New Book Sample: Barren

Hi all!

It’s been a while since I posted anything on this blog (8 months apparently, according to the welcome message from WordPress when I logged in). I’ve been working hard on my next book, the Barren series! I promised my readers (at least the ones who are interested) that I would provide an excerpt of Barren so people can see what it’s going to be about and figure out if they’re interested or not. I’m feeling particularly sick right now, so I’m going to stop trying to think of anything else to say and just get on with it. Below is the first chapter of Barren, for those who wish to check it out.

Bear in mind, though, this is all from the first draft. Some things may change, any errors will be fixed, you know how it goes. This is far from the final product for this chapter, it’s really just to introduce the story and give you guys a feel for how the story will be told.

So, that being said…

Enjoy!

 

1

Earth Year 2185

6.3 light years from Earth

Lieutenant Junior Stephen Miller woke suddenly to the sounds of gunfire and screams. While he had been sound asleep seconds earlier, he now sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wide and alert, staring towards the metal door of his quarters with scrutiny and trepidation.
Beside him, his wife stirred and carefully sat up, unconsciously placing her hands over her heavily pregnant belly.
“What’s going on, Stephen?” Harriet asked, fearfully eying the door.
“Just wait here,” Miller replied. “Don’t leave this room.”
While two more gunshots rang out, Miller quickly approached the door in his T-shirt and pyjama pants. He pushed his hand on the button on the wall beside the entrance to the hallway beyond and the door immediately slid smoothly open. Miller glanced out into the hall and was greeted with the usual sights of the gray, unglamorous, corridor of the interstellar ship. the Panspermia. The cold steel, the glowing lights, the painted lines indicating which direction to go for whatever needs you may have were all familiar sights. What was different now, however, was the sound of screams emanating down the hall to Miller’s left. To his right, he saw two privates dragging an officer along the floor by his arms, both calling for a medical officer. Miller saw that the officer’s face and chest were bloody and he was completely limp, his feet dragging uselessly on the floor. There was a long red line of blood snaking through the corridor that indicated how far the two privates had dragged the officer. Miller silently thought that no medic alive could help the poor bastard now.
Just as Miller stared in shock at the privates trying in vain to help the officer, he noticed a familiar face rush by.
“McLernon!” Miller hissed, glancing down the corridor as he heard more gunshots in rapid succession.
The young Ensign named Dexter McLernon skidded to a halt as he ran by, turning and looking at Miller with wide and wild eyes.
“What the hell is going on?” Miller asked.
Ensign McLernon didn’t respond, but instead quickly rushed into Miller’s quarters. Despite the fact that Miller outranked him, McLernon roughly shoved Miller out of the way and slammed his hand down on the button to seal the room, the door sliding shut behind him.
“Dammit!” McLernon panted, leaning back against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. Miller suddenly noticed that there was blood spatter on McLernon’s shirt. “Damn, Miller! Damn!”
“McLernon, calm down and tell me what the bloody hell is going on,” Miller barked in his Oxfordshire accent. “Why are you covered in blood? What happened out there? Are those gunshots I keep hearing?”
“Gunshots?” Harriet repeated from the bed behind him, sounding timid.
“It’s Captain Willems!” McLernon cried. While Miller was from Britain, McLernon was from West Lothian in Scotland and his accent was rather prominent. Miller was glad to be able to understand him, as he hadn’t been able to when they had gone drinking before launching from Earth.
That seems so long ago, now, Miller thought. Then, aloud, he said, “Willems? What’s happened?”
“Willems has lost his bloody marbles, man!” McLernon panted. “He’s got a gun! He’s shot up the entire bridge crew, and now he’s gunning down any sod who comes in to stop him!”
Miller simply gaped at McLernon in shock for a few seconds before he was able to form a reply.
“Why?” Miller demanded incredulously. “Willems has been a Captain longer than you and I have served! You must be wrong.”
“I’m bloody not wrong!” McLernon hissed. “I just came from the bridge. See this?” McLernon grabbed his shirt and shook the patches of blood that were soaking into the fibres. “This is Halibi’s! She and I went to the bridge when we heard the shots, then Willems fed her a mouthful of lead! He took a shot at me, too, but he missed, thank Christ. I took off looking for help.”
“Where did he even get a gun?” Miller demanded, trying to shake the feeling of nausea as he thought about poor Halibi. “They’re all supposed to be stowed away in cargo, no one but the US Marines has access.”
“Beats me,” McLernon said. “But he’s got it and he’s killed every ranking officer on the bridge, and then some.”
“Shit,” Miller swore. “So Willems has to be relieved of his command. Who’s the remaining ranking officer?”
McLernon blinked at Miller thoughtfully for a moment, then leaned closer and said, “You are.”
Of course I bloody am, Miller thought, sighing internally.
“Well then,” Miller said sternly, trying not to look as freaked out as he felt. “I guess we better go deal with this.”
“Stephen, no!” Harriet suddenly cried.
Miller turned to face her, surprised for a moment. He had almost forgotten she was there, distracted as he was. She was covering herself with the bedsheets and was glaring at Miller with wide eyes.
“He’s got a gun, Stephen!” Harriet said. “He could kill you!”
“Harriet,” Miller began, sitting down on the side of the bed and taking his wife’s hand. “If the Captain has already killed the entire bridge crew, then he’s probably used all of the ammunition he got a hold of. He couldn’t have smuggled much out with being caught. He’s probably already out. McLernon and I will go detain him and sort this mess out.”
“And a right bloody mess it is, too!” McLernon added.
Miller ignored him.
Harriet fixed her husband with a steely glare. “You promised me this would be safe,” she accused. “You told me by taking this job, you wouldn’t be in situations like this anymore. This is space, Stephen, not war. You’re not a soldier now. We volunteered for this so people wouldn’t be shooting at you anymore.”
“This isn’t like the old days,” Miller assured her. “I’m not dying today. And I have to stop Willems from hurting anybody else. Think of our baby.”
Harriet placed her hands on her belly again.
“Don’t do anything stupid, hero,” Harriet sighed, reaching out and stroking Miller’s cheek.
Miller took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Moments later, Miller was in uniform and jogging through the corridor with McLernon at his side.
“I haven’t heard a shot in a while,” Miller noted.
“Aye,” McLernon nodded. “Maybe he’s out of ammo?”
Miller didn’t reply, but he silently hoped it would be that easy.
Finally, they reached the doors to the bridge. The automatic doors stood wide open and Miller immediately saw why. The body of Commander Fleming was lying in the way, preventing the doors from closing. There was a large hole in the back of his head, blood pooling on the floor.
“Dammit,” Miller hissed through his teeth.
Sidling up to the side of the door, being sure to move as quietly as possible, Miller braved a quick glance around the frame and into the bridge. McLernon stayed behind him, flat against the wall.
Miller saw Willems right away. The Captain was in his fifties, but was still fit and athletic, his black uniform fitting snugly around his toned muscles. Willems had torn off his tie and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and Miller momentarily thought about how strange it was to see him presenting himself in a way that was any less than what was expected for meeting the Royal Family.
Willems was pacing around the bridge in a hurried frenzy, rushing from computer to computer, stepping over bodies as though they weren’t there. Miller saw the gun in his hand, which Willems seemed to be subconsciously tapping against his temple whenever he changed stations, his face grimacing in a distraught panic. There was sweat beading on his forehead, despite the computer moderated temperature of the entire ship never getting above 25 degrees celsius. Miller could also hear Willems muttering to himself, his voice sounding choked with despair.
“No more,” Willems muttered as he punched a few commands into one computer with his free hand, just loud enough for Miller to hear. “No more… No more…”
“Captain Willems!” Miller shouted.
At the sound of Miller’s voice, Willems whirled away from the computer and aimed the gun at the doorway where Miller was standing just out of the line of fire.
“Who’s there!?” Willems demanded, though his voice was uncharacteristically shaky. “Show yourself!”
“I don’t think I’ll be doing that, sir,” Miller replied, staying behind the corner. “Not unless you put down the gun.”
“Then we seem to be at a stalemate,” Willems sniffed.
“Not quite, Captain,” Miller replied. “Word will have spread by now that you’ve murdered your crew. How long before the Marines come in looking to, ah… what’s the word they use? Neutralize the situation? They’ll gun you down, sir. If you cooperate with me, you might survive to face a trial.”
The gun shook once in Willems’ hand and his lip quivered. He ran his free hand over his short, wavy, gray hair.
“Let them kill me,” Willems said, his voice breaking once. “It doesn’t make a difference. Not anymore.”
Miller glanced to his right to arch an eyebrow at McLernon, who shrugged helplessly in response. Frowning, Miller turned back to the door.
“Captain Willems,” Miller called out. “I’m Lieutenant Junior Stephen Miller. I’ve served under you for the nine months we’ve been on this mission. You were trusted by a unanimous vote from the United Nations to captain the Panspermia and give the soldiers and civilians on this ship safe passage to our destination. Up until today, you’ve given no reason for anyone to suspect you might do something like this. Why now, sir? Why did you kill all these people?”
Willems didn’t reply at once. Instead, he glanced helplessly around the bridge, as though only now realizing that he had gunned down at least a dozen unarmed men and women.
“We received a message,” Willems finally replied.
“From Earth?” Miller asked, then realized it was a stupid question. Where the hell else would they have received a message from?
“Yes,” Willems answered flatly. “From Earth. It was… brief.”
Miller waited for more, but when Willems spoke again, it wasn’t to him.
“SALINA,” Willems said loudly, speaking to the ship’s artificially intelligent program, Sentient ALgorithm for INstantaneous Assistance.
“Yes, Captain,” came the autonomous female voice that was SALINA.
“Play the last received transmission from Earth received via laser relay.”
“Confirmed, Captain.”
Miller then heard a loud static noise fill the bridge. He swallowed nervously. Transmissions from Earth were rare, as they were difficult to transmit so far into deep space. Laser relay was reserved for emergencies and mission-vital intelligence.
“This can’t be good,” McLernon murmured, giving voice to Miller’s concerns.
“Attention Panspermia,” came a voice on the message, difficult to hear over the sound of static. “Earth preservation attempts… failed. Atmosphere breaking apart. Mission is scrapped, repeat, colonisation mission is scrapped. Mission time of twelve years no longer viable. Earth will be dead… by the time you receive this message. We have only days. It’s our suggestion that you proceed as planned to habitable planet E-dash-seven-niner-three-three-two, codenamed Novus, and settle the surviving members of humanity there as originally briefed, but… But don’t expect the rest of us to follow.”
There was a long pause as the speaker in the recorded message sighed audibly, possibly gathering their thoughts or taking a moment to let the information sink in.
“There’s nothing for you to come back to,” the speaker said despairingly. “Proceed as planned. Colonise Novus. You and your crew, and the passengers… you’re all that’s left.”
Then the message ended and silence filled the bridge.
“Jesus Christ,” McLernon whispered. He slowly slid to the floor and put his head between his knees. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Earth’s gone?” Miller asked, feeling cold all over. “How? We had time. The atmosphere was holding! We had another fifty years! The mission was going to work! We could have colonised Novus in time for global evac! What happened?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Lieutenant,” Willems said, still holding the gun. “Maybe the eggheads who did the math forgot to carry the one. Point is, Earth’s gone. With no atmosphere, she’ll already be burned up by solar radiation. Humanity’s dead, son.”
McLernon groaned on the floor, his face visibly green. Miller scowled. Then he suddenly stepped out around the door and glared at Willems. The Captain trained the gun on him, but didn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he watched Miller with eyes that were full of loss.
“And that justifies you murdering all these people?” Miller demanded. “There are a quarter of a million people on this ship, who are apparently the last of mankind, and you just killed off a few more?”
“This is the way it has to be, son,” Willems replied sadly. “I left my kids behind, grandkids. They’re dead now. And I keep thinking, why would God do this to us? To the whole planet? Why would He let us all die? Then I realized. He wants us all to go home. He wants us with Him. Humanity had its run, Miller. It’s over.”
“It’s not over,” Miller snarled. “We’re still here! We’re still alive!”
“Are we?” Willems asked blankly. “Are we still alive? Floating through space in this giant coffin?”
“This ship was… is the last chance for humanity,” Miller insisted. “You’re talking like humanity is already extinct.”
Suddenly, Willems laughed humorlessly. He then fixed his cold and miserable eyes on Miller’s.
“Sure it is,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Then he pressed the gun against his own temple.
“No!” Miller cried.
The shot rang out and Willems’ brains splattered against the nearest computer monitor. His body fell to the floor in a heap.
“Dammit to hell!” Miller raged.
McLernon poked his head around the door and took in what had just happened.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” he said grimly.
“At least he can’t hurt anyone else, now,” Miller sighed.
Suddenly, SALINA began to speak. The suddenness of her flat tone made Miller jump.
“Captain Willems’ vitals have flatlined,” SALINA reported. “Searching manifest for surviving superior officer. Commander Jasper Fleming… Deceased. Lieutenant Commander Akina Goh… Deceased. Lieutenant Abdi Malik Osman… Deceased. Lieutenant Junior Stephen Miller… Surviving superior officer. Suitable replacement for Captain located.”
“Hell of a way to get promoted, mate,” McLernon said to Miller.
“Lieutenant Junior Stephen Miller,” SALINA said, addressing Miller directly now. “The Captain and other ranking officers are deceased. You are now the ranking officer on board this ship. Do you understand and accept this responsibility?”
Miller understood, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to accept. If that message he heard was true, then he was now responsible for the lives of the remaining members of the human race. The thought of it made him feel physically ill. He was barely ready to be responsible for one life, that of his unborn child. Now he was responsible for just under 250,000 lives?
Regardless of his own misgivings, Miller took a step farther into the bridge and said loudly, “Yes. I do, SALINA.”
“Security authorisation required,” SALINA replied. “Lieutenant Miller, place your hand on the scanner at the Captain’s station.”
Miller approached the chair and terminal that had once belonged to Willems. On the arm of the chair, there was a rectangular section that looked like white plastic, with green lights glowing softly around the edges. Miller placed his hand on the rectangle and waited as the green lights scanned his palm and fingerprints, confirming his identity.
“Identity confirmed,” SALINA said. “Emergency Override Code required to instate Lieutenant Junior Miller as acting Captain of the Panspermia.”
Miller had been trained in similar scenarios and had the code committed to memory, but he never once thought he would ever need to use it.
“Emergency Override Code, Foxtrot-Zulu-Golf-Bravo, seven-niner-three, Oscar-Echo-Sierra, zero-five-one-niner. Lieutenant Junior Stephen Miller, requesting override of security in response to multiple casualties of commanding officers. Requesting permission from ship’s intelligence to take command of the Panspermia.”
“Authorisation granted,” SALINA replied. “Captain Miller on deck.”
Miller sighed with a mix of relief and anxiety, taking his hand away from the scanner. “All that’s left now is to get these people to their new home,” he said to McLernon.
“Aye, Captain,” McLernon responded.
Miller felt strange being called Captain, but didn’t say anything. He was surveying the chaos that Willems had left behind after his psychotic break. The dead bodies were everywhere Miller looked. Officers, privates, even civilians, all gunned down without pity or mercy. Some had collapsed on the floor as they tried to flee the room or protect one another, perhaps even trying to restrain Willems. Other never even rose from their work stations, simply slumping over their screens, blood running over the desks and dripping to the floor.
“Bloody Willems,” McLernon sighed, surveying the scene beside Miller.
“I don’t get why he would do this,” Miller said. “He got the psych evaluation, just like everyone else. He was cleared.”
“I guess even shrinks can’t predict how someone will react if their whole planet gets wiped out,” McLernon replied.
Miller frowned as he considered this, still slowly looking from body to body, work station to work station. He felt uneasy. Not because of all the death he was facing, his years in the Navy had shown him his fair share of death. Something else was nagging at him. A feeling, an instinct, an unexplainable sense of imminent danger.
“SALINA!” Miller shouted, startling McLernon with his sudden urgency. “I need a run down of all systems on the Panspermia. Life support, gravitational rotation of the ship, water supply, everything! Do it now!”
“Yes Captain,” SALINA replied calmly.
“What’s wrong?” McLernon asked, following Miller as he hurried to the nearest work station.
Miller used his hand to wipe away as much blood as possible from the screen that was embedded in the desk, smearing most of it but allowing just enough visibility to start typing away at the keyboard.
“When we came in,” Miller began in a hurry, “Willems was typing commands into the computers. He killed everyone in the room, scared everyone else away, and started going from computer to computer.”
“So?” McLernon asked, watching Miller typing hurriedly. “You think he compromised the ship? Wouldn’t SALINA know and stop him if he did that?”
Miller shook his head. “No, she couldn’t. SALINA isn’t designed to have access to the bridge terminals. And she’s also programmed to never question or disobey any order from the captain. Her engineers were worried about if she malfunctioned and commandeered the ship or something. They didn’t want to risk an AI take over on this mission. SALINA can access only what she needs to do her job, regulating life support systems, she can check the health of everyone on board via their spinal inserts, but that’s it. If Willems did anything to the ship, SALINA wouldn’t know until her regular systems check every 48 hours. By then, it could be too late to do anything about a problem.”
“If Willems did anything,” McLernon said, sounding hopeful. “I mean, he wouldn’t kill everyone, would he?”
“He said humanity is already extinct,” Miller said grimly, looking at the screen. “But we don’t know it yet. Look.”
Miller stood up straight and gestured to the screen. McLernon looked, studying the screen scrupulously while his face remained impassive. Suddenly, he registered what he was seeing and his eyes shot wide open as he straightened, stepping back from the computer as though it might explode.
“Willems accessed the reactor?” McLernon asked hoarsely.
Miller nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. The Panspermia’s reactor was the most advanced of its kind. A nuclear fusion power generator. At the rear of the miles-long ship, the propulsion system that had carried them this far into space was something that scientists had dreamed of since the 20th century. Powerful enough to propel the ship continuously through space, slowly reaching a top speed that was a quarter the speed of light. A journey that once would have taken 400 years suddenly took only 100, while their current destination was reachable from Earth in a little over 7. The propulsion system was powered by, quite literally, a miniature sun. It was suspended at the rear of the ship, feeding power to the engines and the other vital systems that kept them all alive. Without that miniature, man-made sun, humanity would never have been able to reach beyond its own solar system.
However, as vital as the nuclear fusion sun was, it was also as deadly as any natural sun. It emitted massive amounts of radiation, which was contained by a lead sphere casing, more than 20 feet thick, allowing it to support life on the ship instead of destroy it.
“What the bloody hell was he accessing the reactor for?” McLernon nearly shouted.
“Captain,” SALINA suddenly said. Miller thought he heard a sense of urgency in her computerized voice, but then dismissed it as his imagination. “Access hatches to the reactor have been opened. The fusion sun is leaking radiation through the sphere.”
“Fusion radiation dies out, though,” McLernon said quickly, glancing nervously between Miller and the computer. “Fusion isn’t like fission. The radioactive waste dies out fast. Even if it is leaking, it won’t stick around long enough to kill us all. Will it?”
“Not exactly,” Miller said, feeling like he wanted nothing more than to sit down somewhere dark and quiet and throw up. “The fusion sun is a near-limitless source of power, and a shelf life of ten-thousand years. It leaks radiation as fast as it produces energy. Even with the radiation dissipating, it’s producing it faster than it can die out. That’s why it’s cased in the lead sphere. Before long, radiation will flood the whole ship.”
“So…” McLernon began, looking pale. “We’re screwed?”
“Damn,” Miller hissed, though he felt like saying far worse. “SALINA, can you shut it down? Stop the leak?”
“Negative, Captain,” SALINA replied. “While that action is ordinarily well within my parameters, it appears that the late Captain Willems managed to recode a portion of my programming. I am unable to seal the leak until rebooting.”
“Can you reboot?” Miller asked. “How long will that take?”
“Too long, Captain,” SALINA said. “Approximately 18 hours is required to restore complete access to the ship.”
“And how long until we’re all poisoned and dying?”
“Approximately 10 hours, Captain.”
This time Miller did swear. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, thinking. He stared at the enormous screen at the front of the bridge which provided a digital view of the vast expanse of space ahead. He glanced down at a nearby computer, studying the mass of numbers and readings that were provided automatically. Miller then looked up to the large windows that offered a clear view into space. Only the solar blinds were down; thick steel used to seal the windows against the dangerous glare of nearby suns, comets, or other bright objects in space. They were also used as airtight seals in the event of a fracture in the glass, preventing decompression. Miller narrowed his eyes as he stared at the visors.
“Wait,” Miller said slowly. “Why are the solar blinds closed?”
“Captain,” McLernon began, “with all due respect, I think we have bigger problems right now.”
Miller ignored McLernon and looked down at the readouts on the screen in front of him. “We’re still on course,” he said thoughtfully, as though it surprised him.
“Miller!” McLernon growled. “There’s a never ending cloud of radiation seeping through the ship! What are we going to do about it?”
“SALINA,” Miller said, as though McLernon hadn’t spoken. “Open the solar blinds.”
The steel screens immediately began to open. They slid apart, slowly revealing what should have been an endless expanse of black nothingness. Instead, Miller saw a distant sphere amidst the background of space, slowly getting larger.
“What the…” Miller began. “There’s not supposed to be anything here! We’re off course!”
“SALINA should have picked up on this!” McLernon said angrily.
“Apologies, Captain,” SALINA said. “It appears that the late Captain Willems reprogrammed the navigational readouts as well as my parameters. The screens show our course as it should be, but we are millions of miles off course.”
“Can we course correct?” Miller demanded.
“Negative, sir,” SALINA replied. “Willems has severed my connections to the autopilot and disabled the ship’s controls. The course cannot be corrected.”
“He must have planned this weeks ago,” Miller cried. “He’s got us on a collision course with that planet!”
“That son of a bitch just killed the human race,” McLernon moaned.
“Where the hell are we, SALINA?” Miller demanded. “What planet is this?”
“The planet is designation J-dash-seven-six-three-seven,” SALINA recited. “Codename; Icarus.”
“What do we know about it?” Miller asked, his heart racing. “Can humans survive on the surface?”
“Little is known about Icarus, but survival is somewhat plausible,” SALINA replied. “At the time of Icarus’ discovery, the Earth was already deteriorating and resources were spread thin due to the concentrated efforts to ensure humanity could reach Novus, so no extensive research was undertaken. It is known that Icarus does have an atmosphere containing oxygen, nitrogen, argon, carbon dioxide, and other elements required to sustain human life. It is similar in size to Earth, the gravity being 1.1 times that of Earth’s gravity, meaning you will be able to survive on the surface. However, it is my duty to inform you that while the planet resides within the habitable zone around its parent star, it is very much on the line. It skims the edge of the habitable zone closest to the parent star and is hotter and drier than Earth. It is conceivable that your race can survive there, though not without great difficulty.”
“It’d be far easier to survive there than on this ship once it’s full of radiation,” Miller pointed out. “How long until we reach it?”
“Willems seems to have slowed propulsion to change our heading,” SALINA began, “but at our current velocity, the Panspermia will enter Icarus’ atmosphere in approximately 37 minutes.”
“You mean we’ll crash?” McLernon asked.
“Yes, Ensign,” SALINA replied patiently. “We will crash. And everyone on board will die.”
Miller rubbed both hands over his face, making a frustrated noise of helplessness. He had been Captain for less than 10 minutes and already everything was falling apart. There was only one thing he could think to do, but it was enormously risky. However, he felt that they were still somehow lucky, in a sense. If Willems hadn’t changed their course to crash the ship into this planet, then they would have had no chance at survival. Now though… Likelihood of survival just flopped from zero to slim.
“Issue an evacuation,” Miller said firmly. “Abandon ship. Make sure everyone is in their sections. We’re going to land on Icarus.”
“You can’t be serious?” McLernon said incredulously. “Can’t we just manually seal the lead sphere?”
“That’s what Willems was counting on us to try,” Miller realized aloud. “He altered the readouts to show we were on course, then lowered the flare blinds to hide the planet we’re about to crash into. He wanted us to waste time focusing on the radiation leak while we ran headlong into this planet without even realizing. Our only chance is to land there.”
“We don’t know the first thing about that planet!”
“We know we have a chance to survive!” Miller shouted. “And the odds of that are a hell of a lot better than if we stay on this ship. We have radiation leaking behind us and a fiery crash in front of us. The only chance anyone has right now is to evacuate the ship and land safely on this planet! Now, Ensign, I’m ordering that we evacuate the ship!”
“Aye, Captain,” McLernon said begrudgingly.
“SALINA,” Miller said. “Sound the alarm. Announce for all crew and passengers to remain in their evac stations. We’re abandoning ship.”
“Yes, Captain,” SALINA replied. Then, as sirens wailed through the ship and her voice ordered people to their stations, she added, “Captain, it appears that there is a problem.”
“Oh God, what now?” Miller sighed.
“The automatic release of the evac sections is not responding,” SALINA explained. “I believe Captain Willems’ sabotage has reached a third front.”
“We can’t evacuate now?” McLernon cried.
Miller closed his eyes in despair. He thought of his wife, Harriet, waiting for him in their cabin, scared by the alarms and the call for evacuation. He thought of his unborn child, whose future was now so uncertain. The moment SALINA told him what Willems had done, he knew what he had to do. But even though he knew it was the only option, he wished there was someone else who could do it.
“Dexter,” Miller began, surprising himself with how calm he sounded. “Get to an evac station. Make sure Harriet goes, too. She might want to wait for me, but don’t let her. You get her out, you hear me? Make sure she gets out.”
“Miller, what are you talking about?” McLernon asked, his voice quivering. Miller knew McLernon wasn’t a fool. The Scot knew exactly what Miller was thinking. He just didn’t want to admit it.
“I’m giving you a direct order, Dexter,” Miller said, a little more firmly. “Evacuate. Now.”
McLernon was shaking his head. “No. No, Stephen, I can’t. Not like this.”
“This is the only way, Dexter,” Miller insisted. “It’s my life versus 250,000 others. Including my wife. I have to stay back. I have to manually disengage the evac stations.”
“Can’t SALINA do it?” McLernon asked desperately, already knowing the answer.
“No,” Miller said. “Only the Captain can authorize an emergency evacuation before reaching the destination. This is the only way.”
“No!” McLernon snapped. “Let me stay! I’ll do it! You’ve got Harriet, your baby… You can’t do this.”
“Manual authorization requires a hand recognition scan to proceed,” Miller replied, waving his left hand at McLernon gently. “Besides, how could I ask you to do something like this?”
“This isn’t right!” McLernon cried, beside himself with despair. “Willems did this! It should be him strapped to that damn scanner!”
“A lot of things should have happened,” Miller smiled humorlessly. “But this is what’s actually happening. Come on, there isn’t much time left. You have to go. You, er… you take care of Harriet for me, yeah? Can you tell her I love her? That I will always love her. And my child… make sure they know who their father was. Make sure they’re okay. That they… that…”
McLernon was nodding. “Yeah. Of course. I promise.”
“Okay then,” Miller sighed. He then reached out a hand to McLernon, who took it after a moment of hesitation. The two shook hands, saying farewell. Then, unable to think of another argument, and determined to keep his promise, McLernon left the bridge.
Miller sighed heavily and sat down in the Captain’s chair.
“Well,” he said. “I guess it’s just you and me now, SALINA.”
“Captain,” SALINA began. “It is my duty to inform you that there is a zero percent chance of surviving this. Are you certain you want to proceed?”
“No,” Miller replied. “But it has to be done. Our only directive right now is to ensure the survival of the human race. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Captain.”
Throughout the ship, people were shouting and running, on the verge of a panic. They knew they shouldn’t be at Novus yet. This was not in the plan. It was too soon. But they all quickly moved to the enormous evacuation stations. Thousands upon thousands of people, filing into cavernous rooms full of chairs, strapping themselves in. Supplies of all kinds were already stored in the lower levels of the stations, full of food, water, tools, all the things they were going to need once they reached Novus. Now they hoped that they could use them still, wherever they were going instead.
McLernon helped a distraught Harriet Miller to a seat and strapped her in, her silent tears breaking his heart. He felt guilty looking at her, but he had made a promise. It was one he was determined to keep.
Harriet understood why her husband was doing this, but it didn’t ease her pain. She closed her eyes as she waited for everyone to strap in and she let the tears roll down her face, her hands unconsciously holding her belly.
In the bridge, Miller checked the screens to see the progress of the evac. They’d made good time. 90 percent completion in 20 minutes, less than 5 minutes estimated until 100 percent evac readiness. Leaving him with 10 minutes and change.
“SALINA,” Miller began. “Give me a report on the radiation leak.”
“Radiation has leaked into the rear four sections of the ship,” SALINA reported. “Radiation poisoning is a strong likelihood.”
“What are their chances of survival?”
“At this moment, irreversible damage has been done,” SALINA said almost sadly. “The people in those four sections will be developing tumors, there will be defects to the unborn children currently in gestation, similar to the aftereffects in Japan after the United States dropped their nuclear bomb on Hiroshima. Then there is the concern for the safety of those currently unaffected. Should those exposed to radiation come into contact with anyone not exposed, they run the risk of spreading the contamination.”
“It sounds like you’re suggesting I write them off, SALINA,” Miller observed calmly.
“No, Captain. Merely pointing out the facts. As you said, our sole directive is the survival of the human race.”
Despite the situation, Miller smiled. Though it was half-hearted and grim. Then it was gone and Miller sighed heavily.
“Jettison the four contaminated sections,” Miller ordered, placing his hand down on the scanner. “Let them make it to Icarus, but far away from the others. Let them live whatever lives they have left.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Miller couldn’t see it, and the ship was far too large for him to feel it, but four enormous capsules, each one the size of a football field, detached themselves from the ship and immediately began to burn their thrusters and head towards the sulphur colored planet in the distance. Miller wished them all Godspeed.
“On my count,” Miller began, watching the planet Icarus looming through the windows. “Release the remaining evac stations. Three… Two… One… Release!”
Before long, Miller was the only human remaining on the Panspermia. The evac stations were left behind, as the large ship was moving much faster. The planet grew larger and larger in the windows, now taking up the entire view. Everywhere Miller looked, he saw brown and red and decaying yellow.
“Oh God, please let them make it,” Miller prayed. “Please let them survive.”
A short time later, the ship began to vibrate violently as it entered Icarus’ atmosphere. The windows began to glow red as the planet’s atmosphere burned at the cold ship. Fire licked against the glass and steel, plunging Miller’s view into something far more hellish than space.
“You with me SALINA?” Miller asked, feeling fear grip him.
“I’m here, Captain.”
“You remember our directive?” Miller asked, holding tightly to the seat.
“Of course, Captain.”
“Do you think we succeeded?”
SALINA was silent for a moment before responding.
“Only time will tell, sir.”
Finally, the Panspermia struck the brown and red surface of Icarus. Stephen Miller served as the Captain for the briefest amount of time, but was remembered as its greatest hero.

A New Chapter

Hi, everybody! (If you read that in the voice of Doctor Nick from The Simpson’s, you’re awesome)

As I announced earlier this week on my Facebook page, I’ve been in the middle of a hard edit on the Reaper Series to fix a few minor errors that made it through the initial editing stages. Like I said on my Facebook page, as an independent author, I don’t have the time, money, nor the team to publish a book the way that a professional publishing firm can. BUT the good thing about it is that if mistakes are made, I can fix them whenever I want. Publishing houses would have to recall thousands of book units if they wanted to fix a printing error in their publication, but not me! I can just click a button.

Anyway, while the hard editing I’m doing is just for those minor little grammatical errors that slipped through, and the story itself doesn’t change at all, I also wrote a new first chapter for Angel of Death. So I’m going to share that with everyone now, so that the people who have already bought and read Angel of Death can enjoy (hopefully) the extra chapter without having to mess around trying to either update their current ebook version or download a new one, and maybe it will even encourage those of you who haven’t read it to go and give it a try. Remember, Angel of Death is free forever, people!

So without any further ramblings, here it is. The brand new first chapter to Angel of Death. If you have feedback you’d like to share with me, please do, I love hearing what my readers have to say. 😀

 

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THE FINAL SUNRISE

The prisoner never raised his head all night, not until he felt the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck. As he sat on the edge of the bed and peered out the barred windows, he saw the sun beginning to rise, the light peeking back through the iron bars at him. He knew it was the last dawn he would ever see.

He never thought before that this was how his life would end. It was 1775, he was still a young man, and his life was to be suddenly cut short, just because of one foolish evening.

When the American colonies decided to go to war with England for independence, he had thought it was only a concern for those who called themselves his owners. But then those same people had “donated” him to the cause, making him a soldier, fighting to defeat the oppressors of his oppressors. So then he had thought his life would end with him lying facedown on some blood soaked battlefield, having died fighting for a cause that was never going to be extended to him.

Freedom.

Darius clenched his fists to stifle his fear as he felt it swelling inside once more. He stared at the irons they had locked around his wrists and slowly counted to ten to calm down. He remembered when they had put the irons on him. He remembered he had never struggled, never argued, just stood there and allowed himself to be imprisoned. As a slave in Boston, he was used to wearing chains. He had worn them his entire life, both literally and metaphorically.

Darius turned his ear to the door of his cell when he suddenly heard footsteps approaching and a tense conversation.

“Do we have to shoot him?” asked a soft, nervous, voice.

“What’s wrong, Thomas?” an older, gruffer, voice replied. “You never shot a colored boy before?”

“Darius took a deep intake of air and slowly exhaled. They were coming for him. It was almost time.

“I just mean,” Thomas began, “that wouldn’t it be better to hang him? Isn’t that more… traditional?”

The older one, who Darius could now identify by he gravelly voice as being named Raymond, snorted with derision.

“Hangings are for thieves and common crooks,” Raymond growled. “Traitors, though, you gotta shoot ‘em. Firing squad. No less than they deserve.”

At that moment, Darius saw Thomas and Raymond appear on the other side of the cell door. They were both dressed plainly, but Darius could see their muskets on their backs and their pistols at their hips. The two militia soldiers glared in at him, both judging him, both condemning him. Though Darius noted that Raymond looked at him with far more contempt than young Thomas did. Thomas had always been one of the nicer ones. Not exactly nice, but nicer, which was always the best Darius could ever hope for.

Raymond unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open, sill glaring at Darius with disdain.

“On your feet, boy,” Raymond barked. “It’s time.”

Without saying a word, Darius slowly rose from the side of the small bed he had been sitting on, his chains jangling at his wrists. Without argument, without struggle, he allowed the two militia soldiers to lead him out of the cell.

Once outside, with Raymond and Thomas standing on either side of him, Darius came face to face with the rest of the small militia squad, all staring at him furiously, looking as though they longed to draw their pistols and shoot him in the head right there and then. Darius almost wished that they would just get on with it already, but his fear of what was to come was close to overwhelming. It was a struggle just to keep his hands from shaking and he felt as though he might be sick. However, he kept himself composed. He didn’t want these men to know his fear. He wouldn’t give them that. They could take everything else, had taken everything else, but they couldn’t take his pride.

“Let’s go,” Raymond grunted to everyone.

They all then began marching out of the small town. Darius refused to look around, but he could feel the eyes of the locals on him. Watching him march away. No one spoke up for him; no one tried to defend him, which Darius had known from the beginning that they wouldn’t. It wasn’t the way the world worked. Not his world, anyway. But the stoic faces of the locals were soon left behind and Darius found himself, all too soon, standing before a small forest just on the outskirts of the town.

“This is it,” Raymond said.

He then grabbed Darius’ shoulders and forced him to turn around and face him, then shoving his back against the nearest tree.

“Any last words, boy?” Raymond growled.

Darius remained silent and looked past Raymond at a point far in the distance. He focused on the sunrise and swallowed his fear, taking in the glowing pink and gold of the sky.

“When you get to Hell,” Raymond sneered, “tell Myles we sent you. I’m sure he’ll be real glad to see you again.”

Raymond stepped back and stood with the other men, spitting on the ground at Darius’ feet.

“Ready!” Raymond shouted.

The other soldiers all drew their muskets.

“Aim!” Raymond boomed.

The soldiers took aim and Darius offered a silent prayer to God, but didn’t hold much hope. He knew Hell awaited him for the things he had done. So instead of more prayer, Darius just set his eyes on the horizon, taking in the colors of the morning, and lifted his chin slightly, almost in defiance of the men about to end his life.

“Fire!”

The sunrise was the last thing Darius saw in his life.

For My Awesome Fans

The following is the first chapter (1st draft version) of my new book that I am writing, City Of Crows. It is a supernatural thriller, with maybe a little bit of horror thrown in to the mix. I’m sharing it now so that my readers, who are completely awesome and always give their support and encouragement and show so much enthusiasm for everything I do, can get an idea of what the book will be like, as it’s a little different from the last four books I’ve written. For those of you who read this, you are amazing! Enough talk, on to the story!

 

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CITY OF CROWS

Ana Velasco’s feet pounded hard against the earth as she sprinted through the woods. Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears, the only sounds she could hear now being the fearful thump-THUMP of her beating heart, and her own panting breath. She was struggling for air, struggling to keep breathing, she had been running as fast as she could for so long. She had to, though, if she stopped… she died.

Ana raised her arms and shielded her face as she ran though a low hanging thicket of tree branches, sending leaves flying everywhere as she ploughed through. She heard the branches snap under the force of her momentum, but she just kept running, too afraid to even slow down, too terrified to even look back. She knew they were back there. She knew they were following her. Chasing her. Pursuing her.

Hunting her.

Continuing to run as fast as she could, Ana felt her foot catch on something sticking up out of the ground. She cried out as she fell, throwing her hands forward to try and stop herself from falling. She hit the ground hard, her face crashing into the dirt and fallen leaves. Even though her arms and hands were now chafed and scratched and bloody, and her head throbbed painfully, Ana pushed herself up to her feet, sobbing gently as she gasped for air, twigs and dried leaves now caught in her long black hair, and kept running.

Finally, Ana saw up ahead the place she was heading. It was a small cabin, desolate and seemingly abandoned. The cabin looked ancient, like it had been built hundreds of years ago out of nothing but what the builder had found on the forest floor. Long lengths of wood packed in tightly together, the gaps sealed with mud. But there was safety in that cabin. Behind its rickety door and uneven windows, Ana knew there was her only hope.

Ana didn’t spare a glance upward as a shadow passed over her face. Instead, it seemed as though the passing shadow urged her to run faster.  Her long black hair trailed out behind her as she fled, like the tail of a comet, until Ana reached the door to her cabin and pushed her way inside. Panting and wheezing, Ana immediately turned and slammed the door shut. As she leaned against it and looked around the inside of the small, one room, cabin, Ana wished that the door had a lock. Although, she knew that a lock would serve her no purpose now. If they wanted to come in, they would. And she didn’t have much time.

Still panting, trying to ignore the excruciating stitch that was twisting like a hot knife in her side, Ana hurried around the cabin and began pulling open the cabinets and snatching out numerous objects, not caring when she knocked other items to the floor in her hurry.

“Quick, quick, quick!” Ana muttered to herself fearfully.

Ana swept numerous items out of her cabinets in a hurry, carelessly tossing them to the floor as she searched. Blue candles and bottles of incense all thumped against the wooden floor and rolled away, but Ana paid them no attention. She thrust her arms deep inside the cabinets above her head and finally found what she was looking for. Still panting in her exhaustion and fear, Ana retrieved a compact mirror and a tall, thick, white, candle. Clutching them both tightly in her hands, Ana turned around and hurried towards the corner of the large rug that covered the majority of the tiny cabin floor. Clutching the mirror and candle in one hand, Ana bent down and grasped the corner of the rug in her free hand and yanked it backwards, tossing the whole rug aside in one fling.

Beneath the rug was a symbol marked on the floor in white paint. It was large, taking up the entire space that the rug had covered. It was a wide circle, but within the circle was a five pointed star, painted as though in one continuous stroke, the line never breaking. One point of the star was pointing directly at the door through which Ana had rushed only moments ago.

This star was known as a pentagram.

Ana quickly set the compact mirror down on the floor above the point of the star that faced the door, opening the mirror and placing it carefully outside of the pentagram’s circle, the reflective glass facing the only way in or out. Ana then put the thick candle down on the floor, directly on top of the tip of the pentagram’s point closest to the door, right behind the compact mirror. Her hands shaking, Ana then took a book of matches from her pocket and tried to strike a match, but her hands were too unsteady.

“Dammit, come on,” Ana pleaded through gritted teeth, not sure if she wanted to yell in anger or sob in fear.

Finally she managed to strike a match and a small flame began to flicker at the end of the stick pinched in her fingers. Ana lit the candle and then blew out the match, falling to her knees in the center of the pentagram, facing the burning candle. Somewhere outside, she heard the distinct call of a crow, which was then answered by another crow.

Caw! Caw! Caw!

Forcing herself to ignore them, Ana focused on the burning fire of the candle, poured all of her attention into it, and stared at it without blinking. When she spoke, it was in a hurried whisper, as though in a single breath that she couldn’t wait to exhale, speaking words as fast and quietly as she could.

Craft the spell in the fire, 

Craft it well, weave it higher,

Weave it now of shining flame, 

None shall come to hurt or maim. 

None shall pass this fiery wall, 

None shall pass, no, none at all.

Having spent all of her breath, Ana puffed for a moment, then drew in another deep breath and repeated the chant, even faster than before.

Craft the spell in the fire, 

Craft it well, weave it higher, 

Weave it now of shining flame, 

None shall come to hurt or maim. 

None shall pass this fiery wall, 

None shall pass, no, none at all.

Ana jumped when she heard the scuttling noise on the roof of her cabin. She instinctively wanted to look up toward the noise, but knew that she needed to keep focus on the burning flame on the white candle. Ana then heard the call of a crow once more, this time from the roof of her cabin. It must have landed there. Ana swallowed hard, her throat dry and sore, but repeated the chant again, this time louder than a whisper.

Craft the spell in the fire, 

Craft it well, weave it higher, 

Weave it now of shining flame, 

None shall come to hurt or maim. 

None shall pass this fiery wall, 

None shall pass, no, none at all.

Then the fire on the candle suddenly began to burn brighter. It seemed to intensify, growing taller as Ana spoke her words, staring unblinkingly into the center of the flame. Ana could hear the wind outside suddenly growing stronger, banging the shutters outside her windows. The wind now howled through the forest, wailing and moaning, while the sound of cawing crows could still be heard outside. Ana said the words again, louder still, almost shouting them. By the time Ana had finished the chant once more, the flame on the candle was now towering from the floor to Ana’s eye level, a good three feet as she kneeled before it. Ana began the chant once more, this time yelling the words at the candle.

“CRAFT THE SPELL IN THE FIRE,

CRAFT IT WELL, WEAVE IT HI-“

Suddenly, the door to the cabin burst open and a powerful gust of wind pushed its way inside, sending pages of books flipping rapidly and discarded candles rolling across the floor. The small mirror was knocked over in the wind and fell closed on itself, no longer reflecting the door. The sudden blast of wind surprised Ana and she turned her face away from the door, shielding her eyes with her arm, breaking eye contact with the candle flame for the first time since she lit it. The instant Ana looked away, the towering flame suddenly died.

“No!” Ana cried as she realized what she had done.

Before she was able to do anything about what had happened, Ana looked up and saw the shadowy shapes approaching through her door, descending upon her.

All she could do was scream.

Dealing With Pessimists

As an author, I often receive criticism about what I do. Not if I’m good or not, more like people simply doubting that anyone who wants to be an author could actually become that. Today I had an exchange with someone who called into question my ability to do what I do. This isn’t the first time that’s happened, and it sure as Hell won’t be the last. But when this sort of thing happens, I always think of an old story I heard years and years ago. I think it’s good for other aspiring artists, or anyone who wants to make their dream a reality, to read. And remember it when someone tries to tell you that you can’t achieve your dreams.

There was once a swamp full of frogs. These frogs all went about their day without trouble, no one doing anything to upset the daily routine. One day, however, a small group of young frogs came across a tree at the edge of the swamp. The tree was rather tall, but had a delicious looking fruit growing from the high branches. The frogs all wanted to eat the fruit, so tasty did they look, but they were afraid of climbing the tree, because it was far taller than anything else they had seen in the swamp, and they were only small frogs.

Finally, one frog worked up his courage and began to climb the tree. As he climbed, the other frogs gathered below and started to call out to the climbing frog, yelling, “Come down, you won’t make it! You’ll fall! Come back, you’ll fall!”

The first frog made it about a quarter of the way up the tree before he finally lost his grip and fell back down to the swamp.

Another frog suddenly decided to give it a try. He hopped forward and began to climb. As soon as he started to climb, the other frogs all began to shout again, “Don’t do it, you’ll fall! It’s too big, you won’t do it! You’ll fall!”

The second frog made it a third of the way up the tree, but then slipped and fell back into the swamp.

It continued that way all morning. A frog would attempt to climb the tree, and as the other frogs all shouted their doubt down below, the frog who was climbing would eventually slip and fall.

Finally, the smallest frog hopped forward. He said nothing to the other frogs, but just began to climb. The frogs down below all yelled out as they had with all the others, shouting, “You’re going to fall! Don’t do it, come back! You’ll fall!”

But the little frog just kept climbing. He made it a quarter of the way up, a third, then halfway. The frogs down below started to yell louder, insisting that he would fall, that he can’t make it, to just stop.

Still, the little frog climbed. He climbed all the way to the top of the tree, made his way out onto the branches and began picking the delicious fruit. He ate his fill, then dropped some down to the other frogs down below. He then easily climbed back down to meet up with the group of frogs who all stared at him in amazement.

“How did you do that?” they all asked the little frog.

But the little frog was deaf.

He never heard them shouting their doubt. And because their pessimism went unheard, there was nothing to stop the little frog from succeeding.

A Little Something For Halloween

Dark Crow

*Note from the author.

Before you start reading this short story, perhaps a little context would be useful. First of all, this is a continuation of a short story published in my collection of horror and thriller tales, Sinister Nightmares. The original story, The Crows, was about an old man who killed crows for pleasure, until they decided that they’d had enough. You won’t need to have read The Crows to understand this story, however. I decided this story, which I wrote a year or so ago, but did nothing with, was suitable for this Halloween post as I am currently writing my horror novel, City of Crows, and the themes of which go relatively hand in hand.

Something else to bear in mind while you read. In ancient beliefs, crows were, and still are, thought to be the keepers of the dead. They carry the souls of the dead to the afterlife. And, sometimes… bring them back.

Happy Halloween.

The Returned

The pearly white cat rubbed against the teenage boy’s leg, meowing as he held out the piece of meat. She was purring and staring up at the food with anticipation, the bell on her collar jingling gently with every movement. Her bright eyes and pearly white coat stood out easily in the darkness of the alley as midnight approached.

“Here, puss. Good puss. Puss-puss-puss,” the boy was cooing.

Just as the cat stretched out its neck to gently take the food that was being offered, the boy quickly reached down with his other hand and grabbed the cat by the back of the neck, causing her to yowl in surprise. The boy lifted the cat off her feet by the scruff of her neck, grinning as he did so. He tossed aside the bait he had used and walked deeper into the alley. He stopped and reached down to something by his feet, which he had stashed beside some overflowing trash cans.

He lifted the canvas bag up and shook it open. Then he shoved the pearly white cat inside. He zipped it shut as the cat began to cry a long, drawn-out howl that only cats can manage. The boy thumped the bag with his fist and snapped, “Shut up in there!”

A few minutes later, the boy was walking over a small bridge that stretched across a river in the middle of town. The cat was still crying from within the bag, her pathetic mewing becoming more and more emphatic. The boy approached the edge of the bridge and looked around quickly, trying to keep the bag hidden between his body and the bridge wall. After he determined that there was no one around, he turned to face the water and lifted the bag up onto the ledge.

Meow!” the cat called miserably. The boy could feel the poor creature shaking inside the bag, but this just made him smile.

With a small nudge, the boy pushed the bag over the edge. He heard the cat cry as she fell. He heard the splash as the bag hit the water. Then he heard nothing else as the bag sank beneath the surface. He stood there for a few minutes, staring down at the water, waiting until he knew enough time had passed for the cat to have definitely drowned.

Serves it right, he thought. Stupid cat.

Suddenly, he felt a shadow pass over him. Looking up, he saw a dark shape circling overhead, flying lower and lower. As he watched, he saw a crow swoop down and land on the bridge wall, only a few feet away. He watched the crow as it appeared to peer over the edge of the bridge and down to the river below. It was very still as it stared down to the murky water that flowed beneath. Then it slowly lifted its head and stared at the boy with one dark eye. It neither moved nor blinked. It just stood there, staring.

“What are you looking at?” the boy sneered.

The crow finally flapped its wings and ruffled its feathers. It lowered its head and opened its beak, cawing loudly at the boy, who jumped at the sudden movement of the bird. The boy scowled, feeling stupid for being scared by a bird. He stepped closer to the crow and swung his hand out at it, forcing it to hop backwards.

“Get outta here!” he snapped.

However, the crow only walked closer, snapping its beak at him and cawing in annoyance.

“I said, get the f-OW!” the boy cried out in pain suddenly, dancing backwards and clutching his hand. He had swung at the crow again, only to receive a vicious peck on the flesh between his thumb and index finger. The boy looked down at the wound as he clutched it tightly and saw blood seeping between the fingers of his uninjured hand. The boy left quickly, shouting abuse at the crow that was still sitting on the side of the bridge, cawing loudly into the night.

As the boy hurried along, ducking through an alleyway, he silently cursed the bird for taking a sizeable chunk out of his right hand. He considered going back to see if it was still there and, if it was, throwing a rock at it. Maybe he could break its wings and throw it into the river after the cat. He continued along, lost in violent thought, until he noticed a pair of eyes on a window-ledge above, staring down at him. Looking up, he saw a grey tabby-cat sitting on the ledge, watching him with wary eyes, twitching its tail from left to right.

The boy smiled to himself, thinking that maybe he could break the cat’s neck to get out some of his frustration. He took a step toward it, moving slowly so as not to startle it.

“Puss-puss-puss,” he called. “Here, puss.”

But the cat flattened its ears and hissed loudly at the boy, making him pause and think twice before getting closer.

“Fine,” he said under his breath. “If that’s the way you want it.”

He bent down and picked up a fallen brick from the ground. He lifted it over his shoulder and took a careful step closer to the growling tabby, trying not to scare it off before he could crush its skull under the brick. The tabby hissed and swiped a paw at the air as the boy came within arms-reach. He smiled and lifted the brick a little higher, taking careful aim.

Rrowr!”

The boy felt something land on his shoulder, startling him into dropping the brick, and in the same instant, something sharp bit into his earlobe.

“Ahh!” he cried out in pain. He jumped around in the alley, clutching his ear as the second cat that pounced from somewhere above and bit his ear leaped away and joined the tabby on the window to watch the boy clutch at his ravaged ear.

“Son of a bitch!” the boy shouted. He locked eyes with the pair of cats on the window and glared with contempt. “You’re dead, you mangy bastards! Both of you, you’re…”

He stopped in mid-sentence as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he saw another cat peering out at him from behind a dumpster. Then another two lifted their heads from inside. More appeared from around garbage cans, others were perched on windowsills; dozens more were on the rooftops, staring down at him in the centre of the alley, more than the boy could count. He stared around at all of them, uncertain of what to do. There were more cats in this alley than he had ever seen in one place. But what the boy found particularly unnerving was the fact that all the cats were completely still and silent. No pacing, no meowing, no cleaning. They were all just staring at him with bright unblinking eyes.

Behind him, the boy heard a noise, the rustle of feathers and a loud caw. He turned in the direction of the noise and looked down the alley back the way he had come, back toward the bridge. He looked out the end of the alley into the street, expecting to see a crow, but what he saw was definitely not a crow.

It was a cat… with pearly white fur.

It was sitting on the sidewalk, bathed in the light from a street lamp above its position, giving a glowing quality to its fur coat. Its eyes shone bright and yellow, reflecting the light shining down on them, as both were locked on the boy’s. The two stared at each other, neither moving, neither making a sound, amidst the crowd of cats who were quietly watching.

The boy began to back away, deciding that the situation was entirely too weird and unsettling. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were all standing on end and he figured the best place he could be right now was anywhere else. He turned and walked quickly away, not stopping or slowing down to even look over his shoulder. But as he walked away, he could feel a hundred eyes on his back and he couldn’t get out of his mind the picture of the cat with the pearly white fur. And how it had looked slightly wet.

The next morning, after a restless night of inconsistent sleep, the boy dragged himself into the kitchen for breakfast. His father was already seated at the small breakfast table, a plate of toast crumbs pushed aside and his hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee while he read the newspaper, a breeze from the open window rustling the corners of the pages. He glanced up at his son when he heard him enter the room.

“Jeez, what the hell happened to you, boy?” he growled, looking at his son’s ear.

“I was attacked,” the boy muttered.

“Christ, more fights?” his father snapped, slamming his paper down on the table.

“It wasn’t a fight!” the boy snapped back. “I was attacked by a cat.”

His father grunted and returned to his paper. “You and cats, I don’t know why you hate them so much. You’re as bad as your grandad, before he disappeared.”

“Why?” the boy asked as he poured himself a bowl of cereal, not really caring that much.

“Ah, the old bastard hated crows. Couldn’t stand ‘em, killed ‘em every chance he got. His hunting cabin was full of stuffed ones he’d shot.”

The boy’s hand jerked in surprise as he poured the milk onto his cereal, spilling some onto the counter.

“Crows?” he repeated.

“Yes, boy, crows! You know, those big black birds that eat road-kill. And clean that mess up, you useless tool.”

The boy quickly wiped down the counter and sat down at the table with his cereal.

“I saw a crow last night,” he said. “It bit my hand.”

“Hmph,” the boy’s father grunted. “I guess they’re not that bad.”

The boy frowned and ate a spoonful of cereal. He chewed, but felt something strange in his mouth. The cereal felt wrong. He stopped chewing and looked down into his bowl. It took a moment for his mind to register what he was seeing, but once he realized, his eyes bulged and his face turned white. He dropped the spoon and gasped. Suddenly he felt he couldn’t breathe. He choked and spluttered and clawed at the table. He tried to stand, but in his panic he only knocked his chair over and clutched the table, unable to find his feet as he flailed them about, his sneakers squeaking on the kitchen floor.

“What-” his father began, but realizing that his son was choking, he leaped to his feet and rushed around the table. He began slamming the boy hard on the back with the palm of his hand, again and again, until finally the boy coughed up the blockage and spat it out onto the table. He gasped for breath and fell to his knees, still leaning on the table.

“Jesus, chew your food, boy!” his father growled.

But the boy didn’t hear him. He was staring in horror at the glob on the table he had just spat out. It was a wadded ball of fur. And in his bowl of cereal, countless more hairs swam amongst his breakfast, each one an easily recognizable pearly white.

That evening, the boy’s father went to work at the warehouse for the night shift. The boy stayed home and played video games, trying not to think about that morning. Normally, he would have gone out on a Saturday night, but after what happened, he just felt like it was a better idea to lie low. He didn’t want to go out, just in case all those cats were waiting for him. Especially the pearly white one.

But as he sat there, playing the most recent Assassin’s Creed game, he heard something. Curious, he paused his game and listened.

He could hear the soft jingling of a bell.

He looked around the room for the source of the noise, but could see nothing that might have made a sound like a bell.

The boy walked to the front door, switched on the exterior light and peered through the peephole, thinking that someone may have been ringing the doorbell, and that the doorbell was broken. But when he looked through the hole, there was no one there. He began to turn away, but something caught his eye. He looked through the peephole once more and tried to focus on what he had seen at the edge of the front lawn, just on the line between the light and the dark.

Cats. Three of them. Just sitting there, staring at the house. The boy moved to a window and looked outside. He saw other cats, more of them this time. He counted almost a dozen, all sitting motionless and staring at the house. He ran to another window and was met with the same sight. He moved to another window, and another and another, cats, cats, cats, all still, all staring, dozens upon dozens of cats, their eyes glowing softly in the night.

The bell rang again.

The ringing had become louder and more insistent. The boy was finally able to hear the direction it was coming from and turned to face the closed door to the kitchen. The ringing was coming from there, from inside the house. The boy’s eyes grew wide and his blood ran cold, rendering him frozen in place as he realized something he should have thought of much earlier.

His father left the kitchen window open.

The boy’s first thought was to flee the house, but the sight of the cats waiting outside was all that stopped him from doing so. The boy looked around quickly for something to defend himself with and his eyes landed on the iron poker beside the fireplace. He snatched it up and lifted it into a swinging position on his shoulder. Cautiously, he approached the kitchen door. He placed a hand upon it and gently pushed, moving slowly into the room.

At first, he thought the room was empty. His eyes scanned the area and saw nothing out of place. But then he noticed that sitting on top of the fridge was a large, black crow. When it saw the boy enter the room, it turned to face him. It lowered its head and fluffed its wings, shouting one defiant caw!

The boy gripped the poker tighter in both hands and took a step closer to the bird, ready to knock its head clean off. The crow turned its head and looked at the boy with one glassy eye, a black orb that the boy could see himself reflected in. He could see himself standing with a ferocious look on his face, the iron poker positioned over his shoulder, ready to swing.

Suddenly, he saw something move off to the side. He turned his attention to the movement and his blood ran cold for the second time. The cats were coming through the window. The boy backed up as the swarm of felines came in through the window and filled the kitchen. The flow seemed to never end as cat after cat after cat just kept coming through. But they didn’t attack. They didn’t growl or hiss or spit. They simply found a place to sit and waited, their curious eyes fixed on the boy, who had backed up against the wall, his way to the door now blocked by a sea of cats.

Then the bell rang again.

The boy looked around the room for the noise, but saw nothing. As far as he could see, none of the cats wore bells, but even if they did, they were so still that it never would have rung in the first place.

Again, the bell rang, and the boy realized something. The sound was slightly muffled, as though it was coming from inside a sealed box or jar.

Caw! The crow cried once more.

With one more ring of the bell, the boy finally understood and was consumed with confusion and terror at the realization of where the sound was coming from. Surrounded by dozens of cats and under the judgmental eye of the crow, the boy dropped the poker in his horror and would have fallen over if he weren’t leaning on the wall.

The bell was inside him.

He lifted his shirt and looked at his exposed torso. His mouth dropped open, his hands started to tremble and all of the colour drained from his face. There was something pressing against the inside of his stomach, pushing the flesh outward before settling, then repeating the process again. And with each movement, the bell rang gently.

Suddenly, the boy felt wracked with pain. He clutched his stomach and doubled over, falling to his knees as he grimaced and cried out. He tried to scream, but instead he just began to cough violently. He felt something trickling down his chin and saw that he had coughed blood up onto the floor. He kept coughing, more and more blood falling to the tiles. He was on all fours, trying to crawl towards the phone to call for help, but he was rendered immobile from the pain that had started in his stomach and was now making its way into his chest. He looked around helplessly, but saw only the indifferent stares of the cats and the cold eyes of the crow, still high above on the fridge.

The boy stopped coughing, but this only alarmed him more, because now he couldn’t draw breath. He tried to inhale, but it was a futile attempt. He gasped and panicked and tried once more to reach the phone, but he was weakened from pain and the throng of cats blocked his way. He began to gag, his back heaving and convulsing. Blood was dripping from his mouth and running down his chin and neck, spattering all over the floor. Small claws suddenly poked out through his neck, gouging the flesh as they scratched from the inside. The boy clutched at his neck as the pain grew more unbearable and more blood poured from the open wounds. He could feel the bones in his neck shifting and cracking as something was forcing them around, as though trying to make room. He felt something ripping and tearing at the back of his throat, hitting him with a fresh bout of intolerable pain. When he felt something flopping around inside his mouth, he lowered his head and spat it out. When it hit the floor, he didn’t know how to comprehend what he was looking at. He stared at it, delirious with fear and pain and blood loss, not sure if it was even real. His tongue was lying on the floor, ripped out of his mouth, now in the pool of blood on the kitchen tiles. Finally, the boy felt something pushing around the inside of his mouth. He opened wide and let it out.

First came the paws. They both stretched out of the boy’s mouth and searched for something to grab hold of. Failing that, the claws extended and they were dug into the boy’s cheeks. As the cat began to drag itself out of his mouth, it left deep gouges in the sides of the boy’s face, more blood now running from his cheeks and dripping onto his shoulders.

The cat’s head emerged from the boy’s mouth, its ears flattened, moving faster now that it was almost halfway out. It clawed at the boy’s face some more until it was finally free and leaped nimbly to the floor, the bell on her collar jingling happily and her pearly-white fur stained with blood.

The boy stared at the cat and the cat stared back at him. The boy was wobbling on his hands and knees, his eyes drifting in and out of focus, his breathing short, weak, and ragged, blood still oozing from his mouth and the tears in his neck and cheeks. He blinked slowly, barely conscious. On some level, he noticed that the crow cawed loudly and the pearly white cat was moving closer. As his vision faded, he saw the other cats finally move. They began to move toward him, following the pearly white cat, meowing loudly, all licking their lips.

When the boy’s father got home well after midnight, he was annoyed to find that the exterior light had been left on. As if the bills weren’t high enough already. His annoyance was not abated inside where he saw that his son had left on all the interior lights as well as the TV with one of his video games running. He began stomping through the house, calling for his son, but was confused when he got no response. He searched every room, but found no sign that his son was home, or had been recently.

When he walked into the kitchen, he stopped short, staring down at the floor.

“What..?” he began, but trailed off. He knelt down and picked up the poker from the tiled floor. Looking around, he could see nothing else out of the ordinary. He glanced out the window, but there was nothing that could tell him where his son had gone. There wasn’t even anything of little interest. Only a very fat pearly white cat; sitting on the fence, cleaning its fur.

My Favourite Story

2w3udz6It’s often really difficult for someone to pinpoint their all-time favourite story or book, but I’ve got this one covered. It’s easily War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. For its day, that was some revolutionary writing, and I’m pretty sure is what started the whole sci-fi genre, as well as a global obsession with aliens.

What I love most about this story, though, is surprisingly not even part of the book. It’s what actor/producer/director Orson Welles did with it. If you’re not familiar with it, here’s the brief version.

He freaked out a whole country! Seriously, people were panicking and fleeing towns and everything, just because he adapted the story to a radio script and presented it as a news broadcast. However, most of the country missed all of the numerous announcements that this broadcast was going to be fictitious, because of how most of the country listened to one program on a different station until whatever time, and then switched over to Welles’ station to listen to the second-most-listened-to program. Only by the time they got there, all they were hearing was a reporter halfway through a report of aliens emerging from a ship and killing humans left, right, and centre.

That’s what I love most about this story. The fact that a book was, essentially, brought to life. So many people thought the country was actually being invaded by aliens from Mars, and Orson Welles actually got into a lot of trouble over it, because of damages and rioting and just generally causing public distress. In his defence, though, he did make numerous announcements before the program that it was fictional. Was it really his fault that no one heard that? Think of it like this: you see someone about to walk into a street of heavy traffic. You yell at them to stop, but they don’t hear you, keep walking, and get hit by a car. Then you’re the one being blamed for their injuries. Hey, you warned them, right? Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?

Although, on the other hand, a lot of people wonder if Welles timed the program specifically so that people would miss the announcements. Now, I think Orson Welles was one of the most brilliant, gifted, and intelligent people to ever grace entertainment, but I also think there’s a strong possibility that he planned the whole thing to play out exactly as it did.

But that just makes me love it more! And I’ve always wanted to be able to do something like that. To write something that people became completely engrossed in and believed to be actual events. Except there was no internet in Welles’ day, so he had the advantage of no one being able to jump online and check to see if neighbouring towns were being devastated by aliens. I’m pretty sure I’d be exposed immediately. All it would take is one kid with an iPhone to search Google and then post all over Reddit that it’s all fake.

Pity. It would have combined both my loves for story-telling and freaking people out.

Freebie! First Chapter Of Reaper, Book One!

I’d like to share a little something with all of you, if you would indulge me for a moment. I’ve mentioned in previous posts about my epic fantasy trilogy, Reaper, but I’ve never really said anything to give you any kind of feel for the story, or any idea of what it’s about. So, for those of you who may be interested, please enjoy the below entire first chapter of book one of the Reaper Series, Angel of Death.

Chapter One
The Beginning of the End

He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain to pass as he watched from the shadows. Watching as his prey steadily approached. He hoped that after a century of looking, this was finally the one.
Death is life.
The icy wind blew gently through the park, gently shifting the branches of the trees, the sound of rustling leaves carrying through the night. The girl walked quickly through the park, her breath visible as small clouds of fog with every exhale, her way lit only by the dim lamps lining the footpath, not knowing that she was being watched. Liz approached a playground on her right, keeping a brisk pace, but was startled by a sudden movement and a voice coming from the darkness.
“Got a light, darlin’?”
She stopped in her tracks and looked in the direction of the voice. She saw a man appear from the shadows, holding a cigarette between his fingers, leering at her. He had a shaved head and was wearing a black singlet over baggy jeans. Liz eyed him apprehensively.
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t smoke.”
The man stepped closer. “I didn’t ask if you smoked,” he replied. “I asked if you’ve got a light.”
Liz took a step back as the man continued to casually walk closer. “No, I-I don’t.” She was scared now. She wondered if she would be able to outrun the menacing stranger. He looked lean and fast. And still he kept walking toward her.
“You in a hurry or something?” he asked her.
“Um, yeah, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just-” Liz turned to leave, but froze when she saw three other men stepping out the darkness all around her, each one grinning and leering at her.
“Why don’t you hang out?” the first one said.
“Yeah, we’ve got beer,” said another, holding up a six pack, minus two. “Stay.”
Liz felt panicked now. She kept turning on the spot, watching as the men came closer. She wheeled around and tried to run through a gap between two of them, but they moved fast and grabbed her by her arms, lifting her off the ground.
“Let me go!” she screamed. “Get off! Help!”
“Keep quiet, bitch,” the first man said, stepping in front of her. He lifted his hand and Liz saw something glinting in the dim lamp light. The man had flicked open a butterfly knife and was now pointing the blade at Liz’s chest. “Scream again and you won’t be so pretty no more.”
Liz, held immobile by the brutes on either side of her, quivered as the man lowered the blade to her chest.
“Please, there’s money in my purse,” she whispered. “Just take it, I won’t say anything, just take the money and don’t hurt me. Please.”
The fourth man, an overweight man with far too many piercings in his face, stooped down and picked up the purse Liz had dropped when they grabbed her. Looking inside he said, “Score, fifty bucks!”
“That won’t even cover the beer!” said the one on Liz’s right.
“I’m not looking for a payout tonight, darlin’,” said the first man, leaning in close enough for Liz to smell the alcohol on his breath.
He placed the blade of his knife under the top button of Liz’s blouse and, staring into her eyes, slashed the button right off. Liz cried out with the swish of the blade, looking away as she realized what the man wanted.
“Ahhhhhhhh!” came a scream. But not from Liz. It was a man screaming, a terrible shriek that chilled the blood. She and the three men turned toward the sound, looking for the source. All they could see was Liz’s purse lying on the ground. The man who had been holding it was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey, where’s Levi?” said one of the men.
“Yo, Levi!” yelled another.
“Shut up!” hissed the first man, turning away from Liz and keeping his blade ready at his side. He took a step into the darkness, scanning the shadows for a sign of movement.
Suddenly, out of the corner of Liz’s eye, she saw something she couldn’t explain. It was as though the night itself opened up and swallowed the man holding her on her left. As it took him, his scream echoed in the night and was then smothered by the veil of the shadow. The scream and the man were as if they had never been there.
“Wh-what the hell is going on, man?” said the one still holding Liz.
“What did you see?” said the first man, stepping closer, his eyes flashing with anger as he tried to understand a situation that could not be understood. “What happened?”
The other man, now clutching Liz’s arm more out of fear than anything else, was looking around like a trapped rat, searching for an escape.
“The night, man,” he whispered. “The night took Eddie!”
The first man rushed forward and slapped the other hard across the face. “Talk sense, you idiot!” he shouted. “What the hell do you mean, ‘the night?’”
“Like I said, the night!” the man shouted back. “The goddamn night took ‘em, man!”
“That’s stupid, you dumbass!” the first man screamed. “How can the night ‘take’ someone?”
But the panicking man had apparently had all he could take. Breathing fast, short breaths, he tossed Liz aside, stepping away. Liz fell to the ground, then watched as the man began to run away, shouting over his shoulder, “You’re on your own, man!”
That’s when Liz saw it. As she watched the man run away into the night, she saw a shape even blacker than the night flying through the air toward the fleeing man. It moved too fast for Liz to make out what it was, but she watched as the man saw it at the last second and turned to look at it. It flew right into him, there being no sound of collision as it grabbed him and lifted him off his feet. The only sound was the man shrieking bloody murder as he was carried off into the night.
The first man saw it, too. He held his knife up in front of him, ready for a fight, but his eyes were bulging out of his head as they darted left and right, searching for the creature that had taken his crew.
“What the hell was that?” he shouted at Liz. When she didn’t respond, he turned to face her, his face white with terror and his hand shaking so badly he could barely hold onto the knife. “WHAT WAS THAT?” he screamed.
“I don’t know, I-” Liz stopped talking and her gaze moved from the man to a point just over his shoulder. The man noticed and felt his heart skip a beat and a tingle run down his back, like a stone cold finger tracing his spine. He turned, lifting the knife as he did so, to face the darkness. He thrust the knife forward, but felt something grab his wrist, holding his arm in place. He came face to face with the entity, his terror freezing him to the spot.
It seemed like a man. A man wearing a long black cloak. The cloak had a hood, which concealed the face of whoever was underneath. The grip the man held on the thug’s wrist was like stone, hard and cold. The two stared at each other in silence; one was calm, the other was filled with dread.
“What are you?” the man whispered to the cloaked figure.
The figure didn’t respond right away. It simply stared out from the darkness of the hood, its face shrouded in the shadows of the night. Then it spoke. It was the voice of a man, deep and resonating. He spoke in a whisper, barely loud enough for Liz to hear.
“The end of your life,” it whispered.
As Liz watched, she saw the terrified man become rigid. She watched as his mouth dropped open in a silent O of horror. As she watched, she noticed that his shaved head was beginning to sprout hair at an alarming rate. In an instant, it was as long as her arm, but then it turned grey, then white, then shriveled away and fell to the ground, where it vanished into the dirt. His cheeks sunk into his skull, his skin began to wrinkle before Liz’s eyes. His fingernails grew long, turned yellow, then vanished into nothing. His skin began to turn white, then grey, then a rotten black, before finally starting to peel away, revealing patches of the skeleton beneath. His eyes rolled back into his head, then vanished as they too rotted away. The man was decaying right in front of her. Just as Liz realized this, the man collapsed, crumbling into ash at the feet of the cloaked figure.
The man in the cloak remained where he was, standing still and silent. Liz watched him with trepidation, unsure of what had just happened. She shakily climbed to her feet, watching the man without blinking. He never moved, but she felt certain he was watching her. She found her feet and cautiously stepped closer, staying out of reach.
“What…” she began, finding it difficult to speak. She swallowed and tried again. “What just happened?”
The man didn’t move. All he said was, “They were going to harm you.”
Liz nodded. “Well, I don’t exactly understand what just happened, but I guess you just saved my life.”
“Actually,” the man in the cloak began, “I didn’t. I only saved you… for me.”
And as Liz stared in horror, the figure reached up and took hold of the hood in its hands. It lowered the hood and Liz was able to see the face that was once hidden in darkness. She opened her mouth and screamed. She screamed and screamed until her screams were suddenly silenced.
And the night was still again.

http://www.amazon.com/Angel-Death-Reaper-Book-1-ebook/dp/B00MMUHTZ0/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8