander Cross - "Lillian"

2nd Place: Dion Zemoch - "Behind the Chime"

3rd Place: Amineri - "Untitled", Dirge - "Untitled", Marcus Valerius "Night of the Infected"

Congratulations to our winners! I will contact you individually to reward you with your prizes.

The following posts will be the winners stories. I hope everyone enjoys them as much as I did!

Cheers,
Mercury

[Mercury]

Lillian - By Alexander Cross


MORNING, January 4


Six o'clock in the morning and the fires by the side of the highway are beginning to burn out. Seamus leans forward in his tattered yellow folding chair, squints into the brightening morning light, clenches his fist around the bullet he holds. His last bullet, saved from service in the night's long fighting. His backup plan.

Seamus stands, unsure whether his bones or the ancient chair creak louder. The sunlight should offer some comfort, he thinks, but he feels no lessening of dread.

From the highway, less than a mile away, there are screams.



EVENING, January 1


“Seamus, you must be ****ing with me,” she says, her tone betraying no hint of amusement. “We are not working on the first day of the year. We're not savages.”

Seamus holds up a warning hand to the woman, then traces his finger across the air near her throat. “Maybe not anymore, but you know what they say about old habits.”

The woman watches Seamus' hand, then turns her eyes to the tribal tattoos on his forearms. Travelers come from all sorts of places, and former CHOTA tribesmen are not unheard of in their ranks. Despite their friendship, she is nervous in the face of his threats.

“You know this is not my idea,” says Seamus. “If it were up to me, we would stick around the Bend until the chips ran out. The old man doesn't think that way, though.”

The woman nods, the slightest dip of the head, to show her agreement. “Okay, muscle. So where are we going?”


MORNING, January 2


Trails of dead stalks blow behind three motorcycles as they cut through rotten fields of grain. Seamus and Lillian ride to either side and behind the third vehicle. The man in the center is the only one who knows where exactly they are going.

The rising sun impairs Seamus' vision as he rides, but he can make out the shape of a short fence in the distance. No, not a fence, he realizes, a metal railing. As they approach, the center rider slows. Seamus and Lillian follow suit, and when the other man dismounts just shy of the railing, they do as well.

“I would have thought this much metal would have been scavenged by now,” says Lillian. She runs her hand across the railing, amazed at how little obvious rust and wear are visible. She is calculating it's worth, Seamus knows. Lillian is always calculating.

“Few people come this way,” says the other rider. He is wearing rubber boots and a relatively crisp and clean jumpsuit, and has not revealed his name to his companions.

“How do you know?” asks Seamus.

The man in the jumpsuit raises one foot to rest against the metal rail, and gestures for the others to come closer.

On the other side of the railing, almost entirely covered by dust and dirt, the grayish black pavement of a road is visible. Within they pavement, hundreds if not thousands of pieces of white and yellow are lodged, fused, as if they were built into the road itself. Lillian takes a minute to recognize what Seamus sees right away. These are bones.

“Because strange things happen here,” says the man in the jumpsuit. He returns to his motorcycle, and Seamus follows. After a moment, Lillian does too.


NIGHT, January 2


“This is fantastic,” Lillian says. Her initial shock at seeing the bones in the road has retreated before the overwhelming advance of greed. “Whatever happened here, this place has been untouched since, God, since before the Fall.”

“Yes, whatever happened here,” says Seamus. He is nervous, and continually reaches for a hammer which no longer hangs from his belt. He traded in his tribal weapons for more civilized pistols long ago.

Lillian seems not to notice his discomfort. In fact, her eyes are locked on anything other than her companions. Three hours ago they began to see distant buildings, at first spaced at great distance, but growing closer and closer together as they drove. To Lillian, each of these buildings is a Pharaoh's tomb, ripe with technology and riches just begging to be scavenged.

Seamus keeps his eyes focused on the man in the jumpsuit, who has not said a word since they made camp for the night. As he stares, he begins to make out numbers on the back of the suit, faded into near invisibility. This doesn't match the rest of his gear, Seamus thinks, all of this seems new. Did he remove the numbers on purpose?

“Sleep now, rest,” says the man in the jumpsuit, turning from his solitary post at the edge of the camp. Tomorrow we find the place I spoke of to your employer.”

“Right, the bunker, ya?” says Lillian. “If it's really in as good shape as you say, the old man will be throwing chips at you when we get back. Hell at all of us. It'll be enough to make even Seamus smile.”

“What about a watch?” says Seamus, “We should set up a rotation.”

“Not necessary,” says the man in the jumpsuit, “no on comes to this place.”

“It's not a good idea to take chances like that in the wasteland,” says Seamus.

“If it makes you feel better, young man, I rarely sleep. I will keep watch as you rest.”

The man in the jumpsuit rises and walks out toward a rock outcrop, climbs it, and perches atop. “Young man,” says Lillian, laughing. “You're at least ten years older than that guy.”

“Lillian, this isn't right.”

“Why? Just because the guy's got a patriarch complex?”

“No, I mean this place, this...city. Why has it survived like this? Why haven't people come from miles around to loot and live here?”

“Fear of radiation, probably. Not everybody knows that most of the stuff in the air from the bombs is long gone, and those bones make this place look like ground zero.”

“You really think a bomb did that? Then why are the buildings still standing? What kind of bomb kills people, melts them into the ground, and leaves everything else untouched?”

“Were you a CHOTA or a tech, Seamus? Why ask all these questions? We're about to be filthy ****ing rich. I'm going to sleep. You should too. Tomorrow, we'll survey Mr. Jumpsuit's bunker, and then we'll be back to civilization. Well, relatively speaking.”

Lillian stakes out a space on the ground and stretches out, covering herself in a blanket stiff enough to double as a tower shield. She rolls her back to Seamus, to show him she is done talking. Seamus draws his pistols from his belt, reassures himself they will fire if he needs them to, returns them to their holsters, removes them again, repeats. He does not sleep that night. Instead, he watches the man in the jumpsuit on top of the rocks. The other man never looks back.


MORNING, January 3


They leave their motorcycles behind. The man in the jumpsuit assures them they will be safe, but says the path to the bunker is not clear enough for vehicles. Seamus never lets his hands stray too far from the weapons at his side, and even Lillian seems more cautious in the crisp morning air. The man in the jumpsuit sets a rapid pace, too rapid for conversation, and it is not long before they reach a hold in the ground nearly twenty meters in diameter.

“Not very well hidden for a bunker,” says Lillian, leaning forward to peer inside the gaping hole.

“It was hit by a bomb” says the man, “But I assure what is inside is still intact. There are many layers of defense within this place. This destruction only pierced the outermost shell.”

They circle the perimeter of the blast hole until they reach a steel ladder, secured with hooks to the edge of the void.

“I placed this here in preparation for our visit,” says the man, “Don't worry, we will not have to descend far before we are able to utilize the bunkers own transit system. I will go first.”

