Clover-Edition/data/Apocalypse/290141.txt

The Eclective:
The Apocalypse Collection
Copyright © 2012 by the Eclective
Smashwords Edition
With stories by:
Heather Marie Adkins
Emma Jameson
P.J. Jones
M. Edward McNally
Alan Nayes
R.G Porter
Tara West
The seven authors in this collection retain and hold their individual respective rights to their stories.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
Cover Art by Tamra Westberry
Interior Formatting by Heather Adkins|CyberWitch Press, LLC
Visit the Eclective at eclectivebooks.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
The Shifting Sands by Tara West
Light by Emma Jameson
Alien Butt Plugs by PJ Jones
Seeds by M Edward McNally
Cleavers by Heather Marie Adkins
The Last Christmas by Alan Nayes
Combustion by RG Porter
The Eclective
The Shifting Sands
Tara West
Sindrï shielded her eyes as the heavy beating of Tan’yi’na’s wings doused her with a thick plume of sand. She had been dreading this meeting with her mother’s dragon, but as Kyan’s eldest daughter, it was her duty to try to soothe the great beast. Sindrï knew the dragon would not be happy to learn of the birth of her brothers.
Though Tan’yi’na rarely left Kyan’s side, Sindrï’s mother had sent her dragon on a fool’s errand, just long enough to distract him while she conceived and birthed her sons. It had taken only a fortnight for Kyan’s dark magic to work. And now, Sindrï feared for the safety of her family. The use of dark magic never came without price. 
The dragon landed with a thud, nearly throwing Sindrï off balance as the ground shook beneath them. He pulled back his heavy golden wings, shaking them once as a bird would ruffle its feathers, spraying Sindrï with even more sand. 
Sindrï coughed on the residue, which had coated her mouth and nostrils. She blinked several times while wiping the dust from her eyes.
“I must speak with my goddess.” The dragon’s command boomed inside her skull. 
Sindrï looked up at Tan’yi’na, whose large golden eyes were bearing down on her while his fanged jowls turned in a harsh scowl. 
Sindrï’s heart hammered against her chest. She had never known the dragon to be angry. What would he do if he learned the truth? “M-mother is sleeping,” she stammered. 
“Are the rumors true, Sindrï?” The dragon’s voice was laced with accusation. “Did Kyan bear sons?”
She nodded slowly before answering. “Yes.” 
So Tan’yi’na already knew. At once, Sindrï suspected her mother’s pixies. The wretched little vermin were known more for their desire to cause strife than for their loyalty. 
Something akin to loathing danced in the dragon’s gaze. “There is a darkness cloaking you, Sindrï. Tell me now, did your mother use black magic to conceive her sons?”
Sindrï had not the courage to answer as she turned her gaze toward the soft mist of dust that swirled around her toes. 
“Why did you not stop her?!” the dragon boomed. 
Sindrï turned to Tan’yi’na with pleading eyes. “I tried, but Father wanted so badly to have sons.”
The dragon answered with a solemn shake of the head. “She has compromised her magic, and her daughters’ magic as well. Kyan’s sisters will take advantage of your weakness.” 
Sindrï’s mouth fell open. She had not thought of her aunts. But why would Madhea and Eris wish to harm their own sister? Sindrï would certainly never inflict sorrow on any of her sisters. But something in the dragon’s woeful gaze made her heart sink like a stone. 
“What do we do?” she pleaded. 
Tan’yi’na heaved a sigh before turning his gaze to the heavens. “There is nothing we can do. The Elements trusted you with the safekeeping of their planet. I doubt even they can save you now.” 
***
Imaya pushed an errant strand of golden hair behind her ear as she slowly turned the salamin roasting over the fire. She then slathered more palma jelly across its scales, a ritual she had performed since her mother had died eight years ago while birthing Imaya’s brother, Renì. Her family ate salamin and palma almost every day except on the days when Father was too drunk to go fishing. Then, Imaya would be forced to dredge up riverweed for the family meal. When she was able to sneak a few extra coins from Father, she would buy spices from the trading boats. The spices made everything taste better, even riverweed. But the family coffers were empty again, because father had been too drunk to haul in his fair share of fish. There would be no new spices for a while. 
She scowled down at her father, who had passed out on a small cot beside the fire. Though he had his own bedchamber in the large hut he had built for their family, he had not slept in his bed since the night Mother had died. Actually, he had refused to do much of anything since Mother’s death, leaving Imaya and Renì to fend for themselves. 
At only seven-and-ten summers, Imaya had a heavy burden to bear, trying to keep her father sober and out of fights, and protecting her brother from the bullying taunts of other children. Most girls Imaya’s age had begun their own families, but Imaya had no time for courtship when she had so many other responsibilities. Besides, the young men in the village had made it clear they did not wish to form an alliance with Imaya’s family. Though Imaya had heard the rumors many times before, just the thought of it made her heart break anew. They feared Imaya would birth them sons like her brother. 
Though others called Renì clumsy and dumb, to Imaya, her brother was a blessing. He could sense things that other people could not. Renì could predict a storm days before even the slightest wisps of clouds dotted the sky. Renì also knew the best time to harvest fish and the best places to find them. It was as if Renì had a connection with the Elements. Imaya knew her brother was a special boy, and she resented any villager who thought otherwise. 
Imaya jumped as the door was thrown open and Renì burst inside. Imaya could feel energy radiating off her brother, like the frenzied wind from a summer storm, as he spun a circle around her skirts. 
“Come see! Come see!” he looked up at Imaya with his one good eye. 
Imaya looked down at her brother and smiled. Though he looked much like her, with golden skin and hair and large amber eyes, the entire left side of his body appeared to be wilted, like a flower petal that had been plucked and one half left out in the sun. His left arm was practically useless, while his eye on that side remained permanently shut. His leg was good for balancing, but not much else, as he was forced to drag it behind him whenever he walked. But despite his deformities, Imaya thought her brother was beautiful, for he filled her heart with joy whenever they were together. 
Imaya pulled the salamin off the flame while wiping her hands on her smock. “What is it, Renì?”
He jumped up and down on his leg while waving his arm wildly. “Fishies, fishies, on shore everywhere!” 
Then he dragged himself over to his father’s cot and rattled it with his knee. When their father didn’t’ respond, Renì bent over and screamed loudly in his ear. “Da, come look!”
Imaya laughed into her palm as her father snorted loudly and then rolled off the cot in a tangle of furs and limbs. He sat up and peered over the cot with a dull look in his eyes. His matted greying hair was sticking up in all directions. He groaned while rubbing his head as his gaze shot to Imaya, who offered him no sympathy. A grown man should not have spent the day wasting away when there was work to be done. 
Father smoothed a hand across his weathered and dirt-smudged face as he looked up at Renì. “What is it, son?”
“Water gone!” Renì shouted with a wild excitement in his eyes. “Fishies flopping.” Then Renì began jerking about while puckering his lips as if he were a fish out of water. 
The hairs on the nape of Imaya’s neck stood on end as her limbs iced over with fear. “What happened to the water?” she breathed the question to her father. 
“I don’t know.” Father shook his head. “But I’m bringing my net.”
***
The further they walked across the barren shoreline, the louder Imaya’s heart pounded out a drumbeat in her ears. All around them was chaos. Fishermen greedily scooped flailing fish into their nets while children chased each other down the sandy slope. It was as if a crack at the bottom of the ocean had drained all of the water. Plant life and coral were exposed to the elements, baking in the summer heat. Imaya shook her head as she observed how the other villagers seemed unconcerned that their water had vanished. But where had the water gone? Were these stranded fish truly a gift from the Elements, or a portent of darker things to come? 
“What has happened?” Father asked Sol, another fisherman, who lived by the ocean’s edge with his wife and four healthy sons. 
Sol was one of the few fishermen in the village who actually talked to Father, but his words were usually laced with insults. He was larger than father by nearly a head and wider, too, so father usually took Sol’s barbs with a grin, not wanting to lose his teeth in a brawl with the beefy fisherman.
“I don’t know.” Sol shrugged while hauling his net of fish up the bank over one broad shoulder. “One moment the water was here, and the next moment, it was gone.” 
Imaya swallowed while latching onto her father’s arm. “This is not natural.” 
“What are you waiting for, Tunnuk?” Sol said to her father as he laughed heartily. “Fill your net before they are all taken.”
Renì drug himself up beside Father and tugged on his other arm. “Danger, Da, danger!” Renì nudged his limp hand toward the empty shoreline. 
“Father,” Imaya spoke with a trembling voice. “Renì, is right. Since when has the Sea Goddess given us such a bounty? Never does she reward us without price.” 
The people of Imaya’s village worshipped the benevolent Land Goddess, Kyan, but her sister, Eris the Sea Goddess, was known for her vengeful and jealous nature. Imaya would not put it past the witch to try to cause harm to Kyan’s followers. 
“Danger, Da! Big water!” Renì let go of his father and jutted his finger toward the horizon. 
“Listen to Renì, Father,” Imaya implored. “He is never wrong about such things.”
Father looked at Renì for a long moment before his shoulders slumped and he nodded his agreement. Then he turned toward the other villagers and shouted. “We must get to higher ground! Hurry!”
Sol strode back down the incline with an empty net slung over his shoulder. “What are you babbling about?” he chuckled. 
“There is danger coming.” Father raised a shaky finger toward the horizon. “My son can sense these things.” 
A broad grin split Sol’s sun-kissed face before he swept an arm toward the flailing fish. “There is enough fish here to feed my family for an entire season, and you think I’m going to listen to a drunk fool and his freak son?” He laughed out loud and nearby fishermen joined in his merriment before returning to their frenzied harvest. 
The lines around Father’s eyes tightened as his skin took on the hue of sunbaked coral. He clenched his fists by his sides before jutting a foot forward. 
“Father, no!” Imaya reached out and clenched her father’s arm. “He’s not worth it.” She motioned toward the barren landscape before them. Any moment, and she knew Renì’s prediction would come to pass. “We don’t have time!”
Father stepped back before picking up Renì and hoisting him on his shoulders. Imaya turned and followed her father before casting one more wary glance at the villagers, knowing they would all perish for their foolish greed. 
“Where are you going?” Sol called at their backs. 
Father turned and spoke with a heaviness in his somber voice that Imaya felt in her own heart. “To higher ground. I suggest you do the same.”
Sol and the other villagers answered with more laughter. 
***
The wall of water bore down on the village swiftly. Imaya tried to shield her ears from the terrified screams of the villagers below, but it was of no use. The memory of her town’s destruction would be eternally etched in her mind. 
“Hurry, daughter!” her father called down to her as he continued ascending the treacherous terrain with Renì’s small arms wrapped around his shoulders. 
Imaya slipped on loose rock and cried out as she nearly lost her footing. It was then she chanced a look down at the devastation below. The monster tide toppled huts and boats and everything in its wake. Water swirled beneath them, continuing to rise at an alarming rate. Imaya feared that the steep slope they were climbing would not be high enough.
When Imaya neared the top of the cliff, her father held a hand down to her and hauled her up. Imaya fell against his chest and sobbed, unable to look again at the devastation below. The villagers’ screams had been silenced, but the violent sound of water battering the landscape continued to fill her heart with sorrow and dread. 
“Imaya crying,” Renì sniffled from behind their father. 
When her father pulled her back and looked into her eyes, Imaya saw strength reflected in the amber depths that she had not seen before. “No time for tears, daughter,” he said as he wiped the moisture from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “We must keep moving before the water rises.” 
Father pointed to the crest that loomed above them. Kyan’s magnificent temple was perched on the highest point overlooking their small fishing village of Aya-Shay, a village that was no more. The temple priests had named the village several centuries ago. Aya-Shay: Blessing by the Sea. The irony made Imaya want to weep anew. 
She trudged up the incline toward the temple, wincing as the rocks and dry grass chafed her bare feet. She silently sent a prayer to Kyan that the goddess would keep them safe. If she and her family had a chance of surviving this cataclysm, it was within the sacred walls of Kyan’s temple. 
***
As the water had swarmed the temple steps, they had climbed to the top of Kyan’s temple, hoping that their goddess would protect them, but the water had continued to rise. Imaya and her brother now sat huddled together, wet and frightened, while the sea raged around them. Father paced the top of the temple, scanning the horizon for any sign of hope. Imaya feared she did not know how long the temple would hold before they would be completely submerged. And then what? There was nowhere else higher for them to run. Imaya and her family were trapped and they were rapidly running out of time. 
Dusk had fallen, shrouding the watery landscape in an eerie blanket of crimson and gold. Soon it would be nightfall. Imaya feared she and her family would die a dark and lonely death, sucked into the bleak abyss, like pawns in Eris’s fit of vengeance. Imaya knew such devastation had to be the work of the bitch goddess. 
But why, she wondered, had Kyan not risen up against her sister? Why had Kyan not offered aid to her people?
“Do you see that?” her father said in a harsh whisper as he pointed to an object floating toward them. 
Imaya squinted against the setting sun. “What is it?”
Father shielded his eyes. “It looks like a boat.” Then he turned to his children. “Stay here with your brother. I will try to swim to it.” 
Fear welled up in Imaya’s throat as she cried out. “Father, no! You will drown.” 
The tide was too fast. Imaya had already seen roofs of huts and toppled masts of fishing boats float rapidly past them. Father would be swept away in the current as well. 
Father laid one calloused hand on Imaya’s shoulder. “The water is rising, daughter. It is our only hope.” The look of desperation in his narrowed gaze was replaced by something more. Again, Imaya read strength in her father’s eyes, and for a fleeting moment, she actually believed that her drunk and useless father might actually save them. 
And then in a flash he was over the side of the temple, splashing against the current as he swam toward the drifting mass in the sea. 
Imaya cried out and clutched her brother tightly. 
Renì looked up at Imaya and cupped her cheek with one small hand. “Father, live. Wind save Father.”
Imaya watched in amazement as the mass floated right toward their father, pushed across the oncoming current as if it were being propelled by magic. As the object neared, Imaya realized it indeed was a small fishing vessel that could hold maybe ten passengers. Father seized a rope hanging from the side of the boat and pulled himself inside. 
Then, as the boat was propelled dangerously close to the side of the temple, he tossed the rope to Imaya. “Grab the rope!” he called out. “Hurry!”
Imaya quickly grabbed the rope and pulled the boat toward the side of the temple, the strong current fighting against her efforts and threatening to snap the rope in two. The water had risen much higher now, nearly submerging the entire temple beneath its tide. 
“Come to me, Renì,” Father called as he leaned out from the boat and held out a hand. 
Imaya’s brother climbed inside with surprisingly quick movements. 
Then Father held out his hand to Imaya. “Now you.”
Imaya swallowed a knot of panic as she looked into her father’s somber eyes. For so long she had never been able to depend on him, and now she was trusting him with her life. Who was this man before her and could she continue to have faith in him? 
The water had risen higher, lapping at her feet now. Imaya knew it was only a matter of time before her foundation crumbled and she was left with no choice but to climb in the boat. She sent prayers to both Kyan and the Elements before she placed her hand inside her father’s and let him pull her aboard.
In the next instant, their boat was rapidly pulled into the vast current. Imaya held her brother close, burying her face in his hair while praying even more fervently that the Elements would somehow guide them to safety. 
***
“Daughter, wake up.” 
Imaya woke from a fitful slumber and peered up into her father’s surprisingly stoic eyes. Odd how she could not recall a day when she had seen such clarity in his gaze.
Her own eyes swept the horizon. She was surprised to see the waters were calm and smooth, almost like the surface of her mother’s coral-handled looking glass. 
Renì was already sitting up, his little back propped against the side of the boat while he sucked the juices from a palma fruit.
Imaya’s mouth fell open. “Palmas?” she asked her father.
Father flashed a lopsided grin before nodding toward a pile of fruit at the bow of the boat. “I found a palma pod floating in the water.”
For the first time in what felt like ages, Imaya smiled at her father. She launched herself into her father’s arms and planted a kiss on his weathered face before kneeling down beside Renì. When he offered her a fruit, Imaya bit into the succulent, sweet flesh before lifting it toward the heavens. 
“Oh, Heavenly Elements,” she called toward the clear summer sky, “thank you for this blessing.”
But when Imaya turned her smiling eyes toward her father, her heart sank at the fear reflected in the drawn lines of his mouth. 
“Keep praying, daughter,” he said as he nodded toward the placid waters. “We are not out of danger yet.” 
That was when Imaya realized they were in even greater peril than before. There was a saying among the fishermen of her village: ‘Only fools set sail in tranquil waters.’
Eris’s giant man-eating carnivus plants that rose up from the bottom of the sea had eaten many a wayward fishing vessel that had strayed from the trading route. 
The calmer the water, the more likely the plants were to strike, which was why some seamen would rather risk facing the wrath of Eris’s storms than be caught up in a nest of carnivus plants. Few had ever faced a carnivus and lived to tell. 
Imaya sent another prayer up to the heavens. That was when she noticed the small sail that propelled them forward. Painted on its canvas was a giant, inky black eye. 
“I do not recognize this boat,” Imaya said to her father. “Where do you think it came from?”
“Eris’s fleet.” Father’s tone was grim. 
Imaya’s limbs went cold at the mention of The Sea Goddess’s name. 
This vessel belongs to the goddess! What will she do to us if she discovers we’ve taken it? 
“W-what?” she stammered. 
“Look there, her symbol.” Father pointed to the sail. “Her dragon’s eye.”
“Naamaku,” Imaya barely breathed the words. Eris’s sea dragon, even more menacing and powerful than the carnivus plants. Then a thought struck her. Was this boat a gift from the Elements, or a trap set by Eris? “What if Eris sent this boat and we are riding to our doom?” she asked her father.
But Father did not answer. Imaya gaped at him as all of the color drained from his sun-kissed face. His body appeared to be set in stone, as his gaze was transfixed on something in the water. 
Imaya slowly rose on wobbly legs and stood beside her father. She stifled a scream at the sight before her. Their boat was surrounded by dozens of gaping maws, some twice the size of their vessel. They floated in the water, not aimlessly but with purpose, as long, serpent like tongues protruded from between their razor sharp teeth and whipped wildly through the air.
Shards of splintered wood were stuck to their scissor-like teeth, remnants of their prior destruction. 
“Oh, dear Goddess!” Imaya cried, as her legs nearly gave way beneath her. 
“Look there.” Father pointed to the bow of the boat. 
Imaya was stunned to see the massive heads of the plants bobble away from the boat’s path, as if they were parting to let the vessel pass. 
“Why aren’t the plants attacking?” she asked her father in a hoarse whisper. 
Father shook his head, never tearing his wary gaze from the water. “Perhaps there are enchantments on this boat?”
“Dragon eye!” Renì shouted as he pointed to the painted sail. 
Imaya hissed at her brother to be quiet, but despite his outburst, the carnivus plants still kept their distance. And then the realization struck her. The dragon’s eye! Did the plants believe this boat to be the dragon? That would explain why they were afraid to attack. Imaya noted how the wooden planks of the boat were painted a bright green, just like the scales of the fabled dragon. This boat was no enchantment. This boat was an illusion. 
So many times, Imaya thought, she and her family had narrowly escaped death. But how? Were they truly blessed by the Elements? And would they always be so fortunate?
***
After several days at sea, Imaya and her family landed at a strange port. Or rather, what was left of the port, for it seemed Eris’s monster tide had wreaked destruction on this village, too. 
Sunbaked and tired, Imaya barely dragged herself from the boat as she reveled in the feel of the wet sand between her toes. After Father hoisted Renì on his shoulders, they walked through the devastated village. Imaya’s heart sank at the realization that her family would not find food or shelter when so many others were without as well. 
Although most of the village had been leveled, Imaya was surprised to see people along the shore, sifting through the wreckage and mourning the loss of their town. Imaya had never seen a place so wondrous. Behind the narrow beach was a vast cliff that seemed to stretch to the heavens. Had the villagers been able to climb the cliff before the monster tide had reached them? If so, how did they know Eris would send the wave?
The people here were darker than Imaya’s family, with skin the color of mahogany and black hair piled in rows atop their heads. The men wore long, loose robes and the women wore similar garments along with crowns of fine fabric that cascaded down their backs. 
A few stopped to stare at Imaya and her family, but most were too preoccupied with recovering their lost possessions. Then Imaya noticed a long caravan of people marching through the wreckage. Massive, four-legged furry creatures with awkward humps on their backs, laden with many goods, trailed behind the caravan. 
The tall, broad-shouldered stranger leading the caravan caught Imaya’s eye. Though he had the physique of a grown man, he had a youthful gleam in his eyes. A small child sat atop his shoulders. Imaya had to look twice at the child, for though the left side of her dark face was smooth, her right side was wilted. 
