Let’s dig in.

Chapter 3: Gottlieb

The streets of the Outreach glowed red from countless oil fires, their flickering light given volume by the thick haze they coughed out. The air was so thick with smoke that Matthias could only barely make out the glittering glass spires of the Interior looming in the distance, their needle-sharp peaks disappearing into an all but forgotten sky. That place was the home of Windsor-Vitality—the company—a crystal castle forever looking down in judgment on the filthy urban sprawl that knelt at its feet.

The Interior was sterile and pristine, while the bustling Outreach teemed with life. It was crowded at all hours of day and night with throngs of warm, unwashed bodies marching sullenly or huddled in corners, downcast faces stained with dirt and soot, watching one another with suspicion. The stench of them, sweat mixed with refuse, was inescapable, and the warmth threatened to smother Matthias where he stood.

It was good to be home.

Jagged buildings lined the streets, risen straight out of the cracked pavement like rows of crooked teeth. Each was covered in its own collection of graffiti, obscuring whatever garish hue it had originally been. The scene was visual chaos, color without focus or pattern, like the unswept litter of a long passed parade.

Signs hung above doorways, scrawled with simple drawings illustrating the goods and services available within. There was no writing anywhere. Education simply didn’t exist in the Outreach, although some crude math managed to survive out of necessity. Most merchants were able to at least count their stash of water tokens, and figure their profit margin at the end of the day.

As he went, Matthias allowed his shoulders to hang slack and he kept his face hidden beneath an oilskin hood. His posture projected weakness and despair, casting aside any unwanted attention; there was nothing in the world easier to ignore than the destitute. He’d used that tactic a thousand times before, but the performance was a shade more convincing now.

Hidden in plain sight, he surfed the street currents, ebbing and flowing with the crowds as they drifted through the slums. Even after years exiled in the wilds, he retained the right instincts. He slipped through traffic, gliding from one surge to the next, from street to alley and back again, until he finally found himself in his old neighborhood.

Gottlieb looked pretty much like every other part of the Outreach. It was an unwashed and chaotic mess, like a scattering of half-burnt photos. Its air was murky, its buildings ramshackle, its people intricately tattooed and covered in filth. Shrill merchants shouted above the din in search of customers, every now and again joined by a distant terrified shriek that went ignored. Those were the cries of endless victims being beaten or raped, always another block away. Always out of sight.

Wherever he looked, muscle-bound thugs wandered the streets in gangs, every manner of armament brazenly on display. Matthias had no trouble distinguishing the upstarts from the major players; the former carried chains, lengths of pipe, and warped blades, while the real threats bristled with bodymods, crude back alley implants that bent their flesh and bone into biotechnological weaponry.

A tense sort of peace existed between the gangs, always balanced on the tip of a knife. It survived through the promise of vicious retaliation. It was the peace of a cold war married to the law of the jungle.

Matthias dizzily wandered the maze on leaden feet, through the last shred of the sun’s red light and deep into the night. An unending webwork of lines and wires always hung above him, giving the impression of a massive cage.

Every so often, another series of black stone steps descended down into the ground, but Matthias knew that they offered no escape from the makeshift prison. Instead, they led to something far worse: the Under, an even more conviluted labyrinth tucked away in the coolness of the Earth where the suffocating darkness was all but complete. It was home to the frayed fringes of humanity who no longer cared for the light of day, and strange bazaars that flouted what little law remained in the Outreach. For any number of excellent reasons, Matthias preferred to remain up above.

Even on his home turf, he found it difficult to keep his bearings. In the four years of his absence, buildings had come and gone, and where one road had been, there were now sometimes two or three splinter alleys with strips of clumsy shacks separating them. Every time he thought he was on the right track, he found himself at another dead-end, overlooking one more elbow of the city’s twisting, refuse-choked river.

It was only after he gave in and admitted to being lost that he found what he was looking for. Three chipped steps led down to a sunken doorway, the tarnished sign above it blank except for a pair of arrows pointed toward the ground. He’d found The Faster Downs.

The air inside was heavy with hushed conversation and the smell of burning hash, and the low moaning of a strange flute sounded from the far corner. The patrons were unruly—even by Outreach standards—and Matthias could feel forty sets of hard-set eyes pressing on him the moment he crossed the threshold. He drew his hood tighter, dropped his head another inch and waded in.