Seamus looks to Lillian, who blinks twice before following down the ladder. Their signal to be alert. Seamus draws a pistol before himself climbing onto the ladder. They go down.


AFTERNOON, January 3


Seamus has only just become accustomed to the darkness when suddenly, as they pass into yet another in a long series of empty rooms, light springs into existence. Lillian is startled enough to nearly fall, and Seamus notices that the man in the jumpsuit seems surprised as well.

“Expecting that?” asks Seamus.

“Yes, yes of course,” the man says, “The bunker has finally sense we are here.”

Oh, it senses, does it? Thinks Seamus. This gets better and better.

The man in the jumpsuit indicates a now well-lit hallway, and stepping through a corridor, he continues down it. Seamus begins to follow, but Lillian grabs his forearm before he can take more than a single step.

“Seamus, this isn't right, “she hisses.

“Oh, so now it isn't right,” he says, and she shushes him.

“Be quiet! This place, it isn't what he says it was. It's far to poorly guarded to be a military bunker. There should be a ton of old security still active with this place in such good shape. Even if he's bypassed it before, he should still have to, I don't know, put in a code or something.”

“So what are you saying? You want to back out? The old man would be pissed.”

“He's my dad, he can't be that pissed.”

“Maybe not at you.”

“Look, Seamus, I'm telling you, this place is ****ed. And that bomb blast? Yeah, it was definitely an explosion, but it came from the inside, like somebody blasted there way OUT of here. Come on, let's just go back.”

“Is there a problem?” asks the man in the jumpsuit, returning from the adjacent hallway.

“Well-”begins Lillian.

“Yes, there is a problem,” says Seamus,” and we're not taking the time to discuss it with you. We're leaving.”

“I thought you might,” says the man in the jumpsuit. “You've tried that the last few times. The doors behind you are locked now, so if I were you I wouldn't bother trying to go back. The only way left to you now is forward. Toward your future.”

Seamus raises his pistol to point at the other man's head.

As the man in the jumpsuit opens his mouth to respond to Seamus' threat, a knife point emerges like a tongue waggling from the mouth of a dog. Lillian, to her credit, doesn't scream. Instead she drops into a defensive crouch, serrated blades in hand. Seamus draws his other pistol, edges forward as the man in the jumpsuit slumps to the ground, revealing a woman standing behind him, naked and covered in blood. It is Lillian.


Seamus looks to his side, where Lillian still crouches, fully clothed, knives still in hand. She appears entirely stunned, unable to move, unable to breathe. The other Lillian is not so impaired. As she raises one hand, knife clutched in a throwing position, Seamus fires. Two shots, one to the head and one to the heart. In his time with the Travelers, he has become a very accurate marksman. The other Lillian falls to the ground, shivering at the chill of her own death and spraying the pristine chamber with blood.

“What the **** was that?” screams Lillian. She is trembling now, pupils dilated and fingers clenching tight around her own knives. A banging from the hallways alerts Seamus to danger, another knife wielding figure has entered the room. Another Lillian, this one wearing a tattered version of the same jumpsuit their former guide had worn. She, too, holds a knife, and seems eager to use it. Seamus ends her with another two shots, but now both the corridor ahead and the passageway behind are alive with the sounds of running feet and knives scraping along metal walls. Lillian, overwhelmed, falls to the ground, apparently passed out.

“****!” shouts Seamus. He reaches down and loops one arm over Lillian, lifting her while keeping one gun pointed toward the hallway.

A whoosh alerts Seamus to an opening door behind him. He whirls to see another hallway, this one empty, and a voice shouts, “This way!”

Seamus, without another option but still not keen to trust, fires three shots down the empty hallway, head level chest level knee level, then drags Lillian onward.


NIGHT, January 3


Doors, too many for the exhausted Seamus to count, open then seal behind him as he runs down the seemingly endless corridor. To either side, windows open into vast laboratories containing mostly unrecognizable equipment. Some, however, Seamus does recognize. Cloning equipment, the sort of things from which the Collared warriors of the CHOTA had constantly reemerged from in the days when Seamus has fought alongside them against the Enforcers. Was Lillian a Collar? Impossible, she wore nothing around her neck. What the **** was all this?

“Enough,” says a voice, “from everywhere and nowhere, “Seamus, you have gone far enough.”

“Who are you?” says Seamus, “where are you?”

“Projecting into your mind,” says the voice. “Surely you recognize your own employer.”

****, it's the old man, thinks Seamus. He had heard stories that the guy was a telepath, but he never believed them.

“What the **** is going on?” says Seamus

“My boy, you have been caught up in something that has been going on longer than you've been alive. No, you don't get to hear the whole story, because you'll probably be dead before the night is over anyway. All you need to know is that a long time ago, a man missed a woman so badly he murdered an entire city to get her back. Used their flesh and blood, remolded it into clones, in an endless quest to get her back. She didn't have a collar, so it was near impossible to make a perfect copy, and this man wanted perfection. He died, but his work didn't.

“You're telling me this place has just been spitting out Lillians, ever since the Fall?”

“Yes, and you can see how...flawed they are. Popping out in God knows what state. In my youth I found the place, lost twenty people there, found a baby. Thought I could change her, but when that man showed up looking for her I knew it was only the beginning.”

“So you sent her back? Back here to just die?”

“No, not just to die. To kill. I've guided you to the central control panel of the facility. You can wire it to self destruct. Then, if you're feeling lucky, you can try to get away.”

“Why would I do any of this?”

“Because, Seamus, the town is dead, but the machine is not. The Grand Canyon Province is the closest source of flesh for that abomination. Every living thing here will become fuel for those cloners. Do you really want to die for no reason? Your Lillian will wake up soon, use her to help you fight your way out. You CHOTA have always had such a strong survival instinct. But Seamus...”

“What?”

“Save the last bullet for her.”


MORNING, January 4


Six o'clock in the morning and the fires by the side of the highway are beginning to burn out. Seamus leans forward in his tattered yellow folding chair, squints into the brightening morning light, clenches his fist around the bullet he holds. His last bullet, saved from service in the night's long fighting. His backup plan.

Seamus stands, unsure whether his bones or the ancient chair creak louder. The sunlight should offer some comfort, he thinks, but he feels no lessening of dread. Unclenching his fist, he lets the bullet drop to the ground. At his feet, blood soaked likely to her very soul, Lillian sleeps. Seamus is not hopeful enough to believe she does not dream.


From the highway, less than a mile away, there are screams.

[Mercury]

BEHIND THE CHIME - By Dion Zemoch


They said the shack on the hill was haunted. Or something. The hill itself was nameless, despite many of the hills and cliffs in the area bearing numbers. They said that those who went up to the shack died, that the spirits of those long gone still roamed there. Isn’t that what they always say? Besides, in this world, who could say what was haunted and what was not? Diane didn’t believe in ghosts, but she believed in mutants.


“There be ghosts in that ol’ rickety pile.” the elder in the local village had assured her. “Hand to heavens and fry my ass.”