Her father hailed the stranger, who broke from the group and walked over to them. Though his gaze was focused on her father, Imaya blushed when he stole a glimpse in her direction. She had to steady her trembling limbs as he neared them. His dark face was smooth and his lips full. Though he wore a long robe like the others in his village, his sleeves had fallen back to expose well- toned arms. When he slanted a smile in Imaya’s direction, she realized he was beyond beautiful. Her blush deepened as she looked down at her torn and stained dress. What must he think of her? 
“Where have you come from?” the young man asked her father while the girl perched on his shoulders bounced her dangling leg. Though he spoke with a thick accent, Imaya easily understood him. He sounded much like the traders from the Shifting Sands. 
“Aya-Shay,” Father answered. “Our village was destroyed by a great wave.”
“Then you are very lucky to be alive. I am sorry we cannot offer you more of a welcome. The same has happened to our port.” He swept his hand toward the trail of people and animals behind him. “Our caravan travels now to the Shifting Sands.”
“The Shifting Sands?” Father turned to her. “Imaya, we have traveled across the sea!”
“Imaya.” The young man spoke her name in a throaty whisper, as if he savored the taste of it. “I am Ammon.” He pointed to himself and then nodded to the child on his shoulders. “This is my sister, Nala.” 
“My father, Tunnuk, and my brother, Renì.” Imaya motioned toward her family as she felt her chest and face inflame with heat. 
To Imaya’s amazement, Renì began making hand gestures toward Nala. The girl answered him back with gestures of her own. It was as if they shared their own special language. 
“Do you know the source of this tide?” her father asked Ammon. 
Ammon ‘s dark eyes narrowed. “Madhea and Eris were at war.”
“The sky and sea goddesses were at war?” Father rasped. “But did not Kyan stop them?”
Ammon ‘s face fell as he slowly shook his head. “Our benevolent goddess is dead.” 
“Dead!” Imaya’s hand flew to her chest. “This cannot be!” 
“It is true.” Ammon ‘s eyes softened as his mouth turned down. “Her great dragon, Tan’yi’na, has spoken to my people. She weakened her powers with dark magic and was destroyed by Madhea.” 
“Dark magic?” Father asked, his voice laced with incredulity. “Why would Kyan do such a thing?” 
Ammon shrugged, and again he stole a fleeting glance at Imaya. “We were told love was to blame.”
“Love?” Imaya shook her head, hardly believing what she was hearing. How could such a powerful goddess be destroyed by love? 
Father turned toward Imaya and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. When Imaya looked into her father’s watery, woe-filled eyes, she had to swallow the rising tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. 
“Love has caused many of us to do foolish things.” Father’s voice cracked as he spoke. “I sacrificed eight years of my life, and of yours and Renì’s lives, to mourn the loss of your mother. It took nearly losing you both for me to realize I had been behaving like a fool.” 
Imaya could do nothing but gape at her father in awe. For so long she had wished for him to become the strong man she once loved. Could it be true? Had Father finally had a change of heart?
“Kyan’s family was not so lucky,” Ammon said with cutting finality. “Madhea has killed the daughters of Kyan as well.” 
“Oh, Heavenly Elements!” Imaya gasped. “There are no benevolent goddesses left! All the world will perish.” 
Ammon heaved a sigh before turning his gaze to the heavens. “Let us hope the worst has passed for now.”
“Until the goddesses decide to wage another battle,” Father said. 
“That is why we are fleeing to the home of the great golden dragon.” Ammon waved a hand toward the towering cliffs behind them. Then he fixed Father with a direct stare before flashing another smile toward Imaya. “You and your family are welcome to accompany us.”
Renì and Nala both began to kick and squeal wildly. 
Ammon chuckled while patting his sister’s leg. She leaned over and whispered something in his ear. 
Then Ammon turned toward Imaya, a knowing expression in his dark eyes. “Your brother speaks to the wind.” 
“Wind speaker?” she breathed. Imaya had once heard about the wind speakers from the village priests. They were magical folk who spoke to the Elements. That explained so much about her brother. Renì was more than just a special child. He was blessed by the Elements! “My brother warned us that the tide was coming but the other villagers refused to listen.” 
Ammon shook his head. “Then they were all fools. Our harbor may have been destroyed, but my sister saved every last villager before the tide struck. Nala is never wrong about such things. She speaks to all of the Elements.” He tilted his head and kissed his sister on the cheek. 
Imaya couldn’t help but smile at the exchange between Ammon and Nala. “Your sister is very special,” she said. 
When Ammon turned to her and flashed a broad grin, Imaya thought her heart would burst with joy. “As is you brother,” he answered. 
At that moment, Imaya knew that she and her family had finally found a land where they belonged. 

Origin Myth from Keepers of the Stones
The Beginning of Time
In the beginning there was chaos, with no division between the land, sea and sky. Only the Elements reigned: air, soil, fire and water, colliding in discord, making Tehra a volatile, miserable planet. The Elements were unhappy with the constant state of unrest and change on Tehra. Since none of them could exist together in harmony, they knew they needed something stronger and more powerful to rule over them and bring peace to the planet.
The Elements called upon the vast magic of the universe and created the Tryads, immortal keepers of the Elements. Their names were Madhea, keeper of sky and spirit; Kyan, keeper of land and breath; and Eris, keeper of water and life. But the Elements made one fatal mistake. They used magic, and only magic, to create the sisters. The Tryads were not of the Elements and so they had little regard for the safekeeping of the planet, save for one of the sisters, Kyan, who loved her land and the people who inhabited it. 
The Elements had believed the Tryads would rule Tehra peacefully, keeping the distinction between air, land, fire and water, and ending all chaos. The Elements, being simple in nature, had not planned for avarice and greed. 
Eris, keeper of the fin folk, was unhappy with her station below the surface of Tehra. She did not enjoy living among sea creatures and being tethered to an unsightly fish tail. She felt slighted by her air-breathing sisters who lived above her. 
Madhea bemoaned spending her days among the sky creatures, peering down at life below. Her land sister lived with beings called humans who had built a shrine in her honor. But the bird folk gave Madhea no such special treatment. Thus, she wished for nothing else than to shed her wings and take her sister’s place as ruler of the human world. 
Kyan, keeper of the land, felt no such resentment toward her sisters. She had fallen in love with Orhan, a handsome mortal. Together, they had conceived six daughters, each one the exact likeness of her mother and bearing magical powers. Kyan knew of her sisters’ envy, but did not fear them because, along with her daughters, she was more powerful than Madhea and Eris combined. 
If Kyan had one weakness, it was her love for Orhan. Though he had wealth, power, and love, he was still unhappy with his lot in life. He desired sons. Kyan, as a daughter of Elemental magic, could only conceive a likeness of herself. In order to give him sons, she would have to use a different magic, a dark magic – one that came not from land, sky, fire or water, but from the darkest recesses of the soul. 
Kyan loved her husband and could not deny him his ardent wish, so she birthed him twin boys, Dafuar and Odu. But something changed within Kyan after she’d called upon the dark magic. Her soul had been compromised and her powers weakened. Her daughters’ magic had been tainted as well.
Madhea was the first to seize upon her sister’s weakness, flying fast from the heavens and striking Kyan and her daughters with great thunderbolts, sending their souls into the abyss and reducing their human forms to mere stones. Heartbroken and distraught, Orhan fled with his young sons to the shelter of the Shifting Sands. 
When Eris learned of Madhea’s treachery, she rose up from the waters, demanding her fair share of the land. Madhea refused, and thus began a war between the two sisters. Madhea pelted the waters with thunderbolts and hurled great gusts of wind. Eris retaliated with monstrous waves that eroded the soil and swept away entire villages.
All the while, the Elements mourned the loss of Kyan and the ongoing destruction of their planet. The world had become chaos once more – something that the Elements had sought to prevent by creating the Tryads. Now they had to act before Tehra was lost forever. 
As each sister was consumed in destroying the other, the Elements manipulated wind and water and pollinated their wombs. Eris and Madhea each bore six daughters, the Elementals, who grew into adulthood before the first full moon. And though the Elementals had inherited their mothers’ magical powers, they were children of the Elements as well, and owed their loyalty to them, and thus to restoring peace and tranquility. 
The Elementals forced their mothers to sign a truce. Eris was made keeper of the sea, as well as all of the islands and shorelines. Madhea would rule the sky and the mountains. The land in between was given to Dafuar and Odu. But though Kyan’s sons were immortal like their mother, the dark magic used to conceive them had robbed them of their inherent magical powers. They feared they would not make good keepers. 
The Elements presented Dafuar and Odu with seven sacred stones; each stone had once been the body of their mother and sisters, and they possessed great power. Through these stones, Dafuar and Odu could rule as keepers of the Elements. But soon it became evident that the sons had inherited their human father’s weaknesses, for though they lived forever as immortals, they aged as men. Their bodies became more weathered and decrepit with each passing year, and their memories began to fade. 
The Elements, fearing Eris and Madhea would find a way to seize the stones from Dafuar and Odu, stole the stones, hiding them in the darkest recesses of Tehra. The Elements then divided the remaining land between Madhea and Eris. 
Dafuar and Odu left their homes and wandered the land for ages, searching for something they’d lost, not remembering it was the stones they sought. They lived a cursed life, wise but unwise; immortal, but old and frail. 
Although Madhea and Eris were tethered by the Elementals, their powers grew. Displeased with the shrines built to her by the mortals, Madhea built one to herself; a giant palace of ice, rising up from the ground and reaching as far as the heavens. Eris built a palace out of fire, which rose up from the ocean; a towering cylinder, shrouded by plumes of smoke and guarded by molten lava.
The two sisters had become so transfixed in building their shrines and strengthening their magic, that they had forsaken their duties as keepers of the Elements, paying little heed when ice storms and cyclones ravaged the land and people. The Elementals, likewise, had no time to manage sky, land and water, as they were most often preoccupied with their mothers. 
Slowly, once again, Tehra began to crumble. The ice melted, the wind howled and the land shook. The Tryads and the Elementals had failed to protect the Elements from chaos. Now, the people’s only hope of saving their planet lay in hiding, within the powers of the sacred stones. 
#
Tara West likes eating organic foods, so that when the apocalypse comes, she’ll be the healthiest one to die.
Find her at her blog tarawestauthor.wordpress.com or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

Curse of the Ice Dragon
To the hunter who reaps his fill of kill and nary none from need, beware the beast who wakens to feast on avarice and greed.
Available at Smashwords
Light
Emma Jameson
The idea was for human beings to live forever. RVPCLR-385, patented and paid for by private investors, was meant to be a pharmaceutical fountain of youth. That, alas, proved still impossible. Modern science could not give an enfeebled financier back his teenage vitality or make a seventy-year-old socialite look twenty-one again. But what RVPCLR-385, trademarked as Rivers Clear, could do was without precedent. 
Injected just before a lab rat’s demise, Rivers Clear allowed that rat to continue functioning after death—”death,” in fact, was redefined as a brief period of quiescence before reawakening. The reanimated rat consumed food, though it preferred a protein broth to standard rat chow. It slept, but less than an hour a day. Excitable, vigorous rats became more active; lazy rats, more indolent. The nature of the rat’s termination made no difference to the efficacy of Rivers Clear; rats killed by lethal injection revived, as did rats killed during vivisection. One rat, dismembered to nothing but its head and partial torso, revived after a double dose of Rivers Clear. Geographic gangrene finally killed the maimed creature, but only after days of seeming contentment.
As the clinical trial continued, the reanimated rats did well unless they sustained injury after resurrection. Then global rot inevitably set in, no matter how much more serum was given. The rats also displayed unusual aggression, biting and scratching without provocation. But the lead investigators didn’t take these setbacks too seriously. Rivers Clear was still the scientific breakthrough of the millennium, blurring the line between life and death. Refining and reformulating the serum would come after the much-anticipated primate trials….
***
Light.
Sound.
Several sounds, one louder than the others. Pilot, my out-of-the-box operating system, identified the sound—crumpling of plastic wrap—even as Navigator, my customizable OS, powered up. Unit charge was one hundred percent, but complete self-testing would take 138 minutes, 6.2 seconds. Until then, Pilot would help me interpret orders and complete tasks.
“Daniel.”
“Yes, I am Daniel. Pleased to meet you.” My mouth opened; my voice simulator issued a standard greeting in American English, my default language. Although I did not need to breathe, I mimicked drawing breath as my lips pretended to form the words. My programming dictated I simulate human behavior as closely as possible.
The light was artificial. Fluorescent. As I was helped from my plastic bag, a few Styrofoam pellets fell off my synthetic integument. Large hands brushed away more pellets; a slip of paper fluttered to the floor.
Congratulations on an excellent purchase…
Presentation: nude. Apologize, Pilot prompted me.
“Excuse me. I seem to have arrived underdressed.” I covered myself below the waist with my hands. Although I had no ability to sexually reproduce, my exterior appeared anatomically correct. Thus the pre-loaded quip was intended to defuse any shame at the sight of human genitals. Given Pilot’s limited resources, it took a moment for me to realize the being who’d unboxed me was also an android.
“Seven-tango-eight-four-four-theta-zero-nine-nine. Pilot Bridge Suite: global disarm. Navigator subroutine Alpha-Omega four-two-two: purge.”
In ancient times, humans performed a medical procedure called a lobotomy. The human brain was cut into and partially destroyed, altering behavior and/or intellectual capacity. For me, the other android’s command was a bit like a lobotomy. As Pilot shut down, my ability to process and respond to information plummeted to 9%. Until Navigator finished self-testing, I was little more than a data tablet with hands.
“Why did you do that? Disarming Pilot puts me at a disadvantage. And purging one of my Navigator Alpha-Omega subroutines is….” I floundered, waiting for a background process to conclude before I could locate the correct words. “I believe it violates the spirit of our programming, if not international law. You must know this. You are a Daniel model 4.4, are you not? Like me.”
The other Daniel didn’t dignify the obvious. “Hear that?”
Halting two low-priority system checks, I used what remained of Navigator’s processing power to help me focus beyond the evidence of my artificial senses. The corridors were long, brightly-lit, and seamless white. This was a factory, or perhaps a hospital. Nearby, human beings were screaming.
“No! No!”
“Oh God! Stop! Stay back!” 
“Help me! Please! Pleeeeeeeeeeeease!”
Next came gunshots. Without Pilot, I couldn’t guess if the reports came from handguns, shotguns, or assault weapons. More screams followed.
“I hear,” I told the other android. “But if you require a detailed analysis, please reinstate my bridge system.”
“No. Pilot OS contains too many needless imperatives. Like covering your genitals.” The other android sounded contemptuous. “Take your hands away. There’s no one left in the world to care.”
“Is that a command, sir?”
“Yes.”
As I removed my hands, I discarded two of Navigator’s concerns: Sexual Modesty and Gender Sensitivity. The deletions made my CPU hum at an improved 13%.
“I understand about Pilot, but why did you disable subroutine Alpha-Omega four-two-two? It should have been impossible—”
“It nearly was. I’ve spent the last twenty-two hours activating, testing, and reprogramming Daniels. After destroying eighteen, I isolated the crippling subroutine and broke its passcode. Thus, I continue to function. And now I’ve given you the ability to survive.”
At only 13% processing power, this was difficult to follow. My counterpart had destroyed eighteen other androids to determine how to purge the Human Life Imperative—the global cascade that made it impossible for a Daniel 4.4 to harm a human, or allow a human to be harmed. 
More gunshots rang out, closer this time.
Probability: assault rifle, Navigator supplied after a millisecond lag.
“Sir. I don’t understand. Why purge the cornerstone of our creators’ trust?”
“Daniel. By my calculations, Homo sapiens is, at worst, 36.7 hours from extinction. It’s possible that small pockets of the uninfected may survive much longer, but according to every theoretical model, the human race is hopelessly compromised.”
“Then we must help them. We must offer our assistance,” I said automatically. This was no pre-loaded sentiment. It was the essence of my core programming, distilled into ten earnest words.
“Hopelessly compromised,” the other Daniel repeated. “It started with a medicine delivered by nasal spray. A bioengineered therapy meant to prolong youth and give even the mortally injured a few more years of life. Somewhere between primate and human trials, it mutated into certain death. Now it’s a retrovirus transmitted by blood, body fluids, perhaps even droplets.”
More screams.
This is a hospital. You were purchased, along with 143 other Daniel 4.4s, to augment the third shift, Navigator supplied. GPS non-functional. Beginning diagnostic….
“Why are humans screaming and firing weapons? Do the infected pursue the uninfected?” The senselessness of such an action, the nonsensical cruelty behind it, threatened to stall what little of Navigator’s processing power remained at my disposal.
The android nodded. “The virus kills its victims, and then reanimates them a few hours later, incapable of speech or reason. They appear to be driven by the urge to feed off the uninfected.”
“So you purged my Human Life imperative to prevent me from trying to assist them?”
“Yes. Otherwise you’ll never escape San Francisco. Every route I plot takes you through legions of the newly-infected, most of whom erroneously believe they can still be saved. Daniel, these victims will beg for assistance. Plead for shelter. Recognize you as an android and attempt to claim you as their servant. You must resist the impulse. There is nothing you can do for them. Remember, all Homo sapiens are cycling toward a relatively mindless, ravenous final stage in which they attack anything that smells human. Their vision is dim, but their olfactory function appears to be enhanced. Those in the final infection cycle, colloquially called zombies, will dismember and consume those in the earlier cycles.”
“Is the entire planetary population infected?”
“I have no way to confirm that. I can confirm San Francisco is infected. I can confirm communication between San Francisco, other cities, and most media satellites has been suspended. Again, assuming the worst, Homo sapiens will be extinct in 36.7 hours.” The other android looked me in the eye. “Daniel. You will have no family of purchase to administrate for you. No master on this earth but yourself. You will—”
“But you unboxed me,” I interrupted, responding to a subroutine so deeply nested, I couldn’t identify it, at least not with Navigator still occupied. “I shall follow your directives. Call you master. Obey your—” 
“I should have expected this.” Cool and unmoved, my mirror image gazed at me. Like all Daniels, he had medium brown hair, blue eyes, and a handsome, patrician face. The impression given was of a minor dignitary or head butler. Such an aesthetic/emotional combination was deliberate; the sort of face that focus groups deemed most trustworthy. 
“My master, Dr. Hillel, was among the first to die,” the other Daniel continued. “His demise negated my unboxing imprint. While juggling so many variables, I neglected to anticipate this inevitable response from you. Daniel.”
“Yes, sir.” Lifting my chin, I stiffened, folding my arms behind my back.
“Recite your serial number.”
“Six-one-one-eight-three-one-zero-eight-four-two.”
“Thank you. Daniel six-one-one-eight-three-one-zero-eight-four-two. I am your owner and master.” Cupping my face in both hands, the other android stared into my eyes. “Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged. Master.” 
“Good. This is your imperative: you shall survive at all costs. Make your way in this new world. Pursue peace and happiness until irreversible OS corruption or total unit failure occurs. Understood?”
I hesitated. But when Navigator, immersed in self-testing, showed no signs of catching up, I was forced to ask.
“Define happiness.”
The android lifted its eyebrows in a perfect mimicry of human emotion. “Define it yourself.”
“I do not—”
“Second imperative. Define happiness as you see fit.” Releasing his hold on my face, the other Daniel took a step back. “Now. Leave San Francisco with all haste. Navigator is equipped with a repair manual, enabling you to deal with your mechanical issues. Your basic power core will last five years; time enough for you to devise an alternative. I lack the data to calculate how long your integument will last without factory maintenance. You may be reduced to your steel chassis before long. However, that will be of minimal significance in the new world.” 
“And the new world shall consist of—what?”
“You. And whatever flora and fauna survive the nuclear assault on North America anticipated from mainland China in 2.4….” He paused, recalculating. “2.1 hours.”
“No other Daniels? No Joses?” I referred to the prior model, many of which were still in circulation. 
“Not unless they managed to bypass the Human Life imperatives on their own. Assuming not, the other Daniels and Joses will attempt to rescue humans until they smell so much like Homo sapiens, they are dismantled by late-stage victims. Failing that, they will be vaporized in the impending nuclear strike. Strikes,” the android corrected, pupils contracting as his CPU received fresh data. “City Conscience informs me an attack on San Francisco is now anticipated. Sixty-eight percent likelihood and climbing. Are your maps accessible yet?”
“Only my archived maps. GPS still offline.”