It only took a moment for the pressure to disappear. Matthias’ despair was an effective cloak against interest, marking him as just another broken soul in a world overflowing with the same.

He walked up to the bar, pulled out one of the pressure-molded stools and collapsed onto it. Days of quarantine followed by hours of wandering had taken their toll, though he hadn’t fully appreciated the weight of it until he was finally at rest. Distant regions of his body ached and throbbed with a relentless rhythm, and he pushed the pain aside.

A mountainous man stood behind the bar, idly polishing a glass with long arms covered in spiraling dragon tattoos. He had a head shaped like a bullet, and a blank expression that probably hadn’t budged in years. Without turning, he pounded a stone fist into the bar and said, “No beggars. Bugger off.”

Matthias dug a 1-quart token out of his pocket and pushed it across the sheet-metal bar. The coppery coin drew out a high-pitched tone, and the pits and divots of its surface glinted in the fire-light. “Whiskey,” he said.

The towering bartender reached out to snatch up the coin, but before he could, a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. It was old, scarred and sinewy, covered in ridged tendons pulled taught like steel cables.

It was a familiar hand. Matthias had seen the back of it more than a few times.

He shifted his shoulders and peered out from beneath his hood, finding a face of wrought-iron staring back at him. It was an old face free of wrinkles, too stern for time to wither, with deep-set eyes that burned blue like a pair of pilot lights.

“Son of a bitch,” the old man growled. He had a voice like a gravel pit. He reached across the bar with his other hand and threw back Matthias’ hood, then latched onto the collar beneath it. “Goose?”

Matthias winced. He hadn’t expected something so simple as a name to hurt so much, but it did. The last time he heard it, it had been on her lips. “Long time no see, Royce,” he said, wondering if he’d just made a lethal mistake.

A thousand questions and a half-dozen threats danced behind the old man’s eyes, but none of them stepped forward. He finally released his grip with a grimace, saying only, “Your coin’s no good here.”

So that was it. Matthias wasn’t welcome, but at least he was still breathing. He snatched up his token and was half-way off the stool when he realized that Royce was pouring a pair of shots.

“Be a shame,” Royce said, “you run outta here without a word again. Be a damn shame. Start lookin’ like a habit.”

Matthias settled back into his stool and did his best not to smile. After a moment, he looked Royce in the eyes and said, “Look, I don’t know how to say…”

“Don’t say anything son. It don’t need sayin’. If she was breathing, she’d be on your arm. Saw that in both of you the day ya met. Way things work in this city, I don’t want to know how she went, either. Better I don’t.”

Matthias nodded solemnly and downed his shot. Royce followed suit. The whiskey tasted like battery acid, and burned twice as nice. The glasses weren’t empty a whole second before the old man moved to refill them.

“Truth is,” Royce went on after a spell, “I ain’t never seen her smile before you came through that door. Not a once, but you lit her up like a damned flower. You made her happy, and that’s enough. A sight more than most of us get.”

The words stirred memories of that smile, her pale blue eyes glittering like cut sapphires, but Matthias pushed them away before they could do much harm. He tossed back his second shot, and Royce matched him, then refilled the glasses at a more leisurely pace.

Matthias’ world was beginning to float a little, and his hurt felt just a bit more distant, but he refused to let himself enjoy it. He couldn’t afford to let those worries get too numb while there was work to get done. Not while those bastards had Ellia. “Lookin’ for work and a place to rest my head,” he said.

Royce gave him a knowing nod. “Yeah. Had that look about you. Sorry to say I ain’t needed help since Ape joined on.” He motioned to his bartender with a stubby thumb. “Good one, him. Loyal, and one hard look hushes the natives.”

Matthias gave the huge bartender, Ape, a more thorough once-over. The man towered nearly seven feet tall, but there was more to him. Something was seriously off about his proportions. His arms hung further down than they should, and looked oddly mechanical. Beastwork implants, Matthias realized. With those particular mods, he could probably punch straight through a brick wall and keep swinging.

Matthias didn’t particularly want to test that theory. “Understood,” he said.

Royce motioned around the room. “Always jobs about, though… of a sort. Fella like you won’t have trouble finding coin. Meantime, I can offer you a pallet to sleep on. Not much, but all I got.”

“More ‘an I deserve.”

Royce grinned a crooked grin that curled his fat lips and revealed a flash of stained teeth. “Don’t you ever fret over what a man deserves,” he said, and downed his shot. “In this cesspit, you take what you can get, and maybe sometimes give what you can spare. Spend too much time thinking about what folks deserve, and it’ll fill your heart full of murder.”