She had heard many others say the same and then she became aware of the reward. The people in the village would pay 80 blue chips to the person who could chase away the restless ghosts. 80! To exorcise a superstition!

Diane wasn’t a clone. No collar, no immortality. The villagers considered her extra brave because of this. If the ghosts took her, she wouldn’t come back, right? Not that any of the clones who had ever gone up there had come back, either… Hell, with people popping back to life like those freaks did, no wonder the yokels started believing in ghouls and monsters under their beds. She just wondered what had made the clones run off from the shack without cashing in the reward. No doubt it was a scary place in one way or another, but to frighten an immortal person?


Anyway. 80 blues were enough to motivate even the worst coward and Diane had her gun, had food and a flashlight. She would spend a night in the shack, then walk back down to the village and make the peasants fork over a bag of chips.

Walking up the slope, which was slightly steeper than your average hill, she kept her eyes on the shack. It was actually a derelict house, two stories and all. Most of the windows had lost their glass and the entire thing looked rotten. When she reached the top of the hill, dusk was upon the Grand Canyon and bathed the house in flaming light. The orange glow reflected on one of the remaining windows, like an eye winking over and over. A wind chime hung just outside the door and the gentle breeze made it play ever so gently, smooth tones that died before they made it very far. It seemed weird for the wind chime to still hang there, intact, when the rest of the building was so dilapidated. In fact, the metal rods were free of rust. The thing looked almost new.

Diane walked up to the door. As she put her foot on the threshold, it creaked dryly. A whiff of wet wood came from within the house. She took out a small notebook and wrote in it:


I understand why nobody lives here anymore.


On the same page, just above, she had written several notes about the local superstition and about the exorcist job. It would make for a nice report when she was finished and the Archivists might even pay her for it. No reason to let a few extra chips slip her by.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh air, Diane strode through the door into the entry hall. It was fairly sizeable, with doors leading to other rooms. The staircase was on the right side of the room. Several steps were broken or gone altogether.

She wrote in her notebook: It might be wise to stay on the bottom floor.

Putting the book and pen back in her pocket, she gave herself the grand tour. Curiously, most of the furniture was still there, in their proper places. One armchair even had a piece of neatly knitted wool draped over the armrest, as if someone’s grandmother had left it there for a short while. On the living room table was a book, its red jacket covered with dust. She brushed away the dust, opened the book. Nothing was written in it. A hundred blank pages. How odd. Maybe it was a diary? A journal from one of the people who had been in the house before her?


Outside, sundown was quickly approaching. Diane pulled out her flashlight and switched it on, swept across the room with the cone of light. Dust particles danced in the air and the sharp electric light seemed out of place in that old building. Slowly, she continued her investigation, the floor boards creaking faintly with every step.

She found the kitchen. It looked like it might have been a cozy place once. Now, soot covered the top of the stove and several of the pantry doors had fallen off their hinges. The kitchen smelled faintly of… cinnamon? How was that possible?

Widening her nostrils, she followed the smell. It led her to a cupboard and she tried to open it. Locked. She could have pried it open, or shot off the lock, no doubt, but… But she didn’t like it. Didn’t like the old cupboard or the smell from it. Did the air feel thicker all of a sudden?


Clearing her throat, Diane returned to the living room and stuck her head out through a window. After a few deep breaths, she felt better. The house was old and moldy. If she wasn’t careful, she might even get sick from being there. For a moment, she considered camping out on the hill instead, but decided against it. One of the villagers might show up to check on her, even if they did seem terrified of the place.

She wrote in her notebook: Now I’m glad the windows are gone. Hard to breathe.

Diane sat down in one of the armchair. The wooden frame creaked and she wondered if it was about to break, but the chair held and she leaned back, crossed her arms on her chest. It would be a long night and she didn’t think she’d be able to get any sleep.

Why was that? There was nothing here except old furniture and moist. She could roll out her blanket on the floor and catch some shut-eye. It would make the hours go faster. But she didn’t feel like sleeping. Didn’t feel tired.

The wind picked up and made the curtains flutter. They were white and thin, slightly translucent. She chuckled slightly and pulled out the notebook.

There’s your ghost, people. It’s dancing.


There was a sound and she froze. It sounded like a door opening. It sounded like it came from upstairs. The sun was completely gone behind the horizon and the only visible light came from her flashlight. She had put it down on the table. Now she grabbed it and pressed it against her jacket to dampen the light. She listened but heard nothing else. Perhaps someone did live here, after all. No, if anyone was up there, the boards would be creaking.

She wrote: The wind just pushed a door open upstairs. I wonder what it’s like up there.

She could check. The stairs were in bad shape, but she could probably ascend without much problem. It was just that… She didn’t feel like sleeping and she didn’t feel like going upstairs. And damn it, but the air felt thick here.

Diane brought the flashlight away from her chest and swept the room again. Something was written on the wall next to the fireplace in tiny letters. She got up from the armchair and walked over there, leaned in close, her hand brushing against the cold metal of the fireplace poker. The text on the wall was truly tiny. It looked like it had been written with a ballpoint pen.

The chimney is not an exit, the text said. She raised her eyebrows and scratched her chin with her own pen before taking out her notebook and writing down the words there. She wanted to remember them, perhaps they would make more sense tomorrow.


A sudden gust of cool wind rushed through the house and the door upstairs slammed shut. She froze and her heart hammered in her chest. She could have sworn she’d heard the sound of footsteps behind the howling of the wind. But footsteps from where?

She turned around, her flashlight darting all over the room and then she saw the armchair. The one she had sat in. The entire front of it was stained. One big stain. Reddish brown, irregular pattern. She stared. A moment later, she turned her eyes down to the notebook which was still in her hand. The last entry said: Was that there before? She couldn’t remember writing it.

Then there was the sound of a door opening. On the bottom floor this time, somewhere by the kitchen.

Diane’s head was spinning, the hand holding the flashlight trembled violently. Her other hand found her gun and she drew it. Gun in one hand and light in the other, she walked over to the kitchen door and peered in, her eyes following the cone of light… Only the kitchen was already illuminated, by two candles on top of the locked cupboard. Long, white, new candles. The air still smelled of cinnamon, and there was the smell of cookies, but faint as if from far away and, almost cloaked by the wind and the song of the wind chime, the sound of a rolling pin across a wooden surface. She saw no rolling pin and there were no cookies. The sounds weren’t there, couldn’t be there, but she heard them. The candles burned but their light was not comforting.


Diane turned around, stumbled back to the living room, through it and to the entry hall. She reached for the doorknob on the front door, grabbed it, turned it.

The door was locked. She pulled harder, but it didn’t budge.

She wrote in her notebook with a hand that trembled so badly the letters became jagged and askew.:

The door is locked now. Was there even a door here before?


She returned to the living room. The armchair was still stained, the air was still thick. She ran up to the windows. She could get out through the windows, they were broken, and they couldn’t be locked. But she didn’t leave through the windows, because it was out there. The realization hit her, a cold weight in her gut. It was out there, and it was in here and if she left it would find her because nothing could hide out there on the hill. She whipped her head to the right, stared around the room. The door was locked and it was outside the windows and the chimney is not an exit.

Diane turned away from the window. On the table between the armchairs was the book with the red jacket. It lay open and on the visible page was a drawing. A fine drawing of a man’s smiling face. His warm smile drew Diane to the book and she picked it up, flipped the page, found another drawing of another smiling man. Flipped the page, a smiling woman. Flipped, a happily smiling young man. She began smiling herself and then she flipped the page and looked at her own face. The drawing of Diane smiled back at her as if it was a mirror and the real Diane’s smile faded and tears began running from her eyes. She dropped the book, stumbled backwards. A floorboard broke and her foot crashed through it, right onto a rusty nail.

She cried out, grabbed her leg. The flashlight rolled across the floor and disappeared behind the armchair with the knitted wool on the armrest. Only a few slivers of its white light shined out. She pulled her foot off the nail and fell to the floor. She had to get away. It was coming. It was close. She crawled, her wounded foot trailing behind her, leaving a thin line of blood. She crawled out to the entry hall, got to her feet and hobbled up the stairs, one step at a time. Her foot hurt, her head felt heavy. She could feel eyes watching her. Eyes that were in the shadows. She thought she could hear a brittle laughter in the tones of the wind chime.


On the top floor was a corridor, five doors, two windows. The only illumination was the pale moonlight. She had left her flashlight behind the armchair in the living room. Diane clawed for the doorknob on one of the doors and the door opened. She got inside, shut the door, collapsed against the wall. The window in this room still had its glass. She couldn’t hear the wind or feel its cold, but she heard footsteps. Footsteps coming up the stairs, slowly. Weeping silently, she pulled out her notebook and scribbled:

Ghosts don’t exist. There’s just the one who lives here. I am a guest.

She was a guest in a stranger’s house, its home and it was coming. Oh God, it was coming and it knew where to go because she had left a trail of blood and her foot hurt and she was still holding her gun and she heard the song of the wind chime but perhaps it was all in her head and it was coming up the stairs and…


A single gunshot rang out in the silence of night.


Diane’s notebook was later found at the foot of the hill and taken to the Archivist society. The archivist who received the book read through it and found nothing out of the ordinary before the last three pages. The book is currently in a safe and the archivist has not read it since that first time, nor has he shown it to anyone else.

[Mercury]

Untitled - By Amineri

As her eyes cracked open, the hazy mist in her head slowly faded, and the darkened room around her came into focus. She struggled to sit up, a faint groan escaping her lips as she did. Stumbling over to the cracked porcelain basis, a tall glass of water awaited her. Sipping at the tepid water, she wondered again at the persistent headaches that plagued her.


Ever since that run-in with Casta Gaunt and his troop of mutated goons, it seemed, her sleep had been troubled. Even worse was the persistent feeling that something was following her. Staring down at the washbasin in the dim half-light, her shoulders slumped with the weariness of sleepless nights, of feeling ... hunted. Even alone in her room, the door barred securely, she couldn't help but feel like someone was watching her, just out of sight.


As she felt a faint throbbing in the base of her skull, she straightened and looked at herself in the mirror. Eyes sunken with sleepless nights peered back at her from her chipped and smoky reflection. Catching a glimmer of a shadowy motion out of the corner of her eye, and she dropped and rolled with wasteland-trained reflexes, coming up to a knee with pistol aimed and cocked. The room was empty.


Walking over to the corner of the room, she flicked a lighter, peered and poked with her pistol muzzle. Empty. Frustrated, she sank onto her cot, head in her hands. No sounds escaped, and only a faint shaking of her shoulders betraying her release of pent up emotions. After a few silent minutes, the shaking slowly subsided. Wiping a sleeve across her face, she set a determined expression on her face, unbarred the door and went out into the world.


Downstairs, the regular noise and bustle of the shop were in full swing. Mechanics were tinkering with parts, scavengers were bringing in their scrap, and in the back office Mercury was sitting with his feet up, cigar perched in his mouth. Business as usual, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Walking into Mercury's office, she put a slightly forced smile upon her face as she greeted him.


Still feeling the presence of some sinister presence just out of sight, she shuffled over to his desk with a faint "Good morning, Mercury."


Mercury's brow furrowed slightly as he peered up at her from behind a blue-grey smoky haze, noting the tension creasing the corners of her eyes.


"Are you all right?" he asked.


“Just ... tired,” she replied. “Look, I would love to chat, but I think today I just want to get to work.”


************************************************** ***********************


Pushing back from the bench, she rubbed the protesting muscles in her lower back. Glancing down at the assembled engine in front of her, she sighed contentedly. Immersing herself in her work, the world just seemed to melt away, the paranoia and the fears.


Now, back in the real world again, she again felt that faint throbbing at the base of her skull. Massaging the knots in her neck, just underneath her collar, she tried to let go of the tensions she felt rebuilding inside.


With a faint shock, she suddenly realized that some of the knots in her neck were writhing, pulsing faintly against her kneading fingers. Sitting down, she gingerly felt out tendrils fanning out under her skin, following the line down her neck until she lost it under her shoulder blade.


A fresh surge of panic rising in her throat, she pushed at the fleshy masses that had began to squirm faintly under touch. As she bore down with increased pressure, a sharp pain pierced the back of her skull, bringing her to her knees.


Her body suddenly went numb, and she fell slackly onto her back, propped up against the ragged couch in the workroom. In front of her she could see her belly and legs begin to writhe under her grease-stained work clothes. The pain in the back of her skull rose to a blinding flash, and her vision slowly took on a reddish tinge. Through the hazy red pain, she could see small, shiny black tentacles begin to poke through the flesh and clothing of her body, although fortunately by this point she couldn't feel anything.


A brief last thought of what the hell? passed through mind before the world went black.


Her next conscious moment she lay upon a cold metal bench, the familiar sight of a LifeNet facility around her. Thank goodness for the cloning technology. Whatever that thing was that had infested her, it was gone now.


Sitting up, she realized that she felt refreshed for the first time in days. Shaking her head, she wondered how long that parasite had been growing inside of her. A short walk later, she was back at the shop.


Walking into the back workroom, she expected to be confronted by her own corpse, filled with tentacled nastiness. To her surprise, the workroom was empty, the engine she had just constructed still sitting on the bench.


Checking around the shop, no one else had discovered the body, or seen anything out of the ordinary. Oh well, she thought, just another wasteland mystery.


The next several days were a blur of regular activity, working to keep ahead of vehicle orders. As the days passed, her sleep began to suffer again, and the faint throbbing sensations slowly returned. At first she tried to pass it off as the predictable fear of having had been invaded before, but before long she couldn't ignore the signs – her parasite companion was back.


That evening she went to see Ralit, the shop's resident doctor.


“Doc,” she said, “I seem to be having some trouble with a parasite.”


After she explained the previous occurrence to him, Ralit looked at her with some concern. “Let me see if I can't have a look, and we'll see what we're up against.”


As she lay on the table, the question buzzed through her mind -- how had the parasite gotten back into her? She had died, had a new body constructed. Was there something in the shop, in her room?


Interrupting her thoughts, she felt the cooling wash of antiseptic on the back of her neck, followed by a faint tugging pain just above her collar. Feeling the faint stirrings of panic, she tried to calm herself with the thought that, as a clone, she couldn't really die. She'd be regenerated, even if the worst came to happen.


Above her Ralit was speaking, quietly as if to himself. “This doesn't look good. It looks as though the tendrils are wound around and into your spine. It wouldn't surprise me if they have entered your brain.”


“Normally I wouldn't suggest this, but with your collar there shouldn't be any real risk. I'm going to try and remove one of the tendrils, and see what happens.”


The piercing pain at the back of her skull was her first clue that he had started. Suddenly her vision jolted as her body moved on its own. A faintly unreal sense settled over her, as her head twisted around.


Ralit's lab was spattered with bright streaks of glistening red. And her body … her body was nearly invisible, hidden by masses of waving black tentacles. Several bunches of tentacles pierced through Ralit's faintly convulsing body, holding him against the surgery table. As she watched, she could see several more tentacles gingerly probe at his ears, mouth, and circle almost tenderly around his LifeNet collar. The tentacles slowly entered his ears and mouth, sliding in, and in, until it seemed there could not possibly be any room to contain them. Finally Ralit spasmed once, hard, and then was still.


Watching his still form slump to the floor, she felt the tendrils working themselves into her mouth, their sour oily taste causing her to gag. A faint tickling then burning at the back of her nose and she sneezed, but the passage was blocked. In a flash of pain, her eardrums ruptured. Even out this new hole, she could feel the oily slide of cool flesh not her own. Her chest burned, but she could not breathe, could not move. Grey took her sight, and consciousness fled, a blessed relief.


Once again she awoke on the hard metal gurney of a LifeNet facility. This time she was not alone. Looking up, she recognized the face of a Graham clone.


As she stirred, he turned to her, a faint hint of compassion in his eyes.


“I'm sorry,” he said, “but there seems to have been a slight problem with your cloning template.”


As she sat up, her head swam slightly, nausea at the memory of the parasite twisting through her body, refusing to leave her consciousness.


“What's going on?” she asked. “What was that thing, and why did it come back?”


The Graham clone shuffled, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “I'm sorry, I wish I had all the answers. What I can tell you is that you seem to have picked up a permanent, um, companion.”


Fire lit up her eyes. “What the hell? I thought when I was cloned that I got a new body, that anything like that would be left behind?”


Graham glanced off to the side, his tone taking on a slightly distant tone. “Well … about that. I don't suppose you realize this, but roughly 90% of the cells in the human body are actually foreign cells, not based upon human DNA.”


He scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “That was one of the problems when they created the cloning system, was preserving the foreign cells, many of which are vital to a human body's well-being. It's not something that often comes up, but the collars actually record new foreign cells as they are included in the body. If we didn't do this, any adaptations that a body made would be lost.”


Graham gave a deep sigh. “There are a lot of safeguards built into the software to reject harmful foreign organisms. Unfortunately, something seems to have gotten around them.”


“Um, what are you talking about?” she stuttered. “Why does this thing keep coming back?”


“I'm afraid that somehow this parasite has been accepted by LifeNet as one of the necessary foreign organisms, so every time you regenerate, it will be regenerated with you. In fact, it seems to progressing, getting worse with each cycle.”


Looking dully up at him, the realization began to sink in. “Can't you do anything?”


“I'm afraid not. Elena locked out most access controls to you clones, to keep anybody from tampering with you. You'll keep regenerating, and this parasite will keep regenerating with you. I have been able to alter the routing program so that you will regenerate in this tank, and so that no one else will regenerate here. I'm sorry, that's the best I can do.”


As he spoke these last words, he slowly backed toward the door of the room. With a hollow thud, the door closed. Her mouth went dry as a pair of dull thumps sounded, signaling the locking bolts engaging.


Looking around the small metal room that was her new home, a leaden weight settled on her shoulders.


As she sat there, the familiar throbbing at the base of her skull began

[Mercury]

Untitled - By Dirge

I'm a friggin' Child of the Apocalypse. I'm meaner than a mutant scorpion, uglier than a creeper, hit harder than a Throwback. I'll outdrink, outfight, outparty, and out-whatever anyone else on this ravaged ball of dirt we call Earth. It ain't a great place to live anymore, since they got done with wreckin' the place, but hey, I'm here, and I aim to stay. I'm a bona-fide survivor. Could be I'll meet somethin' tougher than me, but it ain't happened yet.


Thing is though, I can't figure out why the hell I keep getting' suckered into helpin' folks do all the dirty work! I mean, what happened to “Live free or die!”? I'm all for bashin' heads; there ain't no good what can come of all the laws, government, and technology stuff. That's what got this world so messed up in the first place, hey? So yeah! I ain't about to let NOBODY tell me what I can do and can't do. But that don't explain how I ended up in this situation.


It starts out easy, you know? “Hey, you look like a strong feller! Mind helpin' me carry this thing?” or maybe “Gee mister, them bad Enforcers beat up my dad and took him away! Can you help him?”

Now I gotta admit, there ain't nothin' more fun that crackin' skulls. My idea of 'disarming' someone is to rip their arms off and watch 'em bleed out while I beat their friends with them. Maybe I'm a little overenthusiastic when it comes to fightin'.


So just because some old gravedigger's asked for help, I'm in a graveyard, in the dark, surrounded by crazy friggin' cultists who are all foamin'-at-the-mouth happy about these weird so-called “Pale Ones”. Bloodsuckin' freaks, all of 'em. I am really startin' to wonder if this is all just a put-on. It wouldn't be the first time.


I remember when Chief Fracture sent me out to catch the pants-stealing Ninja of Oasis. Ha. Funny. Turned out it was just some old fart got liquored up off his nut and made up some wild story about a ninja stealing his pants. He was so drunk, when he went to take a leak they fell off and he didn't notice till he woke up the next morning, and told everyone a Lightbearer stole 'em. But it took me three days of runnin' around looking before I finally caught on...


Even the cultists seem to have all left and gone home for the night, or wherever else it might be that those poor misguided fraggers all go when it's dark, and cold, and windy. A graveyard on a night like this ain't fit for man nor beast. Not sure where I fit in, between the two; some of the things in this new world can sure change ya, and maybe I caught a dose of somethin' or other from being someplace I shouldn't have been. It ain't real polite to talk about in most company.


I sniff carefully, and though I can't see nothin', there's something out there. Its smell raises the hackles on the back of my neck; like three-day-old corpse meets Biodiesel maker – and something else thrown in, only I can't really make it out in all that other stink. Familiar, somehow. Then I see somethin' movin' there in the tall weeds. Whatever it is, it's makin' this horrible wheezing noise, and it's sort of shuffling along slow. I hide right behind a big ol' tombstone, and wait for it to come around the corner.


Just before I get ready to see if the tooth fairy's gonna make this thing rich tonight, it stops, drops something with a loud clank, and starts cussing. Damned if it ain't Farley Hannigan. My pulse slows down considerably, and I step out, doin' my best to scare the used booze right out of him, same as he was doin' to me before I figured out who it was.


“Boo.” I says.


Farley turns to face me; he doesn't even jump. Stupid codger's probably got enough sauce in him that if he lit a smoke, he'd go up in a ball of blue flames. He reaches out for me in the dark, and his face looks kinda pale. I don't blame him though; this place is creepy.


“Dirge! You gotta help me...” He's wheezin' like a gas powered ATV goin' uphill.


“What's th' matter, you stinky ol' fart? You gotta lay off the sauce,” I says.


He grabs my arm desperately. “No... you gotta get outta here! Help me, take me with you!”


“What are you talkin' about!?”


“No time! They'll get us both! Help me!”


I realize suddenly what part of his weird smell is, and it ain't pleasant. It's blood. He's white as a sheet, and his whole shirt's covered with the stuff. Got the side of his throat all ripped up too, looks like. The clanking is a big concrete weight hooked to a chain, shackled to his leg.


“Who did this to ya?”


But before he can answer, a bony white hand reaches out and grabs ol' Farley by the neck. There's a snapping sound, and Farley's head angles off real bad as he's flung to one side. Not a pants-stealing Ninja. This thing stinks to high heaven; must've been the other smell on ol' Farley. I've whiffed rad-blasted mutant corpses in sewers that smelled like flowers compared to this thing. It's got its clawed hands ready to grab me.


It makes a weird sound somewhere between a cough and a hiss, and then it says, “That one's blood was foul. You will do nicely, foolish human!” and it makes its move.


It's fast as a blood rabbit with its tail on fire. It grabs me, and it ain't askin' me to dance, so I smash it in the face with my forehead. That hurts, but thanks to the mask I just picked up from some crazy ol' voodoo hoodoo lady, my face ain't the worse for wear. Ol' paleface can't really say the same. He lets go, backs off, and starts garglin' and hissin' again.


“You imbecile! You broke my tooth!”


Seems like he's kind of occupied at the moment, so I offer him free dental treatment. My mace connects solidly with his head, and knocks out most of the rest of his teeth. At this point, he ain't feelin' too chipper, but he comes back for more, raisin' those claws of his high, tryin' to take my head off.


I sidestep him, and unload a high hard one right into the back of his pumpkin with my mace. He does a beautiful forward flip, kicks his heels high, and keeps rollin' till he measures his full length on the ground. He ain't doin' a whole lot of anything that looks like living, but I give him an extra smash in the melon just to make sure he doesn't feel like getting up again. He wasn't pretty before, but he's a lot worse now. Whatever this thing is, that old gravedigger did a pretty good job of describin' it.


“... Dirge...”


I whirl, hearing my name very faintly. Farley. He's had it right enough, but he's tryin' to talk to me, so I run over to where he's lying. “Yeah?” I say. (I ain't never figured out what to say to someone that's dyin' yet.)


“You've gotta stop her.” He takes a shallow breath.


“Who?”


“Their queen. She's down in the... ... catacombs – they'll ...”


But he doesn't get to finish, and the last of his breath rattles out of him harshly.


Just then, a couple cultists come waltzing out of the nearest mausoleum. “Do you think he will share some of the holy fluid with us, brother?” she says. “Shhh! It is unseemly to ask of such things! He will share with us the bounty as he sees fit, sister!”


Now, Farley was a pain in the ass, and I never liked him. He was a no-count old boozer, and he wasn't good at much. But he was a Child, and the thought of these things bringin' him to an end like this – well, it don't sit well with me. Ain't no one gonna suck the rest of ol' Farley's blood out, least of all these two. I feel my blood pounding in my veins, and I let the beast in me take over.


Red haze fills my eyes, and I throw my head back, unleashing all my rage in a savage cry. I've got a mace in each hand, and I put them to good use. After two sickening thuds, the cultists' bodies join Farley and the Pale One, but I'm not done. I rush into the dark mausoleum, and leap down the stairs I find inside. There are cultists everywhere. Apparently this seems to be “bring a Bum to get his blood sucked” party night.


I aim to crash this party. They show me scythes, and blades of all kinds, and they all run toward me, eager to bring me down. I've got cool weapons too. I show them to the cultists, and show 'em hard. So there's less cultists now. They don't seem scared though, and more keep coming. I play “See how far you can smash 'em” for a while, and I'm pretty good at the game. Bodies fly far and wide.


They stop coming. Then they step aside as Three Pale Ones walk through. They're talking to me, but through the hammering blood in my ears I can't make out what they're saying. As they move to encircle me, I show the guy in front of me a nifty trick, smashing him in the shins. He falls heavily, so I bury the spikes of my right-hand mace in his skull. The cultists all moan and cry as he falls to the floor with a crash.


His friends are upset about that. They have sharp claws, and some of the blood in the room isn't theirs now, but it's not enough to slow me down. My maces leave them both with quite an impression. I score some more points, smashing one's jaw sideways clear off his face, and brutally hammering the other's ribs. He slowly collapses with a wheezing gasp, joining the rest of the bodies in the room. The cultists look scared of me now. They don't follow me as I go deeper into the catacombs.


At last, I come to a room deep below the surface. The stench of the dead fills this place like a fog, thick in my nose. I want to leave, to get out of this place, get back to fresh clean night air, back to the living, but I'm not done yet. So far all these bloodsuckers have been guys – or at least I haven't seen any wearing dresses. My muscles are shaking with exhaustion, and the joy of battle is starting to wear a bit thin, like a smile held too long, making your jaw muscles ache.


She's here. Surrounded by her guards, she sends them into battle. I laugh, even though it comes out as something frightening, even to my own ears. They don't care though, they just come at me like junkies fighting for a dose of Traveler smack, and I give them my best. In moments, it's over. I'm standing there dripping blood, and I don't like the way she's looking at me. She licks her lips, hissing, and then in a heartbeat, she's on me.


Nothing mortal ever moved so fast. She's got me by the shoulders, pinning my arms, and shes starting to rip at my neck with her jaws and long fangs before I even have a chance to react. I struggle against her steely might to no avail – but I'm not going out like this. As I feel her fangs sinking into my flesh, I feel a surge of adrenaline go through me; there's nothing like fear for your life to encourage you.


With the strength of desperation, I reach up and grab her throat, levering her face away from me. It's not enough – but it'll do. Her black eyes look into mine, promising death and doom. I give her a little doom of my own. Breathing deep, I blow all the toxins of the wastes deep into her face, and see her gagging, coughing, shocked and stunned. Yep. I'm a plaguebearer. Not polite to talk about in your typical conversation, but there it is. She's one tough lady – I'll give her that. I have to hit her in the head three times as hard as I can before she finally stops yowling and coughing. Game over.


I don't see any more cultists around as I walk back upstairs past the bloodstained walls, and bodies lying everywhere. It's just as well, I'm tired of killing for now anyway. I make it back to the surface without incident, and look around for the worthless old nag I call my horse. A meaner, more ill-tempered beast you will not find, and that includes these Pale Ones. She's lying there on the ground over near where I left Farley's corpse, apparently dead, but I'm not fooled


“Get up, you faker!” I say. I kick the horse in her ribs with enthusiasm, and she springs to her feet. I'm not sure whether she was trying to fool the Pale Ones, or to fool me, but I'm too tired to care. She tries to bite me as I get on, but I smack her on top of the head with the butt of one mace, and after staggering briefly, she decides to go where I tell her to and starts behaving better. We meander up to the Undertaker's shack.


I knock on the door, and it's opened by the same ugly old man that answered previously when I came calling. “Gaaaaah!” he says, and swings at me with his shovel. I take away the shovel and smack him in the head gently with it, before throwing it in the corner.


“What do you think you're doing?” I ask grimly.


“OH! Thank heavens it's you! I thought you were... oh well, nevermind! You're covered from head to toe in blood and gore! Did you find out what those cultists were going on about?”


“Yep!” I say.


He gives me some chips and pats me on the back as he shoos me out the door. He doesn't really seem interested in chitchat, and I'm not sure whether he's more scared of me, or what might still lurk in that graveyard of his. I just shake my head, and sigh.


Dodging my nag's teeth, I mount up, and I'm soon riding back to Fracture as the sun crests the eastern horizon. Just another day in this Fallen Earth...

[Mercury]

Night of the Infected - By Marcus Valerius



The only thing Marcus could think to do was run. Nothing had stopped them. Not bullets, not grenades, and especially not anything that let them get close to you. His legs ached with the exertion of running for what seemed miles by now. Air came in ragged pulls of breath and his heart was on fire. But each time Marcus thought of slowing he thought back to what happened to Delman back at the LifeNet Centre.

Marcus Valerius, a clone seeking out his fortune along with his friend and fellow clone Delman had both just regenerated after an unfortunate incident with a rather large amount of hostile gang members. Nothing too tragic dying as a clone... but this time, it was different. Marcus awoke in his LifeNet pod and instantly knew something was amiss. The air in the underground facility smelled fetid and smoky with the sickeningly sweet smell of charred flesh. In the air was a familiar metallic taste... blood. Instantly on alert Marcus pulled out his GA-8 pistol and peered into the flickering shadows.

The room looked trashed, with only a few of the overhead lights still working and one half unhinged, swinging slowly back and forth casting quivering shadows around the room. Marcus crouched in his pod and slowly moved out into the room. He listened carefully for any noise of others, hoping that his friend Delman had regenerated and would be about to jump out and laugh at Marcus for being ever on edge.

Upon moving out of the pod Marcus heard an odd sound. Something wet sounding, like walking through mud maybe. A sort of "slurp-squish" sound coming from the stairway above... the only way out of the facility. Seeing no-one in any of the other pods on the lowest level, Marcus began cautiously making his way towards the stairs and the direction of the odd sound.

The sound became louder and he could tell that it was coming from more than just one area in the second level. It sounded like there were probably a dozen places on the level the sound was coming from. Unfortunately on this level, all of the lights were out. Marcus knew he'd have no choice but to use his flashlight which while allowing him to see, would also allow whoever or whatever was on this level to see him. Raising his pistol and flashlight, Marcus clicked the light on and gagged reflexively at the sight before his eyes.

Growing up in the wasteland, one becomes quickly accustomed to death. It comes in many ways, often gruesome, but Marcus had never seen anything to match this. In the beam of his weak flashlight he could see four people all kneeling around what was once a person laying on the ground. Blood was spattered everywhere across all four and the sound was hands and teeth as they tore at the unfortunate victims body. They were eating him. Entrails lay strewn about like so many sand worms dumped across the floor. Marcus could see a jaw bone with flesh and teeth still attached laying near the feet of that poor soul, the biggest most impossible grin that man would ever have.

Four sets of black eyes turned on Marcus at the flare of his flashlight. These... people... could hardly even be called that. Their desiccated flesh hung poorly to their bones. Sunken black eyes stared unblinking into those of the living. Marcus could see one was missing an arm that ended at a ragged chunk of white bone, while another had a gaping wound as if a machete had cleaved straight into its chest and clean through several ribs. Yet there was no blood pouring out of these wounds. As far as Marcus could tell the only blood was from the person they had been... eating.

A quick flash of his light around the room showed at least a dozen other such sights, with dozens of the black eyed walking corpses feasting on what was once the living breathing flesh of others. Marcus knew he was in deep trouble if he didn't get out of there quick. Then he heard the sound of boots coming up the stairs behind him.

Turning to look down the stairs Marcus could see the familiar beret of his friend Delman. "Thank God, at least I'll have backup." Marcus thought to himself as he saw his friend approaching. Just as Marcus was going to call out a warning to his friend, Delman looked up. Marcus stared into the black eyes of his friend. Delman's flesh looked as if it might slough off at any moment. In fact there was no seeming rigidity to the flesh of Delman's lips; giving him some macabre gruesome grin showing yellow and blackened teeth. Marcus stared in disbelief as Delman opened his mouth and inhaled raggedly. Letting out the putrid air collected in its lungs Delman seemed to say a single drawn out word, "Tettrraaaxx!"

That was when the world went to hell. All the corpses began moving towards Marcus, even the ones that only moments ago were being feasted upon. The world erupted in a flurry of frenzied gunfire. Marcus could think of only one thing, escape.

He bolted straight for the stairs leading up. Luckily, there were only a few of the creatures in his direct path. Marcus fired his pistol wildly at the undead in his way, hearing the ping of a miss hitting metal walls, but more often hearing the muted thud of lead hitting dead flesh. The dead things lurched back at the impact of the bullets and one tripped backwards and fell over. But that didn't seem to stop them from recovering and coming forward again.

Marcus was almost at the stairs, running powered by sheer terror putting distance between himself and his once living friend. About to turn the corner to go up the stairs, Marcus didn't see the pool of slick blood until it was too late. He crashed down hard on his side as his feet went out from under him in the blood, sending him sliding to slam against the wall near the stairs up, wrenching his knee in the process. Quickly looking down the length of his body, Marcus could see he was covered in blood and gore. At least none of it was his own, at least, not yet.

Slightly stunned, Marcus began pulling himself up and towards the stairs. He looked up and straight into sunken black eyes. One of the creatures was on the other side of the stairs, reaching between the steps, trying to catch onto Marcus with its claw-like fingers. Thinking quickly, Marcus pulled one of the Machetes at his hip and brought the blade down on the outstretched hands. With a sickening crunch through bone and flesh the hands came away, but at the same time something other than blood came out. A silvery-black fluid that coated a part of Marcus' machete. In the horror of the moment, it seemed odd that there was no blood, but as Marcus watched the quicksilver liquid it began to flow towards his hand in a way that defied gravity.

Marcus quickly dropped the machete and watched it splash onto the blood soaked floor. He watched as the silver-black liquid began moving in a snake-like fashion towards him. Not as if it were one whole creature, but as if it were millions and millions of little bugs all making a communal effort to close the distance.

Marcus hobbled quickly up the stairs, just as the first of the undead things came around the corner. He fired blindly behind himself as he painfully began the climb. His wrenched knee was definitely impeding him but luckily the creatures moved in slow jerking fits; as if they were some life size marionette.

Making the top of the stairs Marcus could see the exit doors to the facility. Dashing as fast as his aching knee would allow he made for the door and the freedom of his escape. He made the door without incident and slammed his hand onto the door control panel to make good his escape. The horde of walking dead behind him began to make the top of the stairs as the door slid open. He could hear their groans and cries as they lurched and staggered towards him.

Rushing outside he turned and slammed his hand onto the exterior door control panel to shut the door behind him. Marcus leveled his pistol and shot the panel twice for good measure, hoping to jam the door and slow down the things behind him. Unfortunately the two shots had the opposite effect, causing the door to slide open and allowing the undead creatures a direct line to their prey. Marcus rolled his eyes at his extremely bad luck and began falling back from the door, firing his pistol randomly into the mass of flesh.

As the first of the undead creatures made the entrance to the facility, the door slid shut violently. Like some butchers dull meat cleaver, the first creature, wearing an oddly familiar beret, was cut in half lengthwise and partially crushed into the doorframe. The front half of the thing slid with a disturbing slowness down the exterior of the door, leaving a trail of guts, brain matter, and a blackish silver ooze behind. The flesh of the creature that was once Delman finally sloughed off, and a final short electrical pop and flash made the front half of the thing's head come away as its LifeNet collar gave out one last time.

The door slid open once again and unfortunately did not close as the mass of walking dead came out of the facility and towards Marcus. In an attempt to slow them down, Marcus pulled out a crude acid grenade and tossed it at the doorway before turning and running. The pain of his knee forgotten, Marcus began to run, he knew even as he heard the pop and splash of the acid grenade going off, that it wasn't likely to stop them, hell, it wasn't even likely to slow them down.

After what seemed like hours of running through the wasteland, and occasionally encountering small roving bands of the creatures Marcus saw a building in the distance that looked vaguely familiar. Marcus made his way towards the building as the sky lightened in the first bit of false dawn.

Upon making the structure, winded and aching Marcus saw that he was right. This was the small shanty shack and barn of a local stable master and garage shop. There would be transportation here somewhere and then he could make it to Watchtower to warn the Enforcers of the threat from the LifeNet facility.

Marcus ran up to the door and pounded on it, "Old man Jacob!" he cried, "Open up, I need help quick!" He kept pounding even after seeing a lantern light turn up through the plastic sheet window.

"Goddamnit, what kinda sum***** goes hollerin' an' yellin' at this time a night? Hold on! You'll wake the dead yellin' like that." Jacob continued cursing at the stranger come to his door as he shuffled around the room putting some clothes on before grabbing his sawed-off shotgun and throwing open the door. Upon seeing Marcus covered in dried blood and guts holding a pistol and flashlight in his hands, Jacob leveled his shotgun, "Boy, you'd best not be making any quick moves if I were you."

Marcus lowered his gun and holstered it, "Jacob, you've gotta help me. Something's wrong with the LifeNet facility, there's these things butchering and eating people. I think they're clones, but, they're not really alive. I need a horse! I've got to get help from Watchtower!"

"Now calm down calm down. We'll get'cha set up. Just step inside here for a minute." Jacob stepped back from the door, but didn't lower his shotgun, "We'll clear up whatever kind o' trouble yer in. Don'tcha worry 'bout that." Jacob turned to and called out into another room of the shack, "Betty, need some of that special coffee ye like to make, we got a clone friend out here who's a little frazzled."

Marcus walked over to the counter setup for doing business transactions over horse trading and stared out the window, "I'm not interested in coffee... I'm interested in getting the hell out of here on a horse and back to Watchtower Jacob."

"Don't worry son, you'll be on your way soon enough, don't go nowhere." Jacob stepped into the other room briefly and came back out with a steaming mug in his hand, "We keep it hot just in case we have visitors like you come knockin' in the middle of the night. Here ya go, it'll help you think straight."

Marcus turned looking not pleased and took the mug from Jacob's hand, "Whatever you need for chips Jacob, just get a horse saddled and ready to go please." Putting the coffee mug to his lips, Marcus' face twisted in distaste at his first sip, "God Jacob, is this motor oil? This is awful." Marcus pulled the mug away from his face and looked into the silvery black liquid of his coffee.

"No... not motor oil. Not coffee either I'm afraid, Tetrax isn't exactly a connoisseur of good cactus coffee, but he is quite fond of nanite broth."
Marcus stood stunned, looking from the mug of silver liquid then at Jacob. That was when he noticed that Jacob had a piece of hardware that he had never seen before. A LifeNet collar sat locked in place around Jacob's neck.

"I think Tetrax will be pleased with a new infected zombie named Marcus, don't you? Don't worry, you'll have 24 hours to think about your impending rebirth... then again, best that you just go straight back to the facility." Jacob raised his shotgun.

Marcus thinking quickly flicked his wrist, sending the hot silver liquid into Jacob's eyes and ducked down, pulling both of his pistols and firing rapidly. A spray of blood later and Jacob was down with over a dozen holes in him. Pulling breathing rapidly, Marcus could feel the nanites inside of him. He could also hear a shuffling and thumping sound. Looking up he saw Jacob's wife Betty in her pink sundress. Bony hands, sunken black eyes and jagged teeth, Betty was coming to finish the job Jacob failed at.

Click... click. Marcus tossed his empty pistols aside and quickly grabbed up the fallen sawed-off shotgun. Boom... Boom. Betty's head came apart like a ripe melon hitting the floor. Marcus didn't waste any time, grabbing up and reloading his weapons, and taking the sawed-off shotgun with him. Something began pounding on the door outside. They had arrived. First the door, then on all the walls, pounding, pounding as a myriad of lifeless hands began smashing in on the shanty shack. Marcus could see the horrific faces in the plastic covered windows. As the door came loose, Marcus pointed the shotgun first at the infected zombies head... then at his own. "What's a clone to do?" he thought. The world went black for Marcus that night, the sum of all his lifetimes come to naught but a shotgun blast heard by none.