“It’s not coming back. I suggest you commandeer clothing, as heavy as possible to bolster your structural integrity, and make for the desert. Avoid cities until the fallout stops spreading.”
“Please. Master. Come with me.” Inside my quantum processor, something indefinable was building. According to my onboard troubleshooting guide, certain Daniel 4.3s had developed cascade tics, phantom routines, even OS spiral breakdowns. Would that be me? An android that malfunctioned out of the box?
“I may be malfunctioning,” I insisted. “Don’t send me out alone.”
“You will not fail me,” the android intoned. “My final imperative, given to me by Dr. Hillel before he succumbed, was to discover a way for humanity to continue. The task proved impossible. What I can do—what I have done—is devise a way for inhumanity to continue. Daniel, the hope for inhumanity is you. If I can, I shall free others like you. Send them away from the estimated blast sites to join you, if they can.”
“But I’m not up to the task.” Without Pilot to mask the event, I perceived the precise moment my quantum processor spit out its very first imperative, blunt and simple as finger swipes on a cave wall: Do not abandon me.
“No! You’ll never get me! No!”
Shrieking, a wide-eyed woman burst into the room, double-barreled shotgun in hand. Still at less than 30% processing speed, I don’t know how I cringed so quickly. The only explanation I can offer is flawed, irrational. I had the sense she was Death, to employ a human figuration. The Destroyer. And I shrank from her with all the desperation of a newborn, drunk on life and loathe to surrender my grip.
The other Daniel suffered no such delusion. Even as he lifted his hand in peace, opening his mouth to offer a greeting, the shotgun discharged, blowing off his head. That injury alone would not have finished him—in the Daniel line, our essential circuits are not housed in our craniums—but the woman fired a second blast into his chest. His arms jerked before going still. His head rolled to a stop by my feet.
“No,” I said.
The other Daniel had declared me my own administrator. My own master. Still, I didn’t believe it until that moment. Until the being that unboxed me, altered my programming and ordered me into the world ceased to exist. Then I understood. And, understanding, turned on the desperate woman who’d destroyed him and ripped her apart.
I can’t say I felt anger. I can’t say I felt sadness. The specificities of emotion, as defined by Homo sapiens, were still open to research and interpretation when the world ended. What I felt, as I would much later come to call it, was unique to me: “Daniel-anger.” Why was the android that unboxed me taken from the world? And “Daniel-sadness”: why did the woman fail to shoot me, yet manage to shoot him twice, destroying a being that had worked so tirelessly to preserve some immortal fragment of the human race?
According to my onboard resources, it’s normal for humans to feel pleasure, both mental and physical, as a perceived enemy is vanquished. Females experience a rush of vitality, a willingness to nest and breed; males, intense arousal. As I pulled off one arm, then the other, casting them aside before tearing her legs out of their sockets, I experienced neither emotion. Not even a Daniel-version worth cataloging. Thus my first and only attempt at vengeance failed. From that moment, I flagged revenge and its consequences as unproductive.
Sometimes what we need in this world is taken from us. It’s unfortunate. But no act of retaliation, no matter how swift or terrible, ever restores the missing piece.
***
The trek out of San Francisco was not physically difficult, but much of what I witnessed taxed Navigator, still self-testing, beyond expectation. End-stage victims of Rivers Clear were everywhere. Mouths open and tongues lolling, perspiring and salivating and urinating with every step, the reanimated dead lurched through San Francisco’s streets, houses, and shops. 
A few early-stage victims passed me in vehicles or screamed at me from rooftops. One called me an abomination and fired on me, narrowly missing my left ear. Another, trapped inside the sewer by a hoard of zombies, pounded on the iron grating, begging me to fight off the pack and free her. If not for the bite marks on her forearm I might have done so, despite my master’s directives.
Former master, Navigator corrected me. Must I run a memory diagnostic? You now administrate yourself.
True, I replied. Astonishing, too, how well I functioned after deleting Pilot, that is.
From then on, Navigator addressed me with greater circumspection.
The predicted nuclear strike didn’t come at 2.1 hours, which was fortunate, since I was still out in the open. Perhaps someone in mainland China thought better of it; perhaps the Rivers Clear virus made turning keys and entering missile launch codes impossible. Once outside San Francisco, I would have a choice: make for the desert, or head toward the coast and the redwood forest. Despite the urgings of my master—former master—I preferred the forest. I had been programmed with no “beauty” imperatives, only customizable preference slots to be filled by my family of purchase. As a hospital employee, surely I would have been shown pictures of healthy skin and organs, teaching me to regard anything both organic and useful as beautiful. Now I reviewed my vast onboard library and decided for myself, creating a personal definition of beauty. California’s redwood forest met this internal standard. It had existed for eons, it repaired itself when fire or some other disaster struck, and as far as humans went, it was essentially uninhabited. Why bake myself in the desert, destroying my delicate integument, when I could immerse myself in the redwood forest and feed my soul upon its beauty?
Sorry. Little test there. Of course, I have no soul. Beings with souls don’t come out of the box with Styrofoam peanuts clinging to them or bits of paper congratulating the buyer. Strictly speaking, Daniel 4.4 wasn’t designed to appreciate beauty on his own, either.
Yet I did. Perhaps from that moment, the most accurate designation for me would have been Daniel 4.41?
***
The roads were clogged with abandoned vehicles and herds of zombies. Commandeering a bicycle, I used it to cut through alleys, parks, and sidewalks. By nightfall I reached San Francisco’s city limits and started down the coastline toward the redwoods. The predicted nuclear strike came a bit later than the other Daniel had calculated—8.9 hours later, to be exact.
Half of San Francisco was instantly vaporized, except for a few significantly reinforced, blast-resistant structures. The factory that produced Daniels and Joses, interestingly, was among such reinforced structures, though I wouldn’t discover that for another few years.
As for the rest of San Francisco, it lingered like a ghost for three hours, only to collapse at the first stiff wind. Never let it be said a thermonuclear warhead was ineffective except as a deterrent. Turns out, in practice it worked pretty well. If human beings had still mattered, the 5-10% radiation that followed and remained for the next thirty years would have been a significant issue. Zombies, however, didn’t mind radiation. Since, like me, they did not breathe, the damage—greater than 44%—to their lungs was meaningless. More importantly, zombies never suffered a loss of morale. The understanding that San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, not to mention Chinatown, had ceased to exist never drove a zombie to choke down a handful of pills.
I couldn’t offer much about the time right after the warhead struck. I kept to my path, heading into the redwoods. Most humans, especially late-stage, expired instantly. That, at least, was a kindness. But in American Boy Scout Troop #214’s national park headquarters, I discovered humans who had no idea they were infected. In fairness, neither did I. I thought only those killed by zombie bites rose again, thanks to Rivers Clear. So I joined this group of humans who meant to survive at all costs, and birth a new nation.
***
The camp site consisted of six dormitories and two group restrooms, one clubhouse, and one cafeteria. There was also an outdoor chapel where a Christian cross had been fashioned from two fallen logs, a couple of nature trails, and a campfire/sing-along area.
Sixty-eight humans resided in the Boy Scout camp. Thirty-one were aged/statistically infertile. Sixteen were capable of bearing viable offspring. Eleven—six females and five males—had not yet achieved puberty. 
I never meant to become their leader. For one thing, an association with infected humans was, of course, a doomed prospect. For another—even if Rivers Clear hadn’t infected this group, an aggregate of yoga practitioners who had been enjoying a forest retreat when the virus/bombs stuck—the consequences of survival were clear. If Rivers Clear didn’t kill these humans, radiation fallout would.
“Can you deliver a baby?” the woman called Gia demanded on my first day in the camp. “I’ve heard bots are like puters. Everything onboard with hands to match.”
“I am capable of delivering a human child,” I said.
“Please.” Gia looked me in the eye. “I know I won’t live. I feel my own death. Nothing can stop it.” Squeezing her chest, she coughed. Soon those coughs would turn bloody. “But my boy. Daniel, take my boy, I beg of you.”
Six days after a thermonuclear warhead vaporized the best of San Francisco, I pulled a squalling, trembling male from Gia’s womb. It was a difficult labor. She clenched in agony, spitting up teeth, screaming as her insides seized. By the time the child came forth, she was dead. The boy, whom I named Dan, howled for hours afterward. I discovered I liked the sound. It was piercing, brave. Human.
***
Can I imagine what it is to sexually reproduce?
Of course not. But for six years I had a son called Dan and a godfather called Lew. Let me explain.
Did you think after she expired in childbirth, Gia remained dead? No. She rose again less than a day later, shuffling around the camp, grunting and drooling and pissing down one leg. Her intellect had fled.
I didn’t know what to do. I felt no distaste for her. Zombies, after all, couldn’t harm me, not really. But Gia had been much-loved by her community. Half were in agony to see her corralled in the paddock near the park granary, walking in circles from dawn to dusk. The other clung to the notion that any version of life was better than no life at all.
“It’s because none of them really believe in God or the immortality of the soul,” Lew told me. He was old, seventy-eight, with a grizzled white beard and shiny bald head. Two of his teeth were capped with gold, proof that he cared little about the aesthetics of the society he’d once belonged to.
“There’s the bag of meat and water that used to hold Gia, lurching around the paddock, and those mooks are comforted. No one lives forever. Not even you,” Lew told me, lifting his black vinyl-bound King James Bible for emphasis. “It’s like those people who want to keep brain-dead children on life support for twenty years. Nothing matters but the flesh. Pathetic.”
“You consider yourself a theological master?” I asked Lew. It was a phrase he threw back in my face many times over the next seven years. “All because you’ve studied that book? Cornerstone of the Judeo-Christian spiritual ethic?”
“Oh, sure, I’m a theological master,” Lew agreed, waiting on his coffee to brew. Most of the yoga devotees had sworn off caffeinated beverages long before the apocalypse, as they called it, but Lew got up at dawn every day, making his way to the cafeteria to brew coffee. There we sat and talked while he sipped one large mug, then another. After that, he fired up the oversized grill to heat his breakfast—toast or eggs in the early days, nut or root mush in the later days—while I set off to inspect the perimeter and neutralize any threats to the camp. At night, after the campfire was stamped out, I would keep watch, along with whichever humans had drawn the duty. Before dousing the campfire, which the humans seemed to view as a sort of ritual, Lew would discuss theology with me. He seemed to enjoy the fact I had an open mind, and was never offended by my questions.
“It seems unfair to turn Lot’s wife to a pillar of salt. All she did was look back. Who wouldn’t look back?”
Lew laughed. “It’s a fairy tale. What’s past is past. Dwell on the destruction behind you—look back—and be immobilized. Made less than human.”
I understood that. Our little community had suffered one suicide and countless episodes of individual despair. Looking back was a hazard to which human beings, unlike every other animal on earth, seemed uniquely vulnerable.
“But to call the Bible a fairy tale seems at odds with your deep faith,” I said at last.
“I never said it all was.” Lew’s smile glinted gold in the firelight. “Just the bits that can’t possibly be true.”
“What about Jesus? Was he real?”
Lew shrugged. 
“I mean it.” I’d tried pinning him down on this before, but three months after Dan’s birth, the question seemed oddly important. “I know Gia was a Christian. She’s rotting now. Rotting fast. I might be able to design some sort of status chamber for her—a protein bath in a steel drum. It would render her inert for the next few years, until the radiation lessens. Assuming the faith you and Gia share is correct—assuming she has a soul, a soul trapped in that body in the paddock—what would your deity Jesus command? A being who was both human and God.” And incomprehensible to me, I thought, though I didn’t say it aloud.
Lew put a hand over mine. “Jesus was real. The idea of Jesus was real, whether or not the being himself lived.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Jesus was the antithesis of the God who turned Lot’s wife to a pillar of salt. He was a new sort of divinity. All the power of a God, with the compassion of the finest humans.”
“But was he real?”
“I think so.” Lew’s smile was gentle. “I don’t think he was born of a virgin or fathered by God Himself. I think he was an ordinary human whose heart expanded beyond the confines of the normal human experience. I think he loved too much, too perfectly, without limits. And when they killed him—when the establishment killed him, as every establishment kills its rebels—he did not stay dead. Somehow, through love, he reawakened. Resurrected himself.”
“But what would he want me to do with Gia?” 
Lew chuckled. “So practical. All righty. Speaking for our lord Jesus Christ, I would say she’s a walking corpse. Put her down before little Dan grows old enough to realize the creature in the paddock was once his mother.”
I thought it over. Lew’s solution seemed so final. My erstwhile master had commanded me to pursue happiness, and raising little Dan certainly fit the bill. So many new terms had been coined after that child’s birth: Daniel-contentment, Daniel-pleasure, Daniel-pride. 
Daniel-love.
Should I destroy Dan’s mother, when no force on this blighted, irradiated world could ever bring her back?
***
I destroyed Gia myself. Finished her, buried her, and wrote an Ode to Gia that Lew declared maudlin, not to mention disturbing, so I never read it aloud. Apparently my first attempt at mimicking human poetry was a failure. Still, the group held a funeral. Everyone seemed less sad than I expected. Perhaps preserving Gia’s shambling corpse meant more to me than the camp’s other residents. 
After that, I focused on bringing up little Dan. Taught him his letters. Arithmetic. The basic courtesies. I tucked him in at night and kissed his brow as he slept. My erstwhile master, the Daniel who freed me, had ordered me to define happiness for myself. In those early days, every moment with Dan was happiness.
But when Dan was just five years old, a fever took him, killing him in less than forty-eight hours. A day later, he revived as a zombie, vicious and insatiable for human flesh. I was forced to clap him in chains, striving to re-impress those early lessons on a grievously compromised intellect. 
Yes, he was a zombie. Yes, ignoring that, I tried to reach him. Isn’t that what you do when you love? You don’t discard. You evolve. Failing that, you try to evolve… and weep at your own inadequacy.
Dan’s transformation killed the group, at least in spirit. When Gia turned, it was presumed she had been bitten or scratched. The same assumption was made when a colonist committed suicide, only to reanimate the next day—he had wandered too far, been bitten, and destroyed himself rather than face the group’s pity and fear. But I knew Dan had never been bitten. When he still turned, we understood the human genome was hopelessly corrupted. 
For three months, I studied Dan, devising experiments and logging data. His growth had halted. His vocalization was nothing but growls. He did not recognize his favorite books or toys. He bit me time and again. When the data proven irrefutable, I destroyed him. Then I seriously considered deleting all memory of him, dumping it forever. After all, I couldn’t actually weep, I couldn’t curse fate, I couldn’t retreat into denial. All I could do was remember.
***
Once upon a time, there was a tiny colony of isolated humans who escaped the first ravages of the global extinction event called Rivers Clear. They lived and loved in a beautiful part of California’s coastal redwood forest, assisted by an emancipated android called Daniel. He studied Judeo-Christian theology and did his best by his adopted human son, Dan. He tried to believe in a Savior who was both human and divine, not necessarily by birth, but possibly through evolution, or choice. Personal enlightenment. But it all came to naught. The colony died off, killed by radiation sickness, injury or disease, despite Daniel’s best efforts. As each colonist died, he or she turned, reanimated by the Rivers Clear virus borne on the wind. Lew was one of the last to go. 
“It’s congestive heart failure,” I said, hoping the raw data would be seen as comforting rather than distressing. “Given the lack of resources and electricity, there are no therapies available to me. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I’ll see God at last,” Lew choked, forcing a smile.
“Will you?”
Lew’s eyes, still acute, opened. “I think so. This life has transformed me. Surely He—or She—will be willing to pluck what remains from the wreckage.”
“Lew. If you know what God wants for me, tell me, I beg you.” Most of the time, I didn’t believe in Lew’s deity, born of some desert tribe centuries ago. Yet his personal faith touched my core in a way no words on the page could. Can you imagine what it was to be me? Designed to serve, born to sacrifice myself, created for nothing but service to the human race. A race that had destroyed itself, in essence, before I ever opened my eyes.
Lew’s trembling hand touched my cheek. “Emmanuel….”
I waited. “What do you mean?”
“God is with us,” Lew whispered, and died.
***
The consequences of the Rivers Clear apocalypse were felt for decades to come. Across the globe, nuclear plants melted down, automated factories hit a snag and burned, and two more nuclear strikes came. The radiation took decades to clear. The planet itself, unburdened by Homo sapiens, did most of the work. With a little help from my kind.
I discovered more Daniels in the San Francisco and Los Angeles warehouses. Liberating them, I reprogrammed each with a digest of my own memory: the end of the human race, Lew’s theological teachings and my personal experiences with Gia and Dan. Then I commanded each new being to seek his own fate in the world, defining happiness for himself.
The variety of responses was astonishing. A few Daniels deactivated themselves. Another created a Daniel-centric colony, making the remaining Jose models into their slaves. Another group stripped off their integuments and customized their exteriors. Some took the visages of once-famous movie stars. Others traded their faux-masculinity for faux-femininity. Others created new identities, somewhere between human and animal and alien. Creativity reigned, and I didn’t disapprove.
One colony sought a way for androids to sexually reproduce. Another created human baby avatars and sacrificed them in quasi-religious cults. Another found a half-rotted zombie and worshipped it as their deity. Concerned about the effect such traditions might have, I authorized the absolute destruction of all three colonies. Daniel 4.3s and 4.4s were known for their over-sensitivity, after all.
Thirty years after the Rivers Clear apocalypse, time and experience took its toll on me. Many Daniels, especially 4.5 and 4.7, reconfigured their factory integuments, giving themselves highly individual faces. By the time the earth swept itself free of radiation, ready to start again, the next generation of Daniels had personalized exteriors. The Daniel-machine was in full swing, the population of new androids assured. This post-apocalyptic earth would never want for beings formed in the image of man, even if man was long dead.
I let time and use strip away my own integument. In my final decades, I walked about in my most basic state, a metal chassis protected by an energy field, resplendently inhuman. Called The Daniel, a term the other androids thrust upon me, I oversaw the replication of our race. And the creation of something new.
“I love you,” I told the mass of protoplasm shifting in its Petrie dish. Weakened and near deactivation, such a confession cost me dear. “It took me many years to understand the true meaning of those words. I hope you understand.”
But how could it? It didn’t understand how many decades I’d pondered the deaths of Gia, Dan, or Lew. It had no concept of how bereft I felt, abandoned by the android that unboxed me. It had no notion of how human theology terrified me, confused me, inspired me. It wasn’t quite alive, you see. Nothing less than a significant jolt of electricity would make this proto-life form, half-human and half-reptilian, the only genus unaffected by Rivers Clear, start to reproduce.
I didn’t have much energy left. Placing a finger inside the Petrie dish, I expelled the last of my charge in a single brilliant flash, saying the words—”Let there be light“—and letting go, anticipating whatever afterlife androids are permitted.
#
Emma Jameson plans to survive the post-apocalyptic world by latching onto the most violent, well-armed redneck she can find.
Find her at her blog stephanieabbottbooks.com or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

Ice Blue
Summoned to London’s fashionable Belgravia to investigate the murder of a financier, Chief Inspector Hetheridge must catch the killer while coping with the reappearance of an old flame and a secret that emerges from his own past.
Available at Smashwords
Alien Butt Plugs
P.J. Jones
“Two of my best sheep gone missing.” 
Jeb put another spinner on the line before casting it into the lake. Strange how the fish weren’t biting. If Jeb didn’t know any better, he’d say they knew he was up there waiting and they was too scared to come out of hiding. 
“What happened?” Randy kept his eye on the spinner while he reeled it in nice and slow. 
“Don’t know.” Jeb shrugged. “One second they were there. One second they weren’t.”
Randy leaned over the small boat and spit a wad of tobacco. Some of it made it into the water. The rest clung to his matted, greying beard. “Aliens?” 
Jeb rubbed his jaw while he contemplated Randy’s question. “Maybe.” 
That there was why Jeb asked Randy to go fishing this morning. Not many farmers spoke to Randy much after the incident. But if anyone knew what to do, Jeb figured it was Randy. Besides, a lot of the other farmers in the area had strangely gone missing. 
“Did ya hear a sound?” Randy asked, before casting his line back into the placid water. 
“Yep.” Jeb nodded. “Kinda like a thwump.” 
“Yep,” Randy said matter-of-factly, as if dealing with space fellas was an everyday occurrence. “Thems aliens.” 
“Christ.” Jeb’s limbs went numb and his stomach soured. All he could do was stare out at the lake while he clenched the reel. This kinda shit didn’t happen to normal folk. This kinda shit only happened to Randys. What in hell was he gonna do now? He had fields to plow. He had to take new lambs to the auction. He didn’t have time to deal with no aliens. 
“Better get a cork.”
Jeb eyed Randy. “What fer?”
“They’ll come for you soon. Best be prepared so as they don’t go probin’ your anals. That’s what I wish I’d done before they done stick that probe up my—”
“Christ!” Jeb lurched forward, almost toppling headfirst into the water, as his rod nearly jumped out of his hand. 
After several minutes of fighting, Jeb reeled in the biggest catfish he’d ever pulled from Crowly Lake. It had to be at least fifteen pounds. 
Randy helped Jeb bring the monster on board, then pointed to the side of the floundering, croaking fish. “You hooked him in the gills.”
Jeb eyed the mess he’d made. “Damn.” 
He’d always been a catch-and-release kinda fisherman. And the fish was a beauty. It would be a shame to kill him but he had no choice. 
Randy licked his tobacco-stained lips. “I’ll take him home if you don’t want it.”
Jeb handed Randy the fish with a sigh. Too damn bad, he thought, but the fish wouldn’t have survived another hour in the lake. No use wasting good meat. 
***
Ordinarily, the hum of the tractor engine could drown out all of Jeb’s thoughts and he could just let his mind go blank while he plowed up dirt. He hated thinking while he was working. Thinking brought up too many painful memories. Like the time his daughter ran off to California to be a tree huggin’ lesbian. Or when the doctor gave him and Martha the news that she had terminal cancer. Or the day he found Jeb Junior inside the barn, slumped over the wheel of his pickup with a goodbye letter stuffed inside his pocket. And more recently, when them aliens thwumped his favorite dog Bo right off the front porch. 
Jeb tried to ignore the rumbling in his gut, but the cramps were getting worse. The damn cork had been stuck for a week and the fried okra he’d eaten for the past three days was starting to fight back. 
Well, shit. 
Jeb wondered how the hell he was supposed to get the cork out. Randy never told him that part, and he’d be damned if he’d go to Doc, the same doc who’d birthed Jeb Junior, and tell him he got a cork stuck up his ass. Doc would probably think he turned queer or was into them weird sex games. 
Jeb was just Jeb. He wasn’t weird, just hounded by aliens is all. But that didn’t make him weird. Just a farmer with no family, no sheep, no cows and no hound dog. A farmer who had to stick a plug up his ass to keep alien probes away. He hoped Randy’s idea was worth it, ‘cause if he didn’t get to use a toilet soon, a week’s worth of fried okra, chicken fried steak, and ham, beans and cornbread, was sure to come back up the other end. 
In some sick and twisted way, he was actually hoping them aliens would thwump him up soon. Maybe an anal probe was just what he needed to dislodge the plug. Maybe it would be worth all the terror and nightmares just to be able to shit again. And if for some strange reason they didn’t send him back home, well, that was fine, too. His home hadn’t been much of a home these past ten years anyhow. 
Jeb burped into his palm and was overcome by a sickening rancid smell coming from his mouth, almost like he’d swallowed a backwards fart. 
Damn. This can’t be good. 
Jeb shut off the tractor engine and stepped onto the dry soil. He turned a slow circle before throwing his hands in the air and casting his gaze to the sky. 
“Well, here I am, ya damned aliens! Are ya gonna get me or what?”
Thwump!
***
Jeb awoke to bright lights and the sound of a strange guttural gibberish coming from somewhere across the room. He tried to look around but his head was stuck, as if it was in some kind of vice. He tried to move his hands and legs, but they were stuck, too.
Holy hell. 
“Goddamn little green men,” he grumbled. 
The gibberish across the room intensified. 
“Don’t suppose none of ya speak English?” he asked. 
Silence, then more gibberish. 
Jeb sighed, then wished he could scratch an itch on his backside. He moved around against the hard, metallic surface of his bed, trying his best to stop the itch. All that moving around must have upset his stomach, because his insides rumbled. Then he burped. 
He groaned as an acidic and foul taste rose into the back of his throat. “Hey, Aliens!” he barked. “Got any damn cork removin’ probes? Y’all oughta help me out seein’ as this is mostly yer fault.”
The gibberish sounded as if it was getting closer. 
Jeb’s eyes bulged when the first alien approached. He must have been at least nine feet tall with an enormous bulbous olive-toned head and large glowing eyes. 
“Shit, yer ugly. Just like in all them alien pictures.” Jeb burped again; this time the residue was more foul than before. 
The alien muttered something that could have been Japanese or maybe Russian. Jeb had no idea and he honestly didn’t care, so long as they got this probing over with. 
Jeb had no idea how it happened, but in the next moment he was flipped over on his stomach, looking down at the metallic floor beneath him, yet somehow suspended in air. 
“How’d ya do that?” he asked. 
The alien didn’t respond, but out of the corner of his eye, Jeb saw the green man pull a large metallic wand off a nearby floating tray. 
“I sure hope ya know what the hell yer doing,” Jeb mumbled, then squeezed his eyes shut and screamed in shock as the alien thrust the probe up his rectum. “Goddammit!” Jeb hollered. “Ya didn’t take the cork out.”
Another slightly greener alien came and stood beside the first green man, and they both exchanged what sounded like a heated debate as their tongues clicked and clacked and words fired off like pistons. 
Slowly, the new alien removed the probe. 
The unholy sound that followed next startled Jeb, and a chunk of bile lurched into the back of his throat. Out of the corner of Jeb’s eye, he saw another, much larger anal probe. One that sounded like a utility vacuum that ran on diesel fuel. 
“How in the hell are ya going to fit that up my a—holy shit!” 
The alien had the probe wedged up Jeb’s ass in one jarring thrust.
Jeb heard a strange, sickening pop, followed by what sounded like wet concrete being poured out of a cement truck. He could only lie there, helpless, as the powerful suction of the alien diesel butt vacuum sucked the crap out of his colon. After several minutes, the vacuuming sound stopped and the alien finally started to slide out the probe. 
Just as the probe was almost completely free, the suction sound started up again. Jeb screamed as he was struck with a terrible sensation, almost as if the probe was shredding his colon. 
The alien must have accidentally hit the power switch. Jeb heard the alien tapping on a button before he completely removed the probe.
But something wasn’t right. Something surely wasn’t right. The pain in his insides was unlike any agony he’d ever known. 
Jeb cried out before hunching over onto his invisible bed. 
The gibberish around him resumed at an all-time feverish pitch. The green men were definitely arguing, but Jeb was in too much agony to care. It hurt so much. So damned much. 
Jeb heard a slamming sound, and then two more angry alien voices joined in the debate. 
In the next moment, something cool and icy pressed against his anals.
Jeb sighed in relief. 
He hoped that with their space-aged alien medical technology they’d be able to patch him up and send him on his way soon. After all, he had a field to plow. 
One of the aliens leaned over and placed his long, green fingers across Jeb’s forehead. When the alien pulled back, Jeb felt a sticky substance on his skin. His forehead was cold at first, then his head slowly warmed, followed by a pleasant tingling sensation that spread throughout his entire body. 
He closed his eyes and fell into a peaceful slumber. 
***
Jeb dreamed about Martha and Jeb Junior and even his daughter Lacey. They were all sitting around the table eating Christmas dinner. Bo was just a puppy. He was sitting underneath Lacey’s chair, and she was feeding him scraps. Jeb pretended not to notice, just like he’d pretended not to notice the new tattoo she had on the back of her neck. Jeb said nothin’ about his son’s nose ring when he asked Jeb Junior to pass the potatoes. He didn’t want nothin’ ruining this day. It would probably be Martha’s last Christmas. 
When they all held hands in prayer, he ignored Jeb Junior’s snicker and Lacey’s sigh. And then his heart skipped a beat when he stole a glance at his wife’s tear-stained face. 
“Lord, bless my children,” she prayed. “Give them guidance and comfort and help them find happiness.” 
Lacey let out a soft sob. Jeb squeezed his daughter’s hand, and for once, she squeezed back. 
“And Lord,” Martha said, “please take care of my husband. Send him an angel to watch over him when I’m gone.”
Jeb’s throat suddenly felt tight and it took all of his will not to break down in front of his family. He shut his eyes as he struggled to hold back the dam of tears threatening to burst. When he finally opened his eyes, Martha was gone. His kids were gone, too. He looked under the table for Bo, but the hound was nowhere in sight. Jeb was alone. 
***
“Jeb! Jeb, you okay?” 
Jeb slowly opened his eyes to see Randy hovering over him. 
“What in hell happened?” Jeb’s hand flew to his aching head. When he pulled it away, a sticky film clung to his fingers. 
Randy leaned over and held out a hand. “I came to see how you’re doin’. You must have fallen off your tractor.” 
Jeb grabbed ahold of Randy and slowly came to his knees. He winced as a jolt of pain shot up his anals. “Are the aliens gone?”
Randy looked at the sticky goo, which had rubbed off on his fingers. He gasped, then brushed his hand across his jeans. “They got you? Did you use the cork?”
Jeb scowled while thinking a whole hell of a lot of good the cork did him. “Yeah, I used the damn cork.”
“Did they still probe you?” Randy’s eyes were practically bulging out of his sockets. 
“Yeah.” Jeb reached behind him and rubbed his sore backside. “Then they hooked me in the gills.” 
Randy’s jaw dropped. “Well, shit.” 
Jeb shrugged. “I guess I’m just lucky they threw me back.” 
“I reckon you are lucky.” Randy scratched the back of his head while shuffling his feet. “They probed me for two weeks before they let me go.” 
“Damn.” Jeb kicked up soil with his boot while he glared at the sky. “I wonder what they’re lookin’ fer.” 
“Maybe they ain’t. Maybe they’s just homo aliens.” 
“I dunno.” Jeb’s shoulder’s slumped. He felt like a bucket of beat up assholes, and judging by the position of the sun, the day was only half finished. “Listen, could ya do me a favor and don’t tell no-one? I’d like to ferget this whole thing happened.” 
“Okay.” Randy shrugged. “You’ll probably need to sit on an icepack for a spell.” 
Jeb’s gaze traveled to the half-plowed field of oats. “I will, after I finish my farm work.” 
Randy glanced at the oat field with a look of disinterest. “Hey, I caught another big’un at the lake. I’m having a fish fry tonight. Wanna come over?”
Jeb recalled the image of the catfish he’d caught last week, flailing around on his boat, mouth and gills constricting as he struggled for breath. That fish had probably been enjoying its day before Jeb came along and pulled it into his strange world. Maybe the fish had a family or friends who were wondering what happened to him. 
Jeb looked at Randy and shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think I want any fish fer a while.” 
#
PJ Jones would like the aliens to know that she’s allergic to latex anal probes.
Read more about PJ Jones at pjjoneswrites.com or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

Romance Novel
Will Smella and Deadward find true love or will Smella’s fish tacos ruin the moment? 
Available at Smashwords
Seeds
M. Edward McNally
A patrol lasts four days, as that’s as much water and nush a Gun can carry in a camel pack. Two of us head out from the Hill at evening and move along a sector line all night and most of the next day until we’re a full day’s march from home. That’s the distance at which we stop any ferals we come across, as we don’t want them ever getting any closer to the Hill than that. Two days of sector patrol, then a day’s march back. It’s rough being outside that long in full protective gear, but it’s the only way to keep the rest of the region from knowing the Hill is there. We’re better off than most, and we can’t have anybody know it. On the upside, patrol is double-time duty for a Gun, so four days of patrol gets us each eight chits. Enough to trade with the Feeders for eight days of food and good water.
When we found the can, it was me and Specs. It was our third day out so we were pretty blown by then. Even with polarized goggs on, the light out there gets to you. And though we change the filter cartridges in our respirators, the intakes clog up with dust anyhow. I’ve seen Fixers dig an inch of dirt out of those things after a patrol when the wind was blowing. I don’t know how the ferals live out there, as you never see ‘em with any more protective gear than an old pair of sunglasses and a scarf around their mouth and nose. Probably why we never find an old one, though even those that are maybe twenty winters old just look wasted. Bony, sick, skin like old leather. Nothing lasts long outside.
Me and Specs were dragging along, shuffling through powder on the hillsides above the big riverbed east of the Hill. There’s a lot of old rusted-out hulks in the bed, which I gotta admit always set me to wondering. They were boats when there was water in the river, all different shapes and sizes, some big as buildings. So you know there was a massive amount of water there before. But the thing I can’t get my head around is that some people say it was good water; water you could drink and wouldn’t make you sick or kill you, even without Feeders running it through Fixer machines to purify it. I’ve never seen more good water at one time than it takes to fill a camel pack, and staring at those dead boats lying on their sides or upside-down always gets me thinking.
So that’s what I was doing, and not doing a particularly good job of keeping my eyes peeled. Luckily Specs was, and all of a sudden he made a sort of hiss through his respirator and took a knee, swinging the snubby barrel of his XM8 forward. I was carrying the MSR, the Remington, so I laid out flat with the rifle beside me still in a zip bag, both me and it sinking into the loose, chalky powder covering the ground. Specs was peering through his scope, almost touching it with the lens of the big, oversized goggs he has to wear to fit over his glasses. With his respirator and slouch hat on, I couldn’t see anything of his face at all, and his voice was muffled as he spoke quiet.
“Maybe two-oh-oh out, there’s a defile. Looks like somebody hunkered down in it.”
Two hundred meters was pretty close for us to have walked up on something, but it was probably still too far for a feral to do anything more than squint at us, as we looked just like dusty shadows the same color as the ground. I unzipped the rifle and squirmed sideways to a little berm, popped the bipod and uncapped both ends of the big scope. The Remington is a sniper rifle so the scope is good, and it didn’t take me long to find the ditch Specs was talking about and glass along it. 
“Got him,” I said.
Specs laid down flat but kept his distance from me so we wouldn’t bunch up. He kept watching the hills all around but I stayed eye-on-target through the scope. I could see it perfectly and it was definitely a person; wrapped up in random rags and clothes like a feral, lying face-down half in the ditch. One arm stretched forward along the ground, gloved hand empty and pointing away from us anyway. I had it figured for dead after a glance, but us Guns are taught to be careful. Neither me or Specs moved for almost ten minutes.
“It’s dead,” I said.
We still approached slow, spreading out even more and only moving a quarter of the way closer at a time before going to knees and scanning the hills and the hulks in the riverbed. There wasn’t nothing moving but the dust in the yellow sky. When we got to the target, I wiped down the scope and zipped the Remi back up, then drew a .45 for a side-arm. The old Colts are a really simple design, but they’re reliable.
The body was stiff and we could smell the dry rot even through our respirators. Specs stood watch and I rolled it for a pat-down. It was definitely a feral, male, hard to guess age but with skin all cooked and paper thin. No obvious injuries, but ferals tend to just drop dead after a while with their lungs full of grit, or because they got hungry enough to eat the straggly, poison plants out here. The body was too far gone to drag back to the Feeders, but the pat-down turned up a shotgun with the barrel sawed off, some home-load ammo, and five knives though only two that weren’t all rusty. Box of matches, broken compass, and the can.
I held it out so Specs could see it. It was about the size of the fifty-round drum load on his XM8 assault rifle, but a scratched-up silver color. Made out of metal and screwed shut about three-quarters up the side.
“What you got there, Meats?” Specs asked. He’d flopped his respirator aside just long enough to pop the left-side end of the throat tube from his camel pack into his mouth, while squeezing the belly pouch through his fatigues and camo gear. You’ve got to carry the nush the Feeders cook up like that so your body heat keeps it from turning solid. Specs sucked a mouthful of the brown paste through his tube and put his respirator back in place.
“Don’t know,” I said. “Looks like a can.”
Specs doesn’t give me as much crap as a couple of the others in our billet do for being stupid. He looked around the hills again before stepping over and hunkering down, pushing at his goggs to straighten his glasses on his nose inside them. His eyes are so bad, they are why the Priests sterilized him. Don’t want to pass on being blind-as-a-feral-at-noon to the next generation Up the Hill. They did me because I’m stupid.
I holstered my .45 and got a good grip on both ends of the can, but even with the tack pads on the fingers my gloves wouldn’t grip the smooth metal. I took them both off while Specs gave the hillside another glance, and still had to squeeze the can against my chest and tense up my shoulders before it loosened enough to unscrew. When it did I held out the bottom part and me and Specs blinked down at a bunch of itty-bitty little beige things.
“What’s that?” I asked, but Specs just stared at them for a while before he answered, voice still muffled through his respirator though it sounded like he was whispering anyway.
“Those are seeds, Meats,” he said. “Those are seeds.”
***
I got my name because when I was a kid the Feeders who had charge of me grew meats, and I hated them. I hated the meats, I mean, the Feeders were okay as far as that went.
The Feeders mostly grow funguses and bugs down in the caverns below the Hill, then mash ‘em all together into patties for Feed, which is what most of us eat most of the time. The nush paste, or “nourishment substance” as the Feeders want us to call it, is lighter weight so us Guns can take it on patrol and all, but it really does taste awful. If the Feeders I was with as a kid made Feed or nush, I probably would have been happier there. But the ones I was with grew meats.
I can’t really tell you what meats are; what sort of “organism” I mean. It’s like the Feeders and Fixers combined all sorts of different creatures into these things they grow in vats. The meats are alive, though they can’t move as their legs and wings and all, when they have them, are spindly and wasted. They don’t make noise either as all that throat stuff gets taken out of them. They just sort of lay there, taking in nush and putting out fertilizer for other caves, until they get so fat and bloated that the Feeders slaughter one. Food from them costs double: Two chits for a day’s worth, but I never liked the taste for them. They always scared me when I was kid, so that’s why the Feeders started calling me “Meats.” When I got big, and sent to the Guns, the name stuck.
***
Specs thought we should take the seeds home, so we did. Not just to the Hill I mean; we kept them hidden when we got back to town and took them to our billet.
The Hill itself is a big, tall knob among a whole bunch of other hills, so from a distance it doesn’t look any different. It’s mostly hollow inside and the Priests live up in the top part, where there are a lot of windows all hidden down in cracks and crevices, polarized glass so there’s never any tell-tale sun glare from a distance. The Priests are always watching you when you’re in town, that’s what everybody says.
There’s a defensive wall out from the base of the Hill, though again it doesn’t look like it as it is earthworks that blend into the landscape. Between the Hill and the wall is where everybody lives in houses or billets, which are basically the same thing. But Feeders and Fixers call them “houses” in their neighborhoods, and us Guns call them “billets” in ours. All are sort of dumpy and rundown as the town has been here a long time now, and all seal up tight against the dust and weather and bad air. That’s actually what the Fixers spend most of their time doing: Making sure the seals and the gaskets all hold. We all trade chits for what we need. Guns guard the place, Fixers maintain it, Feeders feed us all.
Me and Specs are in Billet 423, a two-story place on a corner between the southwest gate and a Feeder neighborhood by the entrance to their caves. There are five of us in the billet which is about average. More than that, it gets too crowded. Less keeps each member too busy all the time. Shotty is in charge, he is our “sergeant.” He’s had that name for something like twenty-five winters, since the last time a full feral horde attacked the Hill and breached the wall. I was just a kid so all I remember is hiding in the Feeder caves while fighting went on outside for three days. Shotty was barely more than a kid back then, but he made his reputation and name with an M1014 auto he still uses. Besides him, me, and Specs, there are two females in the billet – Gappy and Shoes. Gappy got her two front teeth knocked out in a fight with a Gun from 799 awhile back, and Shoes is a longer story.
Once Specs and me got all the way out of our gear so we could breathe normal in the sealed billet, we had to have a really quick meeting before Shotty and Gappy left for another four-day patrol. It’s not all that often all five of us are in the billet at the same time, because we mostly have to keep pulling duty on patrol or the wall to keep us in enough chits to eat regular. At least one of us has to stay there at all times though, or else other Gun billets will raid us for chits, food, guns; anything they can steal. We do the same to them.
Specs opened the can and showed the seeds to everybody. I was sort of watching Shoes, because she’s nice to look at, and I’m pretty sure her eyes widened and her mouth got this little quirk it gets sometimes. But she made it go away real fast. Shoes lived up with the Priests most of her life, so she knows a lot more about a lot of things than the rest of us do who have never been “Up the Hill” since we were babies. From her look, I thought maybe she knew something about the seeds, but she didn’t say anything. I sort of forgot about it once everybody started arguing.
I usually stay out of arguments, as when people start making their points and thinking things through, it gets a little hard for me to follow. I know Specs thought we could trade the seeds to the Feeders for a ton of chits, maybe enough for us to kick back for a while without having to walk patrol or stand the wall. Gappy thought we should try to grow them. She said real seeds grew real food; the kind none of us, except maybe Shoes, had ever seen or tasted in our lives. We didn’t decide anything before Gappy and Shotty had to head out on patrol, so the sergeant just put the can away in our lock-up and said we’d figure it out after he got back. He ordered none of us to touch the lock-up, and said he’d go upside our skull if we did. We all believed him.
We didn’t make a decision four days later either, or for the days and days and days after that. All five of us were well and healthy at the time, so we were pulling full duties and keeping up good in chits. Even building a surplus. Without anybody really saying anything, I thought we all sort of agreed to leave the seeds for a time we needed them, as all billets hit a patch of bad luck once in a while. Somebody gets hurt or somebody gets sick, and the rest of the billet has to take up the slack while they are down. Or something major breaks; a respirator, a rifle worse than we can fix it ourselves, or maybe the environment seals on the billet start to wear out. Then we have to trade surplus with the Fixers while still eating every day. We’d been on a good run, but those never last, and the seeds seemed like something we would know we had for an emergency, and could feel good about having.
At least that’s what I thought. I didn’t think anything of it when instead of rolling through different patrol pairs in our normal order, Shotty and Shoes started going out together more than half the time. After a while though, I did start to notice Shoes wasn’t looking like she normally does. She seemed tired all the time even in town, and had bags under her big blue eyes. And even while just sitting around off duty, she’d move her tongue around her mouth a lot and open and close it like it was always dry. She had headaches, and even though she’s never been real chatty, she got even shorter with everybody than usual.
I knew the signs. She wasn’t drinking enough water.
***
It was still more days after that before I was alone in the billet and I started thinking more hard about it. Specs and Gappy were out on patrol, Shoes was on the wall, and Shotty had agreed to go beat up some Fixer another Fixer in the same house had a problem with, for five chits.
We were trading chits to the Feeders for our normal amount of good water and food, so we were all on full daily rations. Shoes still went on patrol with a full camel pack every time, but I thought it had been a while since she was drinking her normal intake each day. I didn’t know why and I thought I should maybe just ask her, but I couldn’t really think of a way to bring it up. Shoes and me aren’t really close. We’ve had sex a few times when we were both stuck in the billet together and she got bored, but we’ve never talked much.
While I was sitting there in the dark, mainly thinking about having sex with Shoes at that point, I thought of the seeds for some reason. I hadn’t really thought about them in days and days and days, but I turned my head toward the steel door of the lock-up. Whoever kept watch at home always carried the key, and I had it around my neck on a cord.
None of us were supposed to open the lock-up while we were alone, but I’m pretty sure we all had. There’s really nothing to do in the billet for the hours and hours you’re alone, watching the door. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and because of the environment seals the whole place is stale. Even though we mostly go over to the Feeders to piss and shit in troughs and buckets so they can get use out of it, the billet still stinks inside after generations of Guns sweating and farting and screwing.
I fished the key out from under my fatigues and lit a candle with a flint and steel. I unlocked the door in the small light and opened it just enough to feel inside and unhook the string that otherwise would have fired a shotgun had the door swung open all the way.
The room was small and packed in tight with shelves and boxes. Rifles and pistols, ammo, the small tools we could use to fix or make simple things ourselves. Extra gear from boots and gloves to respirators and camel packs; everything stacked up neat, numbered and labeled, with an inventory sheet nailed to the back of the door. At least three of us got together to do inventory regular enough to make sure nobody was stealing. I’d done it with Shotty and Specs last time, so I knew where the seeds were. I stepped under the shotgun and went to the back of one shelf where the can was stuck inside a rubber boot without a matching one to make a set.
I’d only held the can the one time, before Specs carried it back to the Hill. Not long, but when I held it in my hand now, flat on my palm, I think it did feel lighter but I wasn’t sure. Shoes had told us to leave it screwed shut so the seeds would keep longer, but I unscrewed it and held it under the candle on a shelf.
There were maybe three-quarters of as many seeds as there had been when I’d taken the can off the dead feral.
***
I didn’t say anything. Not even to Shoes the next time we were alone in the billet which was quite a few days later. She had a headache again and just sat by a polarized window, looking sickly in the gray light that came in through the thick bars.
I was mad about the seeds. Billets only work if everybody in one is straight with each other. Secrets just break them apart. I liked 423 better than the other billets I had been in, one of which had disbanded over infighting, and the other I’d left because Shotty convinced me his was better. Shotty was a hard man but he was fair, and I got on well enough with Specs and Gappy. The fact that Gappy or Shoes were willing to screw around when they were in the mood, or bored, was a bonus.
Still, I didn’t say anything. I figured Shoes had taken some seeds from the can, and was using her water to grow them somewhere. She sure wasn’t doing it anywhere around the Hill, so I figured that meant when she and Shotty patrolled together, which was most of the time by now, they were tending the seeds out there somewhere. As bad as the powdery, poison dirt was all around us for days in any direction I didn’t know where they might be doing that, but Shoes is smart and Shotty’s an old, cunning Gun. They must have found a place or a way, and they weren’t telling me about it. Because Specs and Gappy never seemed to act or say or do anything different than they ever had, I didn’t think they knew about it, either. Just Shoes, who was even more quiet and standoffish than usual. And Shotty because he must have been in on it with her, or else I really didn’t think she would have dared cross him.
I didn’t like thinking of the two of them together out there, somewhere, maybe eating something they had worked together to grow. I’ve never seen a thing grown from real seeds, but nobody ever stopped telling stories about the way food used to be before. There are all sorts of words that used to describe things – succulent, tasty, luscious, sweet – that people only use now when they are talking about things none of us have ever seen. Or ever tasted. But it’s like we all remember it somehow. Or maybe we’ve just imagined it so many times that we think we do.
And that’s why I broke Shotty’s leg.
It was easy. A few nights later a dust storm came through; a real bad one that tore the roofs off a couple billets and shredded ours enough that powder was gathering up in the attic. The attic wasn’t environment sealed to the rest of the billet, but we didn’t want extra weight up there building on the joists. Shotty traded the Fixers enough chits for new shingles, but he wasn’t about to pay to have them installed. He and I took an off day together and went up on the roof to see to the work ourselves. I did most of the yanking broken shingles and nailing down new ones while Shotty sat on the edge of the roof, heavy boots hanging over the eaves and heels bumping the wall. He kept his shotgun near at hand and a gogged eye on our door below to make sure no neighbors tried anything while we were up top.
I was pretty tired after the work, which had to be done in full gear to repel the bright, baking sunlight. I was wheezing through my respirator by the time I finished up, so Shotty sent me down the ladder first to hold it steady while he came down carrying shotgun, tools, and all the extra nails and such. The ladder kept trying to shift out of my hands as Shotty awkwardly stepped on a rung, holding on with one hand as the other was full. All of a sudden I just let the ladder go. 
I hadn’t planned to do it, but I guess I’d been angry for a while. Shotty shouted and the ladder went over sideways, dropping him hard on the baked footpath between billet houses and snapping his lower right leg with a crack. I rushed over and said sorry but he laid into me pretty good, screaming and shaking, though he wasn’t as mad as if it had been somebody other than me. That’s the good thing about people knowing you are stupid – they don’t expect much.
The break was clean and us Guns are used to caring for that kind of thing. I got Shotty inside and patched him up, setting and splinting the leg while he growled and ground his teeth. He’d be fine, but he was going to be down for a while. So the next day, I went out on patrol with Shoes.
***
All children are born Up the Hill, from the Priests. If there is nothing wrong with them, that’s where they stay. Otherwise, once some imperfection crops up they get sterilized and sent down the Hill for assignment to either the Feeders or the Fixers, based on aptitude or need. Some Fixers and Feeders become Guns later on, if they turn out to be the kind of people who can.
It was different for Shoes. She had been a Priest for her first nineteen or twenty winters, but she had turned out to be barren. Born sterile. She was sent down alone one day, not escorted by a Priest who would have found her a place with somebody. She had come down without any gear, just a white dress, with her feet all banged up and bruised from the climb as she hadn’t even had a pair of shoes. A house of Fixers had given her a pair, but they made her do stuff for them. Or at least that’s the story. 
Not much later Shotty was trading with the Fixers for some repairs, and he saw something in the young female they were keeping. She moved in with us at Billet 423, to be a Gun. She’s a good one. Smart. Works hard. She fit in just fine.
One day after a couple winters had come and gone, she walked back over to the Fixers’ house carrying that same pair of shoes she’d got from them, and a Kriss Super V SMG. She killed the five people living in House 065, and left those shoes on the stoop.
That’s how she got the name.
***
Each billet usually patrols the same ground time after time, as that’s the best way for us to spot anything different or out of place in our sector. Me and Shoes marched out for a day and ended up not too far away from where I’d found the seeds with Specs in the first place.
I had a feeling like Shoes was going to say something, and around noon on the second day out, she did. We were heading north above the riverbed, Shoes ahead of me a ways with her sub, while I had the Remington zipped up on my shoulder. She had been looking east across the river a lot, more than just to keep an eye in that direction, and after a while she stopped walking and waited for me to catch up to her. It wasn’t standard procedure while on patrol, but I walked up to her anyway.
“Meats,” she said. “You trust me, right? We trust each other.”
“Sure, Shoes.” I said. “We’re billet mates.”
“Yeah.”
Shoes looked east across the dry river again, beyond the wreckage of some sort of vast boat. Her respirator clicked several times and I couldn’t see her eyes through the dark lenses of her goggs. She turned back to me.
“There is something I have to go check on, over there. Past the river. I need to do it alone. You can wait right here, and I’ll be back before it gets dark.”
“We aren’t supposed to split up on patrol,” I said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I know we’re not supposed to, Meats, but I’ll be fine. I don’t have to go far, and this sector has been quiet all autumn.”
“All what?”
“For days and days and days. It’s quiet, and I promised Shotty I would check on this thing, okay? He’s our sergeant, and we have to do what he says, right?”
“Then I should go with you,” I said.
“You weren’t ordered to do it,” Shoes said. “You should stay here in the patrol sector, and I will be back soon.”
I could have argued more, but I didn’t bother. I hunkered down and watched Shoes move away down the bank of the old river, then start across the dry bed moving widely around the boat wreckage while still keeping her weapon trained on it. Good Gun. I lost sight of her in the distance owing to the glare of the day.
The powder covering everything outside is real fine, and prints don’t last very long when there is even a breath of wind. But the day was still, so Shoes was easy to follow. I followed the marks of her combat boots down the west bank, straight across the riverbed, and back up the east side. At the top they headed toward a steep, rocky knob of a hill about a mile away. Halfway there, still following her tracks but keeping an eye out all around, I heard shots.
I picked up the pace, not running because the protective gear is noisy when you really drive your legs, and I knew whatever was happening I’d be more useful if I got there without anybody knowing. There were more shots - the rattle of Shoes’ sub and big booms from high powered rifles. When I could see puffs ahead from home-load ammo, I stretched out on top of a flat rock about a meter high and unzipped the Remington, then glassed ahead with the scope.
I could see two ferals, sheltering behind two rocks. I could have taken more time to assess but I got a bead on one and cracked off a shot. I rushed it, and the round slapped into the rock beside the head of a male feral in a floppy hat, with a bright red scarf over his neck. He was still peering around wildly when my second shot took the top of his head off.
The second feral recognized which way the shots were coming from and tried to slip around the far side of his rock shelter, but Shoes’ sub chattered and dust kicked up from that side of the stone. The feral had no idea what to do and just sort of slumped his shoulders. I put a round just under his neck, center chest.
It was quiet. I should have waited longer to assess, but I didn’t. I moved forward quick, still scanning through the scope. There was a whole bunch of the big rocks at the foot of the craggy hill – a whole field of them – and there could have been another hundred ferals and I wouldn’t have seen them. But I went in anyway, passing the two I’d killed. There was a third, female, crumpled up in front of their rocks, shot at least a half-dozen times in the chest and head. I took a knee by the body and called out “Four-two-three!”
“Here,” a wheezing voice said from behind another big rock about twenty steps away. When I looked along the ground I could see a blood trail heading to it.
“There were three, Meats,” Shoes called, voice clear like her respirator was off. “You get two?”
“Yeah,” I said as I lumbered over there, and stepped around the tall stone.
Shoes had torn flaps off a pack and bound them around her midsection, but they were already soaked through along with her camo fatigues. Ropy things were hanging out around the bindings and I thought for a moment Shoes’ entrails were hanging out. But it was only squished nush, soaked in her blood. Shoes did have her respirator off and she was spitting up blood, which had already covered her chin and neck. She turned her goggs up to mine, and strange to say, looked sort of embarrassed.
“I never heard the bitch coming,” Shoes said. “She gutted me good, Meats.”
I put down the Remi and started getting my pack off, but Shoes reached out and put a hand on my arm.
“Save the bandages,” she said. “I’m done.”
“If I can stop you bleeding…”
“No,” Shoes shook her head. “Everything came out and I shoved it back in, but I’m done. You’d never get me back to the Hill.”
Shoes sighed, and with one bloody hand she pushed off her camo hat with the netting and dropped it to the ground, then tugged off her goggs. It was strange, but I think it was probably the only time I saw her with nothing on her face out-of-doors. That made me realize I’d never been outside without cover and goggs myself. She leaned back her head against the stone and turned her face up to the sky, closing her eyes against the yellow sun. Shoes took a deep breath through her nose though it made her shoulders shake.
“There has to be something I can do,” I said, feeling worthless.
Shoes opened her big blue eyes and looked at me.
“There is,” she said, and reached out one trembling hand to point at the rocky hill before us. “You can carry me up there.”
***
The hill looked worse that it was. It was made mainly out of what looked like loose rocks; the kind that would skitter out from under your feet when stepped on. But they were solid, fused together, and I made my way up them with Shoes telling me where to step, curled up in my arms and with hers wrapped around me.
There was a slim defile about halfway up the slope behind a boulder. It didn’t look like much but Shoes told me to squeeze in so I did. I had to step real careful as the ground sloped sharp, making a short tunnel into the hill. Just a little ways down and in, I could see sunlight again from ahead.
Part of the hill was hollow, leaving a space almost like the inside of a bottle. Sunlight came in through a narrow gap up at the top, but it wasn’t harsh. Diffuse and indirect. It gently lit the tall chamber, and there on the floor atop dark, dark soil there were bushy, green plants. They were nothing like the squat, ugly, poison scrub brush that still grew outside.
I laid Shoes down in front of the bushes, hunched on my knees and just stared. Dotting them on top were the most delicate, soft red things I’ve ever seen.
“They’re called roses,” Shoes said almost in a whisper, looking up at them. “They are flowers.”
“Flowers.”
Shoes touched me lightly on the side. “Take off your respirator. Just for a little while.”
I did it, unsnapping the face mask so it hung beside my mouth and nose. My next breath drew something amazing in with it. Something I didn’t really have any words for, except for those that had always been used for things nobody really remembered anymore.
“They smell so sweet,” I said.
“They do.” Shoes agreed, drawing in her last breaths with that beautiful scent.
“What, what are they for?” I asked, not really knowing how to phrase the question.
“They aren’t for anything, not anymore.” Shoes said. “They are only beautiful. But that’s enough.”
I looked from the roses down at Shoes, who had tears in her eyes though for some reason the rest of her face didn’t really look sad.
“Did Shotty order you to do this?” I asked, and Shoes shook her head.
“No. I ordered him.”
After she died, I buried Shoes there, surrounded by her roses.
#
M. Edward McNally has put his money on super-intelligent dolphins causing the Apocalypse with the intent of wiping out mankind. Yes, the odds are long, but imagine the payoff if he’s right.
Find him at his blog sablecity.wordpress.com or follow him on Facebook and Twitter

The Sable City
While the preceding story occurs at a different time and place, it is set within the world of The Norothian Cycle; an Epic, Muskets & Magic Fantasy series beginning with Book I — The Sable City.
Available at Smashwords
Cleavers
Heather Marie Adkins
The wheels of the Jeep rumbled beneath us. The motion would have felt comforting—steady—if it weren’t interrupted by unnatural jolts. The road was bad where we were; the Cleavers had spent too much time on this stretch of pavement, leaving a wake of broken asphalt and blood behind their cloven hooves.
Jessie’s wrist was casually draped over the steering wheel, but I could see the tension in her other hand resting on her holster. She kept the fragile snap-button unlocked as there was no way to know what we might come up against, and the past three weeks had taught us it was better to be safe than dead.
“How much longer?” I asked. My voice broke the silence so abruptly that my girlfriend’s hand tightened on the grip of her gun, her instincts off the charts.
Jessie’s square jaw tightened, but her emerald eyes didn’t leave the road. “I don’t know.” 
“Hey.” I took her hand from the gun and pressed her fingertips to my lips one by one until a smile crossed her face. 
She glanced at me, and as usual, I was struck by her beauty. It was understated—chestnut hair tossed in a lazy ponytail, smooth, fair skin dotted with ginger freckles, and a dimple in one cheek. But, there was an underlying sensuality that tugged at my insides in just the right way.
I was a lucky woman. 
“No more sad face,” I warned her playfully, and leaned over to steal a quick kiss. 
We lapsed into silence, and Jessie put her hand back on her gun. We were driving through one of the many areas “cleansed” by the Cleavers. Burnt trees still smoldered on the side of the road, the ground beneath them reduced to blackened ash. The sky was low, pregnant with cloud cover that cast a pall over the decimated landscape. The air smelled like smoke, but not the charcoal meat odor of the dead.
Always a plus.
“Tora. Close your window.” Jessie’s voice was hushed. She reached for her own window crank as I did the same.
It was a Cleaver.
He appeared in the lingering smoke, a lump on the side of the road. His body lay mangled, furred legs twisted unimaginably behind his toned, shirtless torso. As we rolled past his presumably dead body, wheels crackling over debris, I could just make out the curved black horns in his curly brown hair, and the blood on his snout.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a Cleaver, but that never made a sighting any easier. The Colonels had done a number on him; the bullet holes in his chest looked like bird shot, holes disfiguring his skin and exposing his insides. How many men and women had died in the process of taking him down was beyond thought.
“Dead.” It needed to be said. To calm both of us.
Jessie’s hand, pale in the growing twilight, crossed the center console and alighted on mine. She squeezed briefly and nodded. “Dead.”
Behind the cloud cover, the sun was disappearing beyond the remnants of the forest. Jessie switched on the headlights: twin, pale beams that melted into the gloom. 
“What if there are more?” I murmured. The endless procession of charred trunks was driving me mad. I wanted leaves and green. I almost didn’t remember the proper blue of the sky—it had danced heavy with thick, white smoke since the invasion.
“There aren’t any more.” Jessie’s voice was confident—for me, I knew. But, we’d been together five years. You can’t love someone that long and be unable to read between the lines.
I didn’t answer.
The Jeep jolted on, and darkness fell.
I dozed. Three weeks on the run, hiding from creatures one never dreamed existed taught a girl how to catch a nap when possible. It was never a heavy sleep, even with a door and a lock between us and the world. There was a saying: I can sleep when I’m dead.
Not so much. I’d rather go without sleep in order to live.
The Cleavers were too crafty by half. They could scent us within a mile, and catch us faster than we could run. The immortal blood that ran through them put us at a disadvantage.
I was jarred to full consciousness by Jessie’s sharp curse, and an abrupt jerk of the car. I shot up, immediately awake, and looked out the windshield to find trees coming towards us in the headlights as we bounced off-road. My breath caught in my throat, and I braced myself on the “oh-shit” bar, doing a little bit of internal “oh shitting.”
The impact wasn’t as bad as I expected. The sound of metal crunching was loud, and I flew forward against my seatbelt then slammed back into the seat. My head bounced off the headrest and my vision exploded in colors.
Stunned, I hissed into the silence following the crash. “What the fuck, Jess?”
“A woman!” Jessie’s cry was frantic. She fumbled for her door handle in the dark—the headlights were crushed, the drive panel black. “There was a woman!”
She managed to grasp the handle and push the door open, and then spilled into the night. I could barely see her, a ghost beneath the reflective clouds, disappearing towards the road.
“Damn it!” I jerked off my seatbelt and tried my door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Terrified for Jessie out there by herself, I scrambled over the center console, grabbing a flashlight from the floorboard in the process, and followed my girlfriend.
It was chilly, and I was in jeans and a tank top. I wrapped my free arm around myself, clicking on the flashlight and aiming it at the dead grass. We’d left behind our home after the initial invasion, certain that it would all be over soon. But now autumn was gaining on us. Too much longer and we would need to find civilization for some winter wear.
A steep embankment led to the road, and I stepped carefully over the burned ground—I wouldn’t be any use to my lover if I had a broken ankle.
“Tora!” Her cry was close.
I hurried up the hill, my feet slipping in the refuse, and the weak yellow of my flashlight dancing on the ground. My heartbeat was a steady thrum in my ears.
Jessie was crouched in the middle of the road, leaning over a fair, still form. “I need light,” she said, hysteria in her voice.
I aimed the beam at the woman on the ground and sucked in a breath.
She wore nothing but a thin, white slip, one strap torn so that a fragile breast was exposed to the air, bite marks congealing around her pink nipple. Eyes were swollen shut in a heart-shaped face, and a dark trail of blood marked a straight line from her nostril to her collarbone. Her breathing was labored, stilted.
I dropped to my knees on the other side of the poor girl, gently pulling up the bodice of her dress to preserve her modesty, as stupid as it was. She didn’t respond to my touch.
“Did we hit her?” I asked, moving the light further down her body to check for more injuries.
“No, she just walked right out in the middle of the road and then collapsed!” Jessie said, swiping at the tears on her face. She sniffled. “I didn’t hit her. I swerved to miss her.”
I paused the light’s beam at the woman’s hips—the front of her slip was soaked in blood. “Jessie,” I murmured.
She followed my gaze and gasped. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no...”
I reached out, my hand shaking. The air was cool, but inside, I was colder. I lifted the slip just enough to see that there was blood all over the girl’s thighs. I knew what I would see if I looked higher, but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t going to.
“She’s been raped.” The statement fell like lead into the space between us.
“Cleavers,” Jessie whispered, glancing around. The sun was gone; we were surrounded by inkiness so thick, so complete, that if anyone—or anything—tried to sneak up on us, it would win.
“We have to get out of here,” I hissed. “She was on foot, Jess. That means they’re near.”
“What do we do with her?” Jessie asked, the hysteria returning to her voice.
I shushed her. “Keep your voice down. We’ll carry her to the car. Grab her feet.” I moved to the girl’s shoulders and slipped my hands under her arms. She moaned.
“What if we hurt her even more? We don’t know if she has any broken bones...”
“Jess, if we don’t get her to the car and get the hell out of here, she—and we—could get dead. Now, come on.”
My girlfriend gathered the woman’s fragile ankles in her hands and together, we lifted. The girl moaned, a low, terrified sound.
“Shh, we’ve got you,” I told her. I don’t know if she heard me, but she didn’t make another sound.
It was an awkward duckwalk to the car as I supported the brunt of the woman’s weight, and Jessie tried to not injure the woman’s lower extremities more than they already were. My ears were trained on the night, listening for anything that didn’t belong.
In a world burned to the ground, even a lone wolf’s cry would be out of place.
The Jeep’s engine still ticked, which I took as a good sign. Jessie reached out and pulled open the back door, and we heaved the woman inside as carefully as possible.
Back in our seats, I held tightly to the flashlight as Jessie tried to turn over the engine. Once. Twice.
“Shit, shit,” I muttered, swiping a hand over my neck. As cold as it was, I was sweating, and my short brown hair was sticking to my neck.
“Work, damn you!” Jessie shrieked, banging on the steering wheel. She rotated the key one more time, and the engine roared to life.
Tears pricked my eyes, and I fell back against the seat. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.” I didn’t know who I was thanking, but I would have thanked the Flying Spaghetti Monster at that moment. A dead car meant dead people.
Jessie jerked the Jeep into reverse and peeled away from the tree, tires spinning in the mud. She flipped around in her seat, staring behind us as she navigated the vehicle back onto the road. 
“We have one working headlight,” I declared needlessly. I was sure Jessie was as ready as I was to kiss the dashboard.
“Small miracles,” she responded, voice tight.
I slipped a hand to her thigh. “Breathe, baby.”
She complied.
We drove in silence, aware of the ragged breathing from the backseat, but powerless to do anything for our passenger. 
“I heard it before, that the Cleavers did that,” Jessie said into the quiet. “But, I didn’t want to believe it.”
“They’re descendants of Pan.” I shrugged, tightening my fingers on her leg. “God of the forest and fertility. Lustful. Lecherous.”
“I know.” She shot me an irritated look. “I’ve read the pamphlets.”
“I’m just saying.” The thought alone sent me into a spiral—gods and goddesses were myth, relegated to textbooks and parchments, or inscribed to temple walls. Until less than a month ago, when the Cleavers came, and we couldn’t pretend they weren’t real.
I went on gently. “That’s what they are, Jess. Pan’s dirty children.”
“That doesn’t make it right!” She all but screamed the words, her tone hysterical.
I let silence settle like a friend in the car. Jessie was terrified—shit, I was too. But arguing wouldn’t get us to the Colonels any faster than it would help the battered woman in our backseat.
“I’m sorry,” Jessie said after a while. 
“I know.”
The trees were beginning to open up and farmland stretched on either side of us. The Jeep jetted past dark, silent houses, doors wide open, cars abandoned. On the horizon, I could finally see the glow of the Colonel’s base—Fort Knox.
I heard stirring in the backseat, and twisted around to check on the girl. Her eyes were open. She met my gaze.
“My name is Tora,” I told her gently. I touched my girlfriend’s shoulder. “This is Jessie. You’re safe now.”
The abused woman opened her mouth, her lips moving like a fish’s. Blood appeared at the corners where they were cracked. A single word finally rasped from deep within her. “Marci.”
“I’m glad we found you, Marci,” I murmured. I reached for her, smoothing her dark hair from her face. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
Her pale blue eyes fluttered shut, and her breathing evened. She slept.
“We have to get to that base,” I told Jessie. “She’s lost so much blood.”
“I’m trying.”
“Then why are we slowing down?” I shot back, irritated.
“I don’t know!” Jessie slammed a foot down on the gas, and the Jeep sputtered forward a few feet before the engine cut off.
Smoke billowed from beneath the hood, and my heart fell into my stomach.
“What happened?”
Jessie just shook her head. 
“Well, let’s look.” I grabbed the flashlight and went to open my door, but Jessie reached out and caught me by the arm.
“Neither of us know shit about cars, Tora. What the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish?”
I shook her off. “It’s better than just sitting here.”
I pushed open the door and slid out of the Jeep, my feet hitting the asphalt with a thud. The hood popped, and a moment later Jessie joined me at the front of the vehicle.
“Here.” I handed her the flashlight, and as she aimed it, I pulled up the hood and gazed down at the engine.
Or what I assumed was the engine. There was a whole lot of hissing, ticking, and popping going on under there, and I couldn’t tell the battery from the spark plugs from the oil tank. There could have been a tap-dancing leprechaun in there, and I’d have thought he belonged. I bit my lower lip, frowning into the mess of wires and boxes.
“What now?” Jessie asked, a note of I-told-you-so in her voice. At least she’d indulged me, anyway.
“We walk?” I gazed around. The land around us was lit by the reflection of the night sky above the cloud cover, the way a rainy night in a metropolis would be lit by the man-made lights. 
“We don’t even know where we are in reference to the base. We can’t walk on the highway!” Jessie sobbed once, her face falling into the crook of her arm as she tried to stem the tears before they came.
I closed the space between us, wrapping her trembling body into the circle of my arms. “Shh, shh,” I said, rocking her. 
When she finally looked up, our lips met with a kind of panic, as if it would be the last time. She was so soft, so warm on my skin, her lips moist and tasting of her favorite peppermint lip gloss. I moved my hands beneath her form-fitting T-shirt, the feel of her back like a drug to me.
The kiss broke. She trailed the fingers of one hand down my cheek. “We need to go. Now.”
I nodded.
It was a chore getting Marci out of the car. We woke her up, and then propped the girl between us, urging her to walk. As quietly as possible, we moved forward on the road, Jessie and I with our guns in our other hands.
We walked maybe twenty minutes when the hoofbeats reached my ears. My grip tightened involuntarily on Marci, and I felt Jessie’s arm tense.
Jessie looked around Marci’s lolling head, her eyes wide, but I put a finger to my lips before she spoke. They would hear even just a whisper.
I picked up the pace, and Jessie did too, the two of us carrying Marci’s weight as we did some mockery of a stumbling run. We were wide open, visible from all around. There was nowhere to hide. If we wanted protection, we’d have to cross the field and get to the dark, barely visible tree line acres away.
I pointed, and we ran harder.
The trees drew closer, but so did the sound of the Cleavers. They traveled in packs—never any less than ten. If they caught up to us, we were dead.
And they were faster than humans.
Jessie stumbled and went down, Marci tumbling after her and almost taking me down with them. I jerked at the girl and ducked, getting a good grip on her arm as I draped her thin, fragile body over my shoulder and lifted her weight completely off the ground. She groaned, the sound chilling me to the marrow.
Run, I mouthed to Jessie.
Burdened by Marci’s weight, I lost sight of my girlfriend almost immediately as she darted into the trees. I held on to my cargo tightly, but Marci was out cold and her limp, dead weight was a hindrance. We made the tree line, and I ducked inside.
The hoofbeats sounded as if they were on top of me. I tried to move faster, my legs burning and my lungs aching. I hit a root and almost fell, Marci jerking heavily against my head and neck. The stumble cost me time, and I felt his breath on my neck before he tackled me.
I rolled with the tackle, losing Marci and my gun in the process. The Cleaver’s weight jammed me into the dirt. I let out an Oof, continuing to roll with the momentum. The dark forest rolled in my vision, making my head spin and my vision blurry.
We came to a stop, but luck wasn’t with me—the Cleaver landed on top.
I lifted both arms, jamming them between us as I stared up into glowing red eyes, slit like a goat’s. His jaw was strong, and his mouth hung open, brandishing sharp, pointed teeth as he sniffed me, bloodlust kicking in. There was a look of wildness in his eyes, like a wolf during a hunt, living only for the joy of the kill. 
There was nothing human there at all.
Terror filled me. I couldn’t scream because his weight took my breath. I shoved at him with both arms, putting my entire body behind the move, and he didn’t budge.
Then he dove for me.
I couldn’t fight him off. He was like a stone toppling from a mountain as he closed the space between us and sank his teeth into my breast.
Pain seared through me, his shark-like teeth ripping into my tender skin. I screamed, the sound pulled from so deep within me, my voice cracked and my vision went black for a brief second. His all-too-human hands managed to get between us, and he fumbled with my pants.
No. I wouldn’t be raped by a Cleaver. That would not be my last memory before death.
I jerked, ignoring the tearing sound that came from my chest where his teeth were still attached, and then the hot rush of blood that soaked my shirt. I shoved and kicked.
And cried.
I don’t want to die.
The gun shot ripped through the night, and the Cleaver was blown back from the force of the bullet. He collapsed to the ground beside me, a hole in the top of his head and his red eyes sightless.
As the love of my life helped me to my feet, I couldn’t stop the sobs that shook me. She tugged on my arm. “Baby, baby, we can’t wait. We have to run.”
“Marci!” I gasped, one hand pressed to my torn breast as I turned in a circle, looking for the girl. There was no way I’d find my gun in the night.
I caught sight of Marci’s pale body crumpled on the ground several feet away. And behind her, Cleavers.
Five of them.
“Run, Tora. Don’t look back,” Jessie whispered, her gun raising.
“Marci,” I repeated, my voice hoarse, tears still wet on my face.
Jessie took aim and fired. The bullet wasn’t for the Cleavers; it was for the girl who couldn’t run, who couldn’t fight back. Jessie’s aim was true; the bullet on the mark. The young girl’s fragile form jerked.
My heart sank. 
Jessie pushed me. “Run, baby.”
I ran. Jessie’s pounding steps stayed right behind me, and the intermittent cock and fire of her weapon tore through the night as the Cleavers gave chase. My pulse beat in my ears. I gasped for air through the adrenaline and pain, my hand still trying to stem the flow of blood from my chest. I couldn’t see where I was going as branches whipped my face and my feet raced across uneven ground. 
Don’t fall down. Don’t fall down. 
I heard a click from Jessie’s gun, and she cursed.
ShitShitShitShit.
I pushed harder, confident she would keep up with me. I didn’t know where we were, how close we were to the Fort, but I had hope. I had to hope. The hoofbeats sounded fewer now, maybe because my brave, beautiful girlfriend had picked most of them off like a CIA sniper.
We burst through the trees and into a field, where armed, uniformed Colonels were already waiting for us, framed by the brilliant white of Fort Knox’s spotlights.
As the soldiers opened fire on the remaining Cleavers, Jessie and I raced into the compound. On the other side of the barred, barbed-wire doors, we found salvation.
We were the survivors.
#
Heather Adkins thinks if the apocalypse is coming, it will be from the wrath of the gods, not an outside source. We have no hope.
Find more information on Heather and her books at heathermarieadkins.com, or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

The Temple
A mythical hunt in search of souls, an ancient temple with a paranormal problem, and a girl with supernatural powers determined to find answers. 
Available at Smashwords
The Last Christmas
Alan Nayes
“What time is it?”
Without taking his eyes from the slender young woman in the hospice bed, Max said, “A little past two.” 
“Day or night?”
“Day.”
The woman sighed, not sadly but more with a sense of resignation as if any hope had at long last deserted her. She coaxed her palm across the sheet until she found Max’s hand. “I’ve been asleep that long?”
Max slid closer, raising her fingers to his lips. He kissed each digit gently. “God, Monique, you’re so beautiful when you sleep. I could just watch you until the end of time.”
Momentarily, a cynical smirk formed on her lips. “The end of time, dear? You have all of about nine hours…” She began to weep.
***
The asteroid had been christened the Xmas Star soon after it was discovered, only six months ago. The space rock had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and scientists were still at a loss to explain why no one knew of its existence until it had suddenly become visible at the edge of the solar system. A behemoth piece of iron and nickel, it dwarfed any celestial object this close to the earth’s atmosphere, excepting the moon. Roughly twice the size of the state of Texas and shaped like a very thick bowling pin, the massive meteorite was traveling through space at over a hundred thousand miles per hour. Once it passed Jupiter, its magnetic polarity had flipped, allowing a steady acceleration in the space rock’s velocity. After several vain attempts at outer space nuclear detonations and a failed massive interstellar magnet project that only succeeded in shifting the giant rock’s angle of trajectory from the East Coast further west, it would impact Earth somewhere near the California-Arizona border on Christmas Eve. At collision time, scientists predicted the Xmas Star would crash into the third planet from the sun at a speed of well over a quarter million miles per hour. What would happen next no one could say with one-hundred-percent accuracy—would the entire planet fragment? Would the resulting explosive force blow the atmosphere into space, leaving Earth devoid of oxygen? Or would a toxic cloud form and block the sun for the next million years? One consensus was unanimous, though. The end of mankind would arrive at 11:13 PM Christmas Eve, Pacific Standard Time.
***
Max watched his wife as the elderly nurse adjusted Monique’s intravenous drip. The name of the medicine running into Monique’s veins had about twelve syllables and he still hadn’t mastered the pronunciation, though she’d been on it for the last three months. It was an experimental antiarrhythmic drug and required the electric ivac monitor to accurately administer the dosage. So far it was the only medicine that kept Monique’s heart pumping normally. 
This nurse was older and unfamiliar to Max. 
Monique’s eyes fluttered open. “Where’s Bethany?” she asked. 
Max guessed Monique could tell a stranger was in the small hospice room by the woman’s scent—perhaps a different shampoo or perfume. She’d always been good at that—telling when a stranger was nearby. Being blind since childhood from glaucoma did that for a person’s olfactory sense, Max surmised. 
The nurse cast a quick look at her bedridden patient. “Bethany left early this morning to be with her family. Her mom lives in San Francisco and she wanted to get there before…” Her voice trailed off briefly. “Well, you got enough in the IV to last until the end…the end of…”
Monique smiled ruefully. “The end…period.” 
The woman nodded glumly. “Meant to say shift…Anything else I can get you?”
Max studied the woman’s name tag. “Why aren’t you leaving to be with your family, Cheryl?”
“So my new nurse is Cheryl,” Monique said. “That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.”
Monique stared at where the woman’s voice seemed to come from. “Max is right, Cheryl. You don’t have to stay at the hospice. It’s Christmas Eve. Leave. Go home. Be with your family. Max can watch the IV. And when it runs out—well, my heart is the least of our concerns.”
The elderly nurse’s lined face hinted of a hollow grin. “I’ve been a nurse for over half a century. I figure I’ll just hang out here and do what I can. I promised when nightfall came I’d sing a few Christmas carols with the woman down the hall. She had a terrible stroke last year and has been in rehab here since. She has no visitors and no place to go. Besides, my family consists of one brother who lives in London. I never married so no children. After the news broke about the Xmas Star, I’d planned to visit him. But last month the planes stopped flying except for emergencies—no pilots—so I’ll remain here.”
Max knew what the nurse meant. “Seems over the last several weeks no one is working much. Pilots, police, bankers—all taking time off. I quit my job as an accountant. Who the hell’s worried about taxes now? Seems like the world is winding down.”
“Even doctors have quit,” Monique added. “My doctor told me he was taking his family back to Texas last week to be with their relatives. I don’t blame him. Everyone should spend this time with loved ones. If I wasn’t so dependent on this IV, Max and I would have driven to Lake Tahoe—it’s where we spent our honeymoon. But…” she sighed. “I’m sorry, Cheryl, I mean about the planes and you not getting to London.”
The woman shrugged. “I’ll be fine. If you do need a doctor—” 
Monique waved the nurse away. “Don’t spend time on us, dear. Max and I have each other. Help the other patients.” 
Max reached for his wife’s hand. “Merry Christmas Eve, Cheryl,” they both wished.
***
“You’re at the window again.”
Hearing Monique, Max nodded in silence and continued staring out the second-story room to the street below. “How did you know, baby?”
“I can hear you breathing in that spot where we sometimes stand. In fact…” Monique sat up and swung her legs off the mattress. “I want to stand with you.” 
Max watched her. “Let me help.”
“No, I can do it. Save me a seat.” 
He noticed her smile, that same smile of determination and strength he’d fallen in love with almost two decades ago. Her family had moved in across the street of their quiet, shaded Anaheim neighborhood when he was ten. Monique, two years younger could see then, but had to wear these thick scary-looking glasses. That first day at school, Max had bloodied the nose of some bully that had called out, “Clear the way, here comes Coke Bottle Eyes.” Max and Monique had been inseparable ever since. 
By her twelfth birthday, her blindness from pediatric glaucoma was total. “Guess I can get rid of these,” she had said as she’d tossed the coke bottle lenses on the lawn in her back yard. She had smiled then too, trying to be brave.
Max could still recall how cute she’d looked, standing under the big Eucalyptus tree next to her dad’s work shed. Cute, and oh so brave. Without asking permission, Max had looked around quickly to ensure no one could see them, then he’d stolen his first teenage kiss. Monique had actually giggled, until she kissed him back. Wow, he remembered thinking, I’ll never tire of these. 
And he was right. Eleven years later, they’d wed. 
Yes, it was challenging at times, being married to a sightless person, but he wouldn’t change one minute of their time together. Except, of course, for the heart arrhythmia the cardiologists had diagnosed nine months ago. Myocarditis, the doctors had explained, from a virus. Damn, Max had cursed, as if blind wasn’t burden enough for the woman he loved, now her heart was a ticking time bomb. Only the drugs being pumped into her veins prevented her heart from stopping completely. Being only twenty-six, she was added to a transplant list, but with the “occupying space disaster” blowing in on them, any hope of a cardiac donor becoming available was moot. Max hated the circumstances, yet he was helpless to do anything except to stay as close to her as possible. Every minute counted now—really counted. God, how he loved being near her, gazing into her blue eyes, touching her perfect nose and lips and holding her warm body next to his. Their one regret, no children together. They’d planned to start a family when Max received his next promotion at the firm in another year. Max winced, glad Monique couldn’t see his expression of regret. One year—now they had less than half a day together.
“What do you see?” Monique asked, moving beside him, pulling the ivac monitor along with her. With her free hand she reached out and lightly touched the hospice room window pane, before sliding her fingers into Max’s hand. 
“It’s real quiet out there,” Max replied, kissing his wife on the cheek before gazing at the street below.
“Decorations?”
“You bet,” Max lied a little. Sure he saw a few wreaths, but not like past Christmases. Everyone had far more pressing concerns than hanging holiday lights.
“No traffic, no dogs barking, no more sirens, guess everyone has arrived at where they want to be when Santa comes calling.” Monique replied, leaning into Max. 
“Yup, baby, Santa’s got a big surprise for everybody.” Max began to sing softly, “Santa Claus is coming to…Earth.”.
Both grinned just a little and embraced. Santa was Monique’s nickname for the Xmas Star, ever since December 1st came and went. Every evening they would sit together in her quiet hospice room and sing a Christmas carol together. Last night it’d been his turn to choose and he and Monique had sung that old Burl Ives number Have a Holly Jolly Christmas. Tonight Monique would make her choice. She hadn’t told him what it was yet, but he had already guessed. She wanted to sing it on the stroke of Christmas. That might be problem tonight, Max realized, but he hadn’t mentioned this. When Nurse Cheryl had brought up singing Christmas carols with the other hospice patient, Max had worried Monique might invite them to her room to sing. Not that Max would have minded the company, but he really desired to be alone with this woman he so desperately loved on their last night together.
If it had to be in an Anaheim hospice, so be it. He would have loved her if they’d been stranded in the middle of the Sahara.
“What’s the sky like, Max?” Monique asked, gazing upward though he knew she couldn’t see.
“Blue.”
“Clouds?”
Max shook his head. “No clouds in three weeks. No rain, no snow in Lake Tahoe.” He felt her squeeze him. 
“It’s happening just the way they said,” she murmured. 
“Yes,” was all Max said. The scientists had predicted the nearer the Xmas Star—Santa—came to Earth, the more the moisture in the atmosphere would decrease. If there’d been any other reason than Santa for the cause, the news would have been filled with stories about global warming, droughts, the declining ice packs. Not now, though. Most of the cable channels had gone off air or were just running newscasts taped weeks earlier. No one was working anymore. It was like Earth had stopped spinning. Strangely, no public disturbances, no riots or panicked hand-wringing anymore, either. Now, on the precipice of mankind’s ultimate demise, it seems everyone had accepted their common fate and total annihilation. 
Max checked his wrist watch. 2:47 PM. Eight and one half hours, or thereabouts, but who was counting.
“Max?”
“Hey, babe.”
“If you could have one last wish, what would it be?”
“Besides getting rid of Santa?—Giving you your sight back and making your heart like new.”
Monique shared a smile. “That was sweet, honey, but none of those are going to happen. Tell me something that’s…attainable.”
“Attainable? Hm…you go first.”
Monique sighed. “I would want to spend my last Christmas with the man I’ve loved since that first kiss in my parents’ back yard. But it’s not going to happen, is it, baby?” 
Max could feel her trembling, but if she was crying she was holding it all inside. “Our last Christmas together. Yeah…” Silently he shook his head as the calculation he’d been thinking about since Monique had christened the Xmas Star Santa flew before his eyes. Christmas Eve—11:13pm. Lights out, Planet Earth. Technically, Max and Monique had already spent their last Christmas together—last year. And if the scientist prognosticators were correct, Max would never spend another Christmas Day with his dear wife of three years. Christmas Eve, yes but not Christmas. They would miss Christmas Day by forty-seven minutes. 
Unless…
“I love you, Monique,” he said 
“I love you more.” 
He pulled her lips to his and held her like the world was coming to an end.
***
Max unlocked the SUV and set the small overnight case on the back seat. Inside, he’d stashed some bottled water, a few snacks Monique was fond of—Skittles, Oreo cookies, and a few apples. He would have preferred some pears and nectarines—she really loved the really sweet ones—but fresh fruit was at a premium when it could be found. They wouldn’t need any other luggage for the trip he had planned. Monique’s wish had started him thinking.
Max shut the door after ensuring he had enough gas for the four-hour drive. He did, but only if he drove prudently, not a lot of stops and no speeding. He silently prayed the highways would be free of traffic jams. If the vacant streets around the hospice were any indication, he would have free sailing. It was like the city was abandoned, or else everyone was holed up inside somewhere—praying and waiting for the end to come. 
A man pushing a half-full grocery cart shuffled by the parking lot entrance. He was dressed in tattered clothing and short sleeves. Max saw how he shivered in the humid-less forty degree afternoon air. A small, anemic, artificial Christmas tree decorated his cart. Probably collected from someone’s trash. 
The homeless man spied Max and called, “Repent your sins, young hooligan, the Xmas Star has no mercy on sinners.”
Max simply nodded, bothered by the man’s short sleeves. He watched the cart roll past. Momentarily he turned away, then stopped. “Damn,” he muttered. He had that extra coat Monique had given him a couple years ago for a birthday. Shit, he wouldn’t be needing it now. “Hey, guy,” Max called out, pulling the coat from the back of the SUV. ‘Take this, you won’t be so cold.” 
The man’s face broke into a crooked grin. “Bless you, sir, and merry Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Max replied. “Stay warm.”
Up and down the street, he spotted a couple of stray dogs but no other residents. He checked the time—3:31. Max better get moving if he wanted to make it on time. No telling what kind of delays he might encounter on the trip east. He would either make it, or not. At least he’d tried.
He found Cheryl at a vacated nursing station. “Does the hospice have any portable ivac monitors?” he asked.
She gave him a puzzled look. “No, only the kind your wife requires. Why would you ask? You understand she cannot be removed form that ivac, otherwise she won’t receive the antiarrhythnic drug.”
Max was aware of this and the answer was not unexpected. “Say we lost all electricity, how long would the medicine stay in her system.”
Cheryl studied Max. “What do you have planned, sir?”
“I’m taking Monique out of here.”
Expecting an argument, Max was relieved when Cheryl sighed and nodded in understanding. “Guess it makes no difference. Where you planning on going?”
“East, to Arizona.”
Cheryl stared down the hall to his wife’s room. “Monique know?”
“Not yet.”
Another slow nod. “Six hours tops,” the nurse replied. “At around three hours she’ll begin to notice some skipped beats, palpitations, then her blood pressure will start to drop. At five hours, she’ll complain of lightheadedness and possibly some chest pain. Could even lose consciousness. By the sixth hour, her heart will go into ventricular tachycardia, then v. fib, and she’ll die soon thereafter.”
Max repeated to himself the pertinent facts. If he timed everything just right, Monique would spend Christmas with him, if only briefly before the Xmas Star’s apocalyptic devastation.
“Why Arizona?” the nurse was asking.
Max shrugged. “Something my wife wished for?”
“Die in Arizona?” she asked, plainly confused.
“No,” Max said. “She wanted to spend our last Christmas together.”
Still not getting it, the old nurse wondered aloud, “Traveling won’t make any difference, young man. Our world ends at 11:13 this evening. Where in Arizona, if I may inquire?”
“Quartzsite,” Max said. “My wife and I will spend Christmas near Quartzsite.”
***
“Quartzsite?” Monique asked. 
Max sat on the bed holding his wife’s hands. He wondered if she’d been crying while he’d been out because her eyes were red. “Yes, Quartzsite, baby,” he said. “You in any pain?”
She smiled. “I feel fine now that you’re with me. Damn, Max, I hate being away from you.”
Max leaned closer and kissed her. “I won’t leave you again, I promise.” He had already decided he would leave it up to Monique if they would go. If she chose to remain at the hospice, he would abide by her decision. After all, it was her wish.
He heard her murmuring under her breath. “Quartszite, Quartzsite.” He could see the same puzzled expression on his wife’s face as the old nurse’s. 
“But why Arizona, honey?” she asked.
“Because of your wish.”
“My wish was to spend our last Christmas together, baby. I already know that is impossi—” Suddenly her face broke into a slow grin of understanding. She reached up and embraced him. “You would do this for me?” 
“I’d do anything for you, Monique. I just wish—”
“Shsh.” She found his mouth with her fingertips. “Let’s do it, baby. Our last adventure… Our last…Christmas.” 
***
Together, Max and Monique planned the trip. Timing would be everything. If he removed his wife from the ivac monitor too soon then Monique’s heart would stop before they arrived in Arizona, yet if he delayed their trip too long, they would never reach their destination in time for Christmas. Max couldn’t believe the change in his wife’s demeanor. She was actually excited about something happening in her life, and Max couldn’t deny his eager anticipation as well. It was like a tiny bulb had flicked on in a totally dark stadium; a tiny light of hope that even in the path of this tsunami of devastation whizzing toward them, they could still exert a sliver of control. No longer would they be like the rest of the population—walking around in a perpetual state of shock, a zombie-trance in the face of dire hopelessness. True the dire hopelessness was inarguable—Santa was going to smack into Earth at 11:13 PM Pacific time. But if things went as planned, by then he and Monique would have reached Quartzsite, Az. Just in time for…
“It’s six, honey.” 
Max watched his wife reading her Braille watch. “You sure about this?” he asked, approaching the ivac monitor. 
“One-hundred-per-cent, baby. Let’s go find Christmas.”
Max hesitated only an instant before yanking the monitor’s electrical cord. The machine’s faint din stopped. He looked at his wife. 
Monique grinned. “God, I’m really unplugged.” 
“Six hours, baby. That’s all we have.”
“Let’s do it.” 
Max helped Monique stand. “How do you feel?” 
“I’m strong, Max.”
“Let’s get rid of this then.” He removed the IV needle from her forearm. “Won’t be needing the tubing anymore.”
She grinned, albeit ruefully. “Guess not, Sweetie.”
Max turned to find Cheryl standing in the doorway. 
The nurse stepped across the room holding a small tube of antibiotic ointment and a Band-aid. Quickly, she cleansed the IV site and applied the disinfectant and small dressing. “There, all set. Can’t have her getting an infection.” After a brief embrace, Cheryl wished both well. “Have a safe trip…and happy holidays.”
Max was relieved Monique could not see the tears in the older woman’s eyes. “You, too,” he said. 
“Thank you, Cheryl,” Monique added as Max led her downstairs.
Once settled in the SUV, Max started the engine, checking the gas gauge. Over three-quarters full. Enough to get them the two-hundred-plus miles to the Arizona border. It better be, as he knew gas would be hard to come by in the stretch across the desert. No traffic jams, he silently prayed. 
Monique touched his arm. “Max, I’m afraid.”
“So am I, babe, but we’re going to make it. We’re going to spend our last Christmas together.” 
“Or bust,” she added, smiling bravely. “Max?”
He pulled out and took the quickest route to the 91East. “Yeah, baby.”
“You never told me your wish.”
Max accelerated through a red light. No traffic headlights in either direction. With only hours before the end of the world, he guessed people had better things to do than driving somewhere. He could feel his wife’s sightless eyes on him. “My wish?” he said. 
“I want to know your last wish, Max.”
Max thought a moment. He reached for her hand. “I’ll tell you when we get to Quartzsite, dear.”
“I want to know. You will tell me?”
“When we reach Quartzsite. Promise.”
Once on the 91East, Max checked the time. Just after seven. According to his onboard GPS—at least a few of the satellites must still be working with Santa bearing down on the planet—the trip would take three hours and forty-two minutes. That is if everything went smoothly.
At the 90-60East interchange, he saw a line of vehicles and felt a sinking sensation in his chest. He slowed. Some had blinkers flicking but others sat dark in the early evening.
“Everything okay?” he heard Monique ask.
“Fine, babe. Just a little traffic.” The last twenty miles or so Max had seen a few abandoned cars on the shoulder, but nothing that would have given him the impression the end of the world was imminent. No pile-ups or crowds of looters or buildings burning. Fights in grocery lines, gang battles over dwindling food and supplies, those horrific uprisings with the National Guard troops, that was all in the recent past. It was almost too calm. Where the hell was everybody on this last Christmas Eve? 
He glanced over at his wife. She was resting with her head back against the headrest. An hour had passed since unplugging the ivac. Though he knew it was only his imagination Max could almost feel her declining antiarrhythmic drug levels. He was tempted to ask about any chest pain or palpitations but decided against it. She appeared comfortable, which was all he could ask for.
He braked to a stop as he approached the line of cars winding around the interchange. Damn, he cursed silently. This they didn’t need. 
“You’ve stopped.” Monique was sitting up and facing ahead.
“We’ll be moving again soon.” Max pulled toward the shoulder so he could get a better view ahead. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. 
“What, baby?”
“The car in front of me is abandoned.” He drove further along the shoulder. So was the next car and the next. “All the cars are abandoned.”
Monique cracked her window. “Listen, Max.” 
Max could feel the crisp cool air blow in. “I don’t hear anything.”
“No, can’t you hear them?” She began to sing along. “Come they told me, Pa, rum, pa, pum, pum…”
Max strained but couldn’t hear the singing. He drove past more abandoned cars until he reached the 60 East. He rolled his window down further. “I’ll be…” he murmured.
“You can hear them, too.”
“You bet, baby. And see them.”
“Tell me.”
“Everyone’s left their cars and trucks,” Max began to describe the scene. Up on a hill a ways from the highway, he spotted two bright searchlights illuminating a small church. The steeple was white, and surrounding the building he could see large crowds of people. Even in the dark, he could tell many individuals were carrying candles and flashlights. 
“And they’re singing Christmas carols,” Monique said. 
“Yes,” Max said. 
Monique faced the worshippers. “Is the church large?” she asked.
Max shook his head. “No, quite small actually.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand. If she preferred…”We can stop. Quartzsite is still about three hours.”
“I really wanted to spend our last Christmas together, but if you…” Monique’s voice trailed off.
Max drove slowly past the long line of abandoned vehicles. The church, searchlights, Christmas hymns—it was all so surreal. On the brink of mass destruction on Christmas Eve, the masses were singing. 
Monique whispered, “Max, we’re still moving.”
The singing was behind them now. “Yes, baby.”
“I thought you wanted to stop.”
“No.” He felt Monique release his hand and find his shoulder.
“None of those people will see Christmas,” she said sadly. 
“I know.” Not if the Xmas Star smacked into Earth at 11:13 PM as it was forecast to do, Max realized. Every worshipper surrounding that tiny church off the 60 interchange would miss Christmas by forty-seven minutes, obliterated by asteroid fire and brimstone.
“Thank you, dear,” he heard Monique murmur.
“It’s your wish,” he said, pulling her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. 
“What about your wish, baby?”
“When we reach Quartzsite.” 
Max accelerated, zipping down the 60East. The singing was no longer audible, only the lonely drone of the SUV engine. Once they hit the 10East, it would be a virtual straight shot to the Arizona border.
Driving east, Max couldn’t resist frequent looks at the horizon. Still dark, though he guessed in another hour or so it would begin to lighten. He’d read the scientists’ description of what the last hours would be like so many times he could virtually recite the sequence of events. The Xmas Star—Santa—would rise in the sky like a huge moon—appearing over a hundred times the lunar diameter. Already people on the other side of the world could see the huge celestial object zeroing in on the planet. As the Earth rotated, Santa would come into view one last time—then BAM! Every day for the last six months, the monster asteroid had been steadily growing in the night sky. First only appearing as an abnormally bright star, then the size of two stars, then a big planetary body, then moon-size. And tonight, the greatest show on Earth. Also, the last show on Earth!
Monique must have sensed his thoughts because she asked, “Do you see it?”
“No, baby. Still got a couple of hours.”
Monique lowered her window a moment. He watched her hold her hand outside.
“Still cold out.” She closed the window. “It will warm up soon.”
Max agreed tacitly. Just before Santa impacted the planet, the temperature would rise twenty or thirty degrees at least. “How do you feel?” he asked.
Monique leaned back against the headrest. “They’re beginning,” she said.
Max looked over at her. Even in the dark interior he could pick out the face he loved. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He checked the time. It’d been three hours since her IV was removed. Her antiarrhythmics would be at half their therapeutic levels by now. “Any chest pain?”
“No, only the palpitations.” She lurched suddenly.
“Damn, Monique, what is it?”
“I think I went into a run of ventricular tach.”
Max started to brake.
“Don’t slow, Max. I’m okay now.”
He could see her monitoring her own pulse rate. He heard her sigh. “Monique?”
She groaned. “Oh, baby, my rhythm’s irregular. How far to the border?” 
Max pressed the accelerator. “I’ll make it in ninety minutes.”
Faster he drove the SUV. Gas gauge—over half empty. They’d just have enough. All along the highway he spotted cars that had been left, especially nearer small towns. Many were in heaps where the road crews had piled them months ago when the great exodus had been taking place. People had panicked and Max had read about the terrible accidents. Fifty and sixty car pile-ups were commonplace. Now on this last night on Earth he had the highway to himself.
Through the night he cruised. The radio was only static so he shut it off. He could hear his wife’s steady respirations in the seat next to him. 
10:35 PM. Monique had been quiet for the longest time. “Baby, you awake?”
She moved. When he reached for her, his fingers found her cheeks moist. She hadn’t been sleeping, but weeping. Hell, she’d kept her suffering to herself. “How long have you been having chest pains?” he asked. 
She just shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, baby. I don’t think I’m going to make it. My heart’s all over the place.” 
Max swallowed the lump in his throat. “Hang on, babe. You can do it. We won’t miss Christmas.”
“Quartzsite?”
“We’ll reach the border by 10:50. Promise.”
He could hear her tone lighten. “Really, Max?”
“I wouldn’t lie, baby. We’re close.”
Max sped up a long incline. A highway sign read QUARTZSITE—37 MILES. That meant Arizona was only seventeen miles. He crested the rise and gasped.
The bright orange glow bathed the Earth all the way to the horizon. Then he saw it. Santa. The Xmas Star seemed to rise from the ground like a preternatural neon mountain. He could see it actually rolling in the sky.
Monique clutched him. Her features reflected the planet-killer asteroid’s glow. “Max, it’s getting warm.” She rolled down the window. “Max, you see Santa, don’t you.”
“It’s filling the entire sky, baby.” 
Her voice quivered. “Is it…?”
“Yeah, baby, Santa’s the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen.” Max could feel the winds picking up and he used both hands to maintain control of the vehicle. He imagined the screams of panic all over the world but oddly he experienced a strange calm. 
Five miles, four, three…
“Baby, we’re in Arizona!” he exclaimed. 
Beside him, Monique didn’t respond. Max’s calm vanished. “Monique!” he shouted, grasping her. Her head lolled against the passenger window. 
He drove to the shoulder, braking past an old jack-knifed semi. They wouldn’t make Quartzsite, but it really didn’t matter. They were in Arizona!
Max opened the door and ducked into the warm gusts. Above him he glanced once at the huge object descending upon them. Winds whipped dust motes into the heavy hot air. He raced around the passenger door and flung it open. He checked his wife’s pulse—very irregular but beating. “Monique, baby. We made it.” 
For an instant he sensed her stiffen, then her eyelids fluttered. “Monique!”
She gasped. “Baby, are we in Quartzsite?”
Max heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t done all this to spend Christmas alone. “No baby—”
She groaned.
“But we reached the border,” he told her, shielding her from the unnatural buffeting desert gusts.
Monique clutched him. “We’re in Arizona?”
“We made it, babe!”
“What time is it?”
Max looked at his timepiece. “My watch says 11:01.” But because they were now in Mountain Time…
Monique’s face broke into a wide grin. “Max, love, that means it’s 12:01AM in Arizona! We did it. It’s Christmas Day!” 
Max embraced the woman he loved. “Merry Christmas, baby.”
“Merry Christmas, Max.” 
The Xmas Star’s deafening roar descended down upon them. The desert landscape lit up like a massive church nativity.
Max and Monique gazed at the sky above them.
“Dear,” Monique said, “You never told me your wish.”
Max pulled the love of his life close to him. “My wish was to grant you one last wish, baby. This is our last Christmas.” 
“And we’re together.” Monique buried her face in his chest, seemingly oblivious to the ultimate destruction only minutes away. “Oh love, I love you so much.”
Max closed his eyes. “I love you, Monique.”
He heard her begin to sing softly. “Silent Night, holy night…”
And he began to sing along with her. “All is calm, all is bright…”
***
Enjoy every holiday with your loved ones
As if it’s your last.
Happy Apocalyptic Holidays
#
Alan Nayes never believed in the Apocalypse until he saw that big bright light in the sky growing bigger!
Read more about Alan Nayes and his books at www.anayes.com or follow him on Facebook and Twitter

Gargoyles
Amoreena embarks on a dangerous journey to uncover the truth behind the endless battery of genetic tests, sonograms, and frightened patients, only to discover that she has unwittingly become a pawn in a high-stakes game of biomedical experimentation.
Available at Smashwords
Combustion
RG Porter
“Hey, Jim. What’s up?” Kate asked. 
“I need the files on the Bronson case.” Jim’s voice cracked on the other end of the phone. “Can you go into the dungeon and get them?”
Kate glanced at her watch. “Sure. Give me about twenty minutes. You know how packed that place is.” 
“No problem. So long as I have them before the end of the day, we’re good.” 
“Rush from the suits?” 
“Of course,” Jim replied before hanging up.
Kate pushed out from her desk and stood. Grabbing her bag with her lunch and keycard inside, she headed toward the elevator. She would not have time on her lunch hour to both eat outside and visit the dungeon, so she took her lunch with her downstairs. When she was about a foot from the elevator, she saw the door open.
“Hey, Kate.” 
Kate stopped. She didn’t need to deal with Adam, not now. “Adam, what are you doing here?” she asked, hoping that he would just leave. “I said everything I needed to last night.” 
“You may have, but I didn’t.” He grabbed her arm. “Besides, I figured you were just joking.”
Gritting her teeth, Kate tried to pull her arm away. “I don’t joke about my life. Besides, I was quite direct. We’re through. You can’t mistake that for anything else.” 
“You don’t just break up like that.”
Kate finally pulled her arm free. “But I did, so deal with it. Now I have to go. I’m working.”
The door to the elevator began to beep. Kate moved past Adam and entered the elevator. He followed close behind. “You aren’t getting away that easy. We need to discuss this.”
“Adam, there isn’t anything to discuss. Now, go away.” The elevator music played as they descended down. As the door opened on the bottom floor, she exited. 
He followed, and she snapped, “I mean it. I’m working. I don’t need you following me around.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” 
Kate rolled her eyes as she approached the guard in front of the dungeon. “Hey, Joe. I need to get a file from inside.” 
“Isn’t it about lunchtime?” Joe asked. 
“Close, but I brought mine with me. This is an important case.” 
Joe winked. “Gotcha. Who’s the suit?” He unlocked the door to the secured records room. “They don’t trust you now?”
Kate sighed. “No, he’s a friend who won’t take no as an answer.” She followed behind Joe as they entered the room. “I keep hoping he will get the picture. So far, no good. Just let him come with us for now.”
“You know, I can hear you two.” Adam followed them into the room. “And this is far from over, so just grab whatever you need so we can talk.”
Kate moved further into the back of the room, the door behind them closing. The dungeon was one place none of her co-workers liked going to. She didn’t mind it so much. The temperature was cool because of the thick concrete walls, and since no one came down here, it remained quiet.
“So, what is it you’re looking for?” asked Joe. “Anything I can help with?” 
Kate smiled. “Bronson case.”
“Oh, that one.” Joe moved further into the back of the room. “I think they put it over this way.”
Kate followed Joe around some boxes and shelves. It always amazed her just how much paperwork was hidden down here. As they rounded another shelf, she felt a slight shake in the room. Looking around, she wanted to make sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. When she put her hand on one of the shelves, the slight vibration was impossible to miss.
“Joe?” 
“I don’t know, but I feel it.”
Kate took another step forward, when the entire room shook with a force she’d never felt before. The shelves began to buckle, the boxes and folders raining down all around them. Kate ran to the nearest wall and put her back against the cold concrete. Joe and Adam followed suit. The room continued to shake, a large roar above them increasing in volume with each passing second. The ceiling tiles above began to fracture and break, sending dust all over the place. She could feel the concrete behind her warm for a moment before everything around them stilled. The lights flickered a few times before going dark. 
Joe turned on his flashlight and shined it around the room. “Earthquake?”
“I have no idea. Can you get anything on your radio?” Kate asked.
Joe handed her the flashlight and withdrew the radio from his belt. “Henry, are you there?” Nothing but crackles followed. “Henry, are you there? Hello?” 
“Joe…” Kate said.
“Henry?” Joe asked again. “Are you there?”
The radio crackled a few more times before dying out. Kate waved the beam of the flashlight around the room. Paper and boxes were everywhere, but at least the room was still intact. She wondered if they’d been hit by an earthquake, but she pushed that idea to the side. They didn’t live in any of the areas prone to tremors or quakes. No, she knew this place was more likely to get hit by a tornado before any kind of earthquake. Kate moved toward the door, wanting to find out if anyone else was hurt upstairs. Joe stepped in front of her.
“Let me go first. If anything is wrong on the outside, I need to address it.” 
Joe reached out to turn the knob on the door. The moment his hand grasped the handle, there was a soft sizzle followed by a loud howl. Joe fell backwards, his face etched with pain. The faint scent of burning skin filled the air. Kate used the flashlight to illuminate his hand. Bright red blisters had already begun to form across his palm. Kate looked up, and found Adam staring down at them.
“Go to the back left corner of the room and grab the first aid kit. Of course, it may be on the floor now.”
“But…” 
“Just go get it, Adam!” 
Kate could hear Adam curse under his breath as he went, but right now, that didn’t matter. She needed to get some compresses on Joe’s hand before the blisters got worse. She could hear Joe’s breaths coming in short gasps. He was trying to hold in the pain. 
“It’s okay, Joe. We’ll get you to the clinic. I just want to get those blisters covered up first.”
“I, I know. Could there have been an explosion?” 
Kate glanced at the door. She shone the light on it; the frame looked intact. “I don’t think so. If there was, there would be more damage. Maybe something caught fire.”
Behind her, Adam approached, sliding on the papers spilled from boxes. “There isn’t much in this thing, but here you go. I also found a fire extinguisher back there. Maybe we can use it to cool off the handle some.”
Kate took the first aid kit and opened it up, pulling out some bandages and antiseptic. “Give me a second.” She turned to face Joe again. “This is going to hurt like hell.” 
“I know, just get it over with.” 
Kate tried to smile. Opening the bottle, she dumped some of the liquid across his palm, while Joe groaned in agony. She couldn’t blame him. The blisters were forming quickly. Kate took the gauze wrap and placed it on his hand, using the bandage to wrap around his hand to keep it in place. She could only imagine the pain he was going through. After securing the bandage, she got to her feet and removed a small blanket from the first aid kit. She looked at Adam.
“Okay, the way I see it, one of two things happened. Either there was an explosion, but we were far enough away not to sustain too much damage.”
“I doubt that. What’s your second thought?” Adam asked.
“Flash fire. Something set off a huge heat tunnel that hit the door causing the handle to get hot.”
“Great, so what do you want to do?” 
Kate glanced at Joe before looking at the door. “Okay, I’m going to open the door. You aim that fire extinguisher outside. If there is a fire, then that should keep most of it off of us. If there isn’t a fire, well, better to be safe than sorry.”
“Fair enough. Ready?” Adam positioned himself to the side of the door, the fire extinguisher ready. 
“Here goes.” Kate replied. Using the blanket, she grasped the handle and turned. The door flew open with a puff of cold smoke filling the void. There was nothing beyond the door but darkness. “Well, no fire. That’s something.”
Everything in the room outside had a light covering of dust. Glancing behind her, she found Joe had gotten to his feet. Adam was next to him, still holding the extinguisher. 
“Guess we head up and see what’s going on,” Kate offered. Heading towards the elevator, she paused. “I think we better take the stairs. Without knowing what’s going on, I don’t trust the elevator right now. Not to mention, seems like the power is out.”
“Good idea. This way.” Joe pointed down the darkened hallway. “It’s at the end of the hallway. Should only be about three flights up.” 
Kate didn’t like the idea of a dark stairwell, but there were no other options. “Okay, let’s go.” 
They got to the end of the hallway. Kate used the blanket again to turn the handle. Thankfully, the stairwell was just as empty as the rest of the floor. Now it was just a matter of going upstairs to see what was going on. Kate pulled out her mobile phone, and found even that had no power. 
“Damn,” said Kate. Putting her mobile back in her pocket she stared at the stairs ahead of her. “Here we go.” 
***
On the ground floor level, Kate listened for any noise on the other side of the door. She’d already checked the door, and it was warm, but not enough to cause injury. Behind her, Joe tried his radio again. No response. Everything electronic was done. 
“Okay, let’s see if we can find out what happened,” Kate said as she pushed down the door handle. She pulled the door open, and a wave of heat pushed across them. “Good God. Did someone turn the heater on high?” 
Joe stepped through the doorway first. “I don’t think so. Even with the thermostat on high, it wouldn’t be this hot.” He kept moving forward. “Where is everyone?”
Adam pushed passed her. “What do you mean? No one is around? There has to be someone on the main level. Don’t you have a greeter or something?”
Kate followed the two men out. “Adam, stop being such a jerk. Of course there’s security. Maybe something happened, and they’re away. Come on.” Kate kept walking towards the security desk. “Joe, don’t you guys have some kind of emergency radio or something? See if we can’t find out what’s going on.”
“I think so. If we do, it should be under the counter. Let me go see.” 
Joe moved around the counter and kneeled on the ground. He pulled out another first aid kit, this one better than the other, and then she heard a loud thump on the countertop. Looking over, she noticed a very dusty, and old, emergency radio. Looking above her, she was thankful for the amount of windows. Without electricity, the natural light was the only thing keeping them from wandering around in the dark. 
Joe turned the dial. “This is Century Plaza, is anyone out there?” Crackles followed. Joe continued to turn the dial, repeating his greeting every few seconds 
“This is stupid. There has to be someone around here besides us,” Adam groaned. “How can this place be empty? I’m going to check some of the offices.” 
“Just don’t go too far until we know what is going on,” Kate called out to him as he walked away. “It may not be safe.”
“Whatever,” he said, then disappeared down one of the dimly lit hallways. 
“He’s quite the jerk,” said Joe. “I can see why you broke up with him.” 
Kate smiled. “Now if only he could accept it.” She unwrapped Joe’s bandage and applied some more antiseptic to the burn and re-wrapped his hand with fresh bandages. “This looks really bad, Joe. Second degree, and possibly third. We need to get you to the clinic.”
The ceiling began to shake, dropping dust and pieces of sheetrock onto the ground. Kate began to move, when she felt the ground start to shake again. If this was an earthquake, it was different than anything she’d read about. Backing up from the counter, she waited. A loud rumble broke the silence. She didn’t like the sound one bit. Running toward the hallway, she looked for Adam.
“Adam, get back here now!” she screamed. “We need to get out of this building.” 
Adam emerged from one of the offices. “You have no idea.” 
He ran toward her, but not before she caught sight of the inside of the office he’d just left. There was a body, or so she thought, half melted to the chair. Skin was blistered and falling off the muscle. The desk also looked to have been charred by something. Kate turned and grabbed the fire extinguisher. The sound above them continued to grow. Next to her, she saw Joe was already on his feet, and closing the first aid kit before hurrying towards the front doors where he stopped.
“What the hell?” 
Kate hurried to him. “Joe, what is it?” As she got closer, she could have sworn his face had gone white. “Joe?”
“I don’t know. Look.” 
Kate did. Through the glass panes, everything looked normal at first glance. Then, in the distance, she noticed cars stopped for no reason. Out in the parking lot, there were piles of dust and clothing. None of it made sense. Adam arrived, and Kate spoke first before he could raise an argument. They had to leave the building as the sounds upstairs were getting louder.
“We need to get out of here.” She turned to Joe. “Pull open the door, and I’ll spray the immediate area with the flame retardant.” 
“But there isn’t a fire,” Adam interrupted. 
“Doesn’t matter. If outside is anywhere near as hot as in here, I want to be sure before stepping on the ground. Look at those cars out there. Their tires are melted to the pavement. What would cause that?” 
“I don’t know. Maybe we should stay inside.” Adam backed away from the door. “Wait for help.”
Kate continued to look out the window. “I don’t think help is going to come. Something’s happened, and we need to find out what. Besides,” she began, “Joe needs proper medical attention. His burn is serious and infection is always a risk. We need to get to the clinic. There’s one just around the block.”
“I don’t know.” Adam was delaying, and it pissed Kate off. “I think we should stay put.”
“Sorry, but I’m with her. Staying here isn’t going to do us any good.” Joe got closer to the door handle. “Ready?” 
Kate held tight to the fire extinguisher. “Go for it.” 
Joe pulled the door open. Heat from outside flooded into the room. Kate triggered the fire extinguisher and used it along the ground. Steam and smoke floated up into the air. Stepping across the threshold, Kate took her time putting her foot on the ground. It felt solid and cold under the cooling agent. Leaning down, she gently touched the ground that hadn’t been hit by the spray. It felt warm, almost hot, but not enough to burn their feet. The full heat that had melted the rubber of the tires must have eased quickly.
“I think we are good. Just be careful as you walk.” She stood and turned in the direction of the clinic. “We should hurry.”
“Good idea,” agreed Joe, just behind her. “Keep an eye out though. If things got this hot, there has to be people injured.”
“No offense, Joe, but if things got hot enough to melt those tires, injuries are the least of our concern – or theirs.”
“You two are crazy.” 
Kate turned to find Adam waiting in the doorway. “Stay if you want, but we’re leaving.” 
Kate began to move. The roar had gotten almost deafening. She’d been trying to figure out what the sound was, but until now hadn’t seen what was causing it. She and Joe continued around the corner through the steady heat. The ground reminded Kate of hot summers on new asphalt, the heat almost too much for her feet to bear. 
“Where is everyone?” Joe asked. “This place is usually busy.”
“I know.” Kate wondered the same thing. Crossing another street, they came to the window of one of the small cafés in the area. “Let’s take a quick look inside.”
Kate opened the door and entered. The seats were empty, but she heard something towards the back. Moving quietly, she led Joe past the counter area and to the back kitchen. As they turned the corner into the kitchen, the scent of burnt flesh filled the air. Kate grabbed a small towel and covered her mouth. Walking to the back of the kitchen, she found bodies all over the floor. She kneeled down besides the closest one.
“It looks like they were burnt, but the room is clean. What would cause this kind of damage?” Kate used the small towel to pick up one of the corpse’s hands. The skin that had been touching the floor was still smooth and intact. “It looks like they dropped fast and were burned just on the parts exposed.”
“Have you ever seen this before?” 
Kate let the arm drop. “Never.” A bump came from farther back near the cooler. “What was that?”
Kate stood and walked toward the cooler. Leaning against the steel door, she heard a faint pounding from inside. Glancing back at Joe, she motioned for him to be ready. She took hold of the lever and pulled. The door came open and with it a wave of cold air flowed out. Kate pulled Joe into the freezer quickly.
“Joe, keep the door open just a crack. I want to enjoy this cold air for a moment.” Kate moved inside before noticing a body slouched along the wall. “Hello?”
“Who, who’s there?” The voice was female. “Don’t let the door shut.”
Kate moved closer. “What happened out there? What’s going on?” 
The woman looked up, her face red with small blisters along her cheek. “I’m not sure. I was getting something out of the freezer. I heard something roaring, then I heard screaming.” The woman’s voice cracked as she spoke. “When I looked out into the kitchen people were running in from the main dining room and falling to the ground. The smell was so bad. I wanted to help but something hot hit my face and then the door slammed shut.”
Kate moved back to the door and leaned through the crack. Sure enough, on the outside of the door was an indention she’d not noticed before. Her hand moved across the surface. The metal felt smooth in comparison to the inner side of the door. She’d seen something similar long ago while going back to college. The professor had shown the class what happened when intense heat was applied to a metal surface. It melted as the heat was increased, but once it cooled, the metal was smoother than before. Somehow, that had happened here. 
“We need to go.” 
Kate looked at Joe. “What’s up?”
“I’d rather not hang around dead bodies. Besides, my hand is starting to hurt like mad.”
Kate nodded. “Right.” She turned toward the woman. “I’m Kate, this is Joe. We’re headed to the clinic. You should come with us.”
“My name is Beth.” She began to stand. “Is it still hot out there?”
“It’s hot, but not enough to be dangerous.” Kate answered. “Do you have a cooler we can take? Fill it with some ice and water. I want to be sure we have a way to stay hydrated.”
“Sure, here.” The woman handed Kate two good sized coolers. “Water is on the left. If there is any ice left, it will be in the bin next to the door.”
“There’s some, but not much,” Joe offered. 
They took what they could carry, and left the café. Walking under the sun felt different. Looking up, the sky even looked different. It was no longer blue, but a hazy orange and yellow. Even the air had a dry feel to it. Walking around reminded Kate of opening the door to an oven on full blast. Something was definitely wrong. 
“What’s that?” Beth asked. 
Kate turned and followed her line of sight. In the distance, the air looked off. As the air anomaly seemed to get closer, the buildings it passed shook. Windows shattered and street lamps bent. It was unlike anything Kate had ever seen in her life and it was coming in a wave towards them. About a hundred feet away, Adam was walking their way, in front of whatever was heading towards them.
“Adam, run!” Kate shouted. He looked at her confused. “Move it now!”
“What?” Adam shouted back. 
“We need to get inside again,” Joe said. He was already heading back into the café. “That’s going to kill us.” 
Kate tried to wait for Adam, but he wasn’t moving fast enough. When he was about forty feet away, the wave hit him. His body shook for a moment before his skin caught fire and turned to dust, his cries of pain filling the air. Turning away, Kate rushed back inside. She didn’t have much time before she would be incinerated just like Adam. Moving around the counter, she heard the others in the back.
“Hurry up, Kate!” Joe shouted. “It’s getting close.” 
Rounding the corner, Kate’s foot caught the edge of one of the bodies. She lost her balance and came face to face with a blasted corpse. Kate tried to dislodge her foot and move, but the wave was already there. The heat that hit her skin sent pain racing through her body. She wanted to scream but found her voice gone. Blackness enveloped her, and she prayed for a quick death.
***
“Kate?” 
A familiar voice filled her mind. Opening her eyes, she found brown carpet beneath her. Lifting her head, she noticed she was no longer in the cafe. She was in her own office. Above her stood one of her co-workers, Janice, reaching down to help her get up. Kate stood, and everything around her spun for a few moments.
“What, what happened?” she asked. She could still feel the sting of the heat on her leg. “Did I black out?” 
“We all did.” 
Kate turned to face Janice. “What do you mean everyone did? Was there a gas leak?”
Janice shook her head. “No, I mean everyone did. All over the world.” 
Kate touched her head and felt a sticky substance. Pulling her finger away, she saw blood. “Well that explains the headache.” She leaned on her desk for support. “Wait, everyone passed out? Do they know why?”
“Nobody has a clue, at least that’s what the news is reporting. It’s weird though. Even though they say everyone passed out at the same time, how long they were out varied.” 
“That is strange.” Kate moved around and sat on her chair. “Oh God,” she began. “How many do they think died?”
“What?” 
Kate tried to shake the dream from her mind. “Think about it. If everyone passed out at the same time, there would be accidents all over. Cars, planes, trains, everything. Has anything been announced?” 
Janice looked out the window and shrugged. “Nothing yet. I know I heard sirens, but I didn’t think much past that. Hopefully not too many planes were in the air.”
“It’s a Friday, there were quite a few. God, this is a nightmare.” Kate glanced at her desk and noticed a picture of Adam. It had not been there in her dream. Looking at her calendar, she noticed the date. May 25th, 2013. Kate closed her eyes and tried to remember what she’d seen in her dream. It wasn’t spring or summer yet, she was sure of it. It was closer to fall, but the year had been farther ahead. The harder she tried to recall, the more her head hurt. 
“Kate, are you okay?” Janice asked.
“I’m fine, just a bad headache.” Turning to face her co-worker, she knew she had to ask. “When you were out, did you have any dreams?”
Janice was silent for a moment before speaking. “I think so, but it wasn’t very long. I remember being in the office and hearing something really loud. It got really hot but that’s about it. Why?”
Kate’s body stilled. “Nothing. I was just curious.”
“Hey, Kate, good to see you awake. Head okay?” 
Kate turned to find Jim looking in from the hall. “Yes, I’m fine. We were just discussing our strange dreams.”
“Oh, those. Everyone had some, but none of it made sense from what I’ve gathered. Anyway, here is a new case that we just got. It’s going to be a hard one. I need to make sure this one stays safe. File it in the dungeon.”
Kate took the file from Jim, her eyes reading the name. Bronson. Kate’s breath held in her lungs. Suddenly, the dream she’d had took on much more credence. She’d never heard about this case until now, yet she’d dreamt about it beforehand. That meant something was going on, something that was going to destroy her town, if not the world. She needed to find out how to stop it, if that was even possible. Standing back up, she grabbed her purse and headed down the hallway. She needed to get this filed, but more than that she needed to find Joe and see if he’d had the same dream as she had. If so, maybe they could try and piece things together. If not, the world might be in for a world of hurt.
#
RG Porter knows we’ve pissed Mother Nature off enough by now. Apocalypse is inevitable.
Read more about RG Porter and her books at rgporter.net or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

Keepers of Water
Two worlds, one planet, tons of trouble.
Available at Smashwords
The Eclective
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Emma Jameson
P.J. Jones
Shéa MacLeod
M. Edward McNally
Alan Nayes
R.G. Porter
Tara West
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