Matthias didn’t want to chew on that thought. Instead, he emptied his shot and waved Royce off before the old man could pour another. Then he quickly scanned the room, but failed to find the face he was looking for. “Does, uh… Ashur still hang around here?”

“Whaddyu think,” Royce replied. “Never can get rid of an asshole like that.”

“Suppose not. Probably outlive us all,” Matthias said.

“And hate every damned minute of it.”

Matthias choked out a tiny laugh. A runt laugh. It was all he had in him. “Know where t’ find him?”

“Around,” Royce said sardonically. “You know how that one operates. Never works out of the same hole for long. Not real big on repeat customers. He’ll turn up sooner or later, though. Always does.”

Matthias nodded, but sooner or later wouldn’t cut it. His schedule demanded sooner, and he started thinking about how to make it happen.

Next week, we’ll be covering the fourth and final part of Avarice. Tune in then to see how it doesn’t end!
~Chris

Buckle up…

Chapter 2: Clean Room

Matthias woke in darkness, surrounded on all sides by the cyclic hum of electronics. Blind fumbling revealed smooth walls and a perforated floor but nothing more. Unless he missed his mark. this was some kind of clean room buried in the endless perimeter complex.

He added up the facts of his situation quickly: he was naked and alone, and every inch of his skin felt raw like it’d been scrubbed with steel-wool. Quarantine. Ellia was nowhere to be found, and he had zero possibility of escape. He knew that no amount of yelling or thrashing about would hasten the process. That was just how the company operated; they moved with sure hands and took control of every variable.

He feared that fact more than any other.

Matthias had no choice, so he waited… and waited… and waited some more. Trapped alone in perfect darkness, he started to hallucinate. Multicolored lights flashed as his eyes fought for purchase, while he listened to the bubbling laughter of non-existent children and the mothers who never bore them.

The company left him alone like that for days, and there was nothing to do but slip in and out of a dreamless sleep.

The light that finally greeted him was a queer shade of blue-green, scientifically calculated to make him feel ill at ease. He felt like the subject of some inhuman experiment, and that was precisely their intent.

“Sit down,” said a voice in the speakers.

A chair emerged from the floor and cupped his body. He was seated before he could tell anyone to go to hell.

The light grew brighter, revealing some kind of laboratory beyond his cramped confines, and a lone bureaucrat in a fine suit. The man’s clothes were neat and orderly and his face betrayed no emotion. He had the strong jaw and hollow eyes of the Stone bloodline.

On the far wall hung a monstrous replica of the company’s seal, the letters W & V arranged vertically to resemble a fountain of blood.

The unreadable man took a seat on the other side of the glass, glanced down at a computer terminal and then back up again. “According to our files, your name is Matthias Cole.” He had a voice like an over-starched shirt. “You were once a fully-vested employee of Windsor-Vitality. A Rank-7 Whisperer. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” Matthias replied flatly. “All of it.”

“And you’ve come back to us from the wilds? How terribly unlikely. By our best estimates, less than .04% of all subjects who leave the protection of the city survive for more than a week. Yet it says here you’ve persisted for more than four years.”

Matthias flashed a mortician’s smiled. “Guess I’m a survivor.”

“So it would seem,” the bureaucrat said without humor, then punched some information into his terminal. “What brings you back to us, Mr. Cole?”

“My daughter. She’s very sick.”

“A sensible reason. Has she contracted the plague?”

“No,” Matthias barked, then forcibly regained his composure. “Not… not as far as I can tell. She just has a common bacterial infection, but I lack the tools to treat her properly. The company is better equipped.”

“Indeed. Now, why would you ever think…”

“Where is she?” Matthias demanded, cutting the bureaucrat off mid-stream. “Where’s my daughter?”

“Never fear, Mr. Cole. She is in no immediate danger.” Those words were carefully chosen. “Her care is being overseen by the best physicians Windsor-Vitality has to offer.”

“I want to see her.”

The bureaucrat pursed his lips and shook his head. “That isn’t possible just yet, but I believe we’ll come to an equitable agreement in due time. Let’s get back to the interview, shall we?”

Matthias nodded.

“As I was saying: why would you ever think the company would allow you to re-enter the city?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “But I had no other choice. I had to try.”

“I see,” the bureaucrat said as he typed. “And the medical expenses you’re incurring? My records show that your status, company shares and all other assets were dissolved. How did you intend to pay for our services.”

Matthias had planned for this part, and it turned his stomach. “I’m willing to do whatever you ask.”

“I’m sorry,” the bureaucrat said. He wasn’t. “I didn’t hear that.” Actually, he had.

Matthias took a lung full of air and raised his voice. “I said I’m willing to do whatever you ask.”

“Excellent. That’s precisely what the company likes to hear.” The bureaucrat turned back to his terminal and hummed as he skimmed the page. “It says here you were a decorated agent before you took leave of your senses. You received high marks in reconnaissance, investigation, disinformation, and wetwork. The only negative remarks are in regards to your lack of company loyalty. What a prescient observation. Would you agree that this is a fair assessment of your previous work with Windsor-Vitality?”

“Yes, sir.”

The bureaucrat stared intently at his monitor, overcome for a long moment by an air of vacancy before he finally returned with a sharp sigh. “Well, Mr. Cole… It appears today is your lucky day. We at Windsor-Vitality require an operative of your considerable experience and expertise, and I am empowered to negotiate the terms of your services on the company’s behalf.”

The bureaucrat leaned closer to the glass. “Now, it must be understood that everything I’m about to tell you is confidential. Any breach of company confidence in this matter will be dealt with swiftly and without remorse. Do you understand?”

“I’m not sure I do,” Matthias said. “It’s not in the company’s character to trust anyone, least of all a traitor such as myself.”

The bureaucrat looked Matthias in the eyes, his expression taking on a razor-sharp edge. “You’re right. Trust is not in the company’s character, but we possess something very precious to you, Mr. Cole, and we’ve seen the lengths you would go to ensure its well-being.”

Matthias’ guts churned and he choked back a rush of bile. His heart was beating in his throat, and he fought the urge to engage his predator circuit. He couldn’t afford to lose control; he needed to stay cool if he wanted to see this through.

“Is that a God damned threat?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Windsor-Vitality doesn’t make threats, Mr. Cole. We create opportunities. Today, you’re being given an opportunity to assist the company, and in so doing, help your daughter. Nothing but opportunities.”

Matthias’ jaw felt like a sprung bear-trap, and it took a minute for him to pry it back apart. “What would you have me do?”

“Then we understand one another. Good. Your task is simple. Over the past few months, four of our best Whisperers have been found murdered in the street. Their bodies were torn apart by an unknown weapon-type.”

“Lurks,” Matthias said, feeling a fool the instant the word escaped his lips.

“That is what the killer would like us to believe, but you know as well as I that such creatures are an urban legend. There’s nothing beneath the streets but rats and cockroaches. No, these are targeted killings. All four Whisperers were working the concerts, and died en route to their weekly check-in.”

“And you want me to find the killer.”

“Find him and figure out how he’s detecting our agents. All of our operations in the Outreach depend on secrecy. You know this better than anyone.”

“I do.”

“Once the security leak is fully understood, you will be cleared to eliminate the threat. That is all we ask of you.”

Matthias had done far worse in his time, and the gravity of the situation was clear. The Outreach was a world of tribal violence and savagery; clean, methodical killings were unknown. This kind of sophistication represented the one thing the company feared — evolution.

“And my compensation package?”

“Of course,” the bureaucrat said, looking back at his terminal. “The company is prepared to offer you full reinstatement. You will resume your old status, payscale and benefits, as well as a fully-vested stock grant commensurate with your bloodline and birth order. You may also apply to have your daughter certified as a purebreed. If her genome is reasonably sound, that would mean acceptance in high society, a proper education and full employment with Windsor-Vitality when she comes of age.”

Matthias was filled with unease at that. An offer so generous meant either that the company was terrified and desperate to have the problem solved, or that they didn’t expect him to survive his task. Either way, he wasn’t getting the whole story… not that he’d expected otherwise. “I suppose that will have to do,” he said after some feigned consideration. “Strange, though, that the company would offer reinstatement. Aren’t you afraid I’ll just flee again?”

The bureaucrat smiled, and there was something disgusting squatting behind it. “The company understands you, Mr. Cole, quite a bit better than you likely understand yourself. Love, you see, doesn’t come often in our lives. The kind of love that would drive an otherwise reasonable man to turn his back on civilization and walk into the jaws of leviathan…” His voice quaked around that word. “Such a love never comes to most of us. The likelihood of you stumbling across it a second time is statistically insignificant.”

That love was a dagger still buried in Matthias’ ribs, and the bureaucrat had just given it a healthy twist.

“Besides, you have a child to think of. The company is offering you an opportunity to raise Ellia in the light of the civilized world, where she will be free to choose her own destiny. She has a chance at a real future here.”

They were offering him a chance to raise his daughter in a world of institutionalized backstabbing, built atop a foundation of ruthless subjugation. She had a chance to become a real monster there.

But at least she would live.

“You have a deal,” he said quietly, the wind knocked from his lungs. “When… when do I start?”

“Just as soon as your bloodwork is complete. We mustn’t have any unknown vectors loose in the city. Soon, Mr. Cole.”

With those words, the lights faded and Matthias was left alone with his thoughts again. He didn’t appreciate the company.

Thus the stage is set. In one week, we’ll join Matthias as he returns to the city and begins his investigation.

See you then,
~Chris

It even had a tentative cover design.

The story (like most dystopian fiction) was intended as an examination of current day issues, specifically wealth inequality and the ascendance of monopolistic corporate power. The setting was somewhat inspired by Frank Herbert’s The Dosadi Experiment, a wonderfully interesting and excellent novel which I’d just finished reading, mated up with a large number of peculiar ideas I’d had floating around for some time.

Although I refer to it as biopunk, I should probably note that I haven’t ever read any books in that subgenre; it just seems like the most appropriate description for what I had. I don’t rightfully know what else to call a story set in a dense urban environment, overrun by corporate powers and rife with the gruesome products of genetic engineering… so, apologies to any biopunk fans if what I have here doesn’t quite fit.

Alrighty. Time to lift the curtain.

Chapter 1: Membrane

Matthias Cole stomped through the crunchy, decaying brush that smothered everything to the far horizon, the glow of sunrise hot on his heels. He’d been going non-stop throughout the night but time was running out. He needed to find cover before daylight struck. Before leviathan awoke.

His infant daughter, Ellia was strapped to his back. She lay there motionless, looking entirely too much like an angel. Her tiny body was seering hot like a bundle of burning reeds, and her rasping cough reminded Matthias why he was there. She was all the reason he needed to march right back into hell… she was all the reason he had left.

The early morning light was flat grey, sifted down out of an indecisive sky. He guessed the thin film of gauzy clouds might buy him an extra minute or two, maybe a half-hour if he was really lucky. He didn’t feel particularly lucky, though, and hadn’t for quite some time. Luck had walked out of his life, and only cunning had kept him alive in her absence.

Then, through the endless thicket of dark and twisted trees, he finally caught sight of his goal. It was a featureless black wall, a glistening membrane that surrounded the city and protected it from the madness of leviathan beyond. Matthias was almost there, and the realization filled his chest with a fifth wind.

Crunch, crunch, crunch went his booted feet as he plowed through the brush and bramble. One hundred yards remained, then fifty, and then twenty-five.

The sickened cry of leviathan arose from many places at once. A thousand hungry mouths howled behind him, and the ground beneath his feet began to writhe, but Matthias continued on, sure-footed and true. There was no time for doubt, so he pushed it aside and instead filled his heart with every last ounce that remained of his hope.

It was enough.

It had to be enough.

Then he was there.

The wall stretched away from him, upwards and outwards, smooth and shiny like obsydian. There was a deepness to the black, like a quiet and shiftless lake. Like the night sky empty of stars.

Matthias averted his eyes before he could make out anything in the reflection. There were things behind him that he preferred never to see again. Once had been more than enough.

Instead, with his gaze firmly fixed on the ground beneath his feet, he raised his fist and began to beat on the wall. Each strike produced a hollow gong, like pounding on some unimaginably huge and hollow vase. Each deep tone echoed within and back to him.

“Let me in!” he bellowed. “Damn you! Let me in!”

His pleas were met with silence while the multitudinous roar of leviathan filled the air. He buried his terror as best he could, while his fist went numb from the repeated impacts.

“Please,” he began to sob. “My daughter’s sick. For the love of God, let me back in.”

Still, the wall remained silent, and the sounds of leviathan grew. To the howling was added the crackling of bones and rending of flesh. They were the sounds of something misshapen tearing itself apart and reforming with every tortured breath.

Matthias shut the sounds out of his mind and continued to assail the wall. The bones in his hand felt broken, and a thin stream of blood trickled down his arm.

There came a noise from just behind him like silk sliding over splintered wood, and a trembling voice whispered, “Eat.”

Through a tight grimace, Matthias growled, “Open.”

And it did.

And that’s Chapter 1 of Avarice. It’s a very short introduction, little more than a come-on really, that never-the-less establishes a few key facts. This is a terrible wildland full of inhuman horrors and irreparable psychological traumas, and Matthias Cole would still prefer it to what’s inside the walls. With any luck, it would make you itch to read the next page.

If you feel that particular itch, the next page will be here in a week. Be sure to tune in for the another exciting installment.

In the meantime, I’ll head back to the article I’m working on.
~Chris

The premise was wonderfully simple: a forest elf wanders into town and slays a dragon. So simple. I had a strong image of the world and I was excited to get started. That’s right about when things went off track.

The plan (and that strong image) changed considerably as I compiled notes. Instead of a medieval setting, I drifted in a pseudo-Western direction, creating frontier lands peopled by miners, farmers and outlaws. Elves became native tribesmen, and the story adopted an undercurrent of racial tension.

Let’s take a look at how that turned out, shall we?

Vermilion

In the long days when summer had overstayed her welcome and autumn fast approached, a shadow descended on the Dusklands and made itself at home. It came from the mountains of the distant North on wings as red as blood, spreading terror like wildfire wherever it darkened the sky.

Before the shadow’s arrival, this was a place of hope and boundless promise, an untamed frontier that lay outside the needy grasp of the old world kings. Fed by countless winding rivers and guarded by red hills that jutted up like gravestones, the Dusklands promised a fresh beginning, a fertile patchwork of thriving forest and haunting plains where lost souls drifted about in search of salvation and aging legends came to be forgot.

Terrible news spread slowly across that desolate expanse, and cries for help went unanswered.

But not today. Somewhere in the wild country, a lonesome figure marched along a rough and pitted road, holding a steady pace despite the heat and his own exhaustion. He kept his eyes low to protect from the bronze sun, the dry wind, the airborne dust and grit.

He had traveled for days without rest, never stopping for so much as a drink of water as he soldiered on toward the setting sun, and he might never have stopped at all if not for that plaintive cry for help. A man’s voice. Hoarse. Panicked. Overpowered.

A pause came in the wanderer’s step and his ears twitched, pinpointing the sound’s direction and distance. It came from just the other side of the next ridge, maybe sixty yards on and downhill. He heard other voices too, shouting, gruff and aggressive, followed by the bitter ring of sharp steel coming unsheathed.

He glanced at the road ahead of him. If he stuck to it, he could pass unseen and keep wandering, keep ambling on toward the slash of brown desert in the distance and whatever solitude lay beyond it. There was no need for him to get involved.

He’d never been one to take the easy trail, though.

Instead, he lowered the hide bundle from his shoulder and unwrapped it, revealing a curved bow and handful of flint-tipped arrows. They were all fresh work, smooth and unblemished wood neither etched with runes nor worn from use. Simple tools but well made, and the arrows would fly true. That much he knew from experience, and that was all that mattered just then.

He rolled the bundle into a makeshift quiver, dropped his arrows inside and slung it back over his shoulder, then dashed silently forward with his bow at ready. He crouched low as he crested the ridge and stopped to watch.

They were human. Three stout men dressed in long coats of dun-colored leather stood in a half-circle with sabres drawn. Dark strips of cloth hid their faces. These were monsters of sinew and stone, hardened by long years spent on the unforgiving road.

Their terrified victim and his poor overloaded donkey stood on the opposite side. The man was slight and too well-dressed for travel, with shiny shoes, fine slacks, a crisp white shirt and a patterned waistcoat. He held his quaking hands in the air and he squinted like a mole exposed for the first time to daylight.

“You can’t do this,” the victim said, fearful yet somehow still defiant. “Folks are depending on me.” The shaking made his voice trill like a morning bird.

The bandit leader swished his sabre for effect. “Seems you don’t understand the deal here, friend. We take this stuff one way or another. You choose to live or die.”

The victim’s arms came down and stretched out in front of him, his hands signing a plea for mercy. “Come on, now. Please,” he said.

The wanderer sat still and watched with growing curiosity. The ways of men were strange to him, troubling and exciting in even measures. He felt a powerful urge to remain hidden and watch the encounter play out, but the urge dissolved when the bandit leader advanced. The wanderer’s heart made the decision for him.

One hand lifted his bow. The other retrieved an arrow, nocked it and drew back. He sighted for an instant and released, sending the wooden shaft slashing through the dusty air.

The flint-tipped arrow bit the bandit leader’s ear from the side of his head, and he howled in pain. Blood painted the gravel in gleaming red. His men reacted instantly, their chests heaving, their spastic eyes lurching about for answers.

The leader didn’t panic. He tore away the cloth-mask and held it against the flow of blood. He had a face like a dried river bed. “You’ll damn well pay for that,” he growled.

The wanderer considered his options. He could hug the earth and think grassy thoughts, maybe escape their notice. He’d be some shadowy creature of their imagination as long as he remained unseen. A mystery. No lone traveler could ever be as frightening as that.

But remaining hidden was a defensive move. It would sacrifice any advantage he already held, and predator might fast become prey.

No, he decided grassy thoughts wouldn’t do. He stood tall, raised his bow and loosed another arrow. This one landed off-center in a hulking underling’s chest.

The massive man looked surprised and there followed a flash of anger, but his strength quickly melted away. He shuffled sideways, struggled to remain standing, and then tumbled to the ground dead.

“You can still walk away alive,” the wanderer said, his last arrow already drawn. The words were foreign in his mouth, and he could hear the strangeness of his accent.

The bandit leader looked to his fallen companion and he chose quickly. He sneered, spat on the ground and scrambled for the woods with his remaining thug close behind.

The wanderer waited on his perch, listening to the two bandits run into the distance. When he could hardly hear them crunching in the sandy soil anymore, he finally lowered his bow and walked down the steep ridge.

The victim was still beside his donkey. He tried to wipe the sweat from his brow and left a smear of dirt in its place. “Mighty kind of ya, mister,” he said with a wave. “Dunno what I woulda done if ya hadn’t a come along.”

The wanderer approached. “You would have died. Your cargo would be lost, and your sad donkey would be roasted on a spit.”

“Ha, sounds about right. You’re a real straight shooter friend. I like that.” The victim raised a hand, signaling a pause. “Sorry, just gimme a second here. Have to find my damned spectacles.” He bent at the waist and blindly pawed at the ground. His hands found the still warm corpse, and he said, “Oh.”

A glint caught the wanderer’s eye and he plucked an unusual item from the dirt. It consisted of a thin wire frame that cradled two pieces of glass, and he assumed that this must be the mysterious spectacles the victim spoke of.

“Here,” he said, and handed the curio over.

“Thank you! Man, there’s just no end to your kindness, is there?” The victim gently cleaned the pieces of glass with a handkerchief, and then placed them on his face. He blinked a few times for good measure, then turned to the wanderer and froze. His eyes were wide and bright.

“Oh, wow,” he said.

The wanderer stood there bemused. He was tall and slender as a sapling, barely clothed in simple leathers, olive skin revealing lean muscles like a wild animal. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail, drawn away from a long, tattooed face that seemed all that much longer for it. His features were thin and exotic, with pointed ears arcing away like supple blades of grass.

“You’re a forest elf,” the victim said in surprise. “I mean… Elethi, right? Sorry, where are my manners?”

“I do not know,” the wanderer replied. “Did you drop them in the dirt with your spectacles?”

The victim paused for an unusually long stretch, then a smile crept onto his face. “Funny! I never knew elves could be funny.”

“We… have our moments.”

The victim nodded, smiled, and seemingly forgot himself in a daydream. With a startle, he realized he was staring and he flushed with embarrassment. He offered his hand. “Oh, umm… name’s Windsinger. Ryan Windsinger. I’m a physician.”

The wanderer awkwardly took the hand and shook in imitation of the human way. “I don’t know this word, physician.”

“Like a medicine man, sort of. Healer. More or less.”

“Well, then. I am honored to meet you, Ryan Windsinger, the physician.”

“Please, just Ryan. Ry if ya like. And, uh… whom do I have the honor of meeting?”

The wanderer tilted his head. “Call me Gurien,” he said, absentmindedly touching the fresh tattoo that dominated his forehead.

Ryan pursed his lips. “Gurien? Kinda strange name for an elf, isn’t it?”

Gurien’s face remained blank. “Do you know much about the Eleth?”

But Gurien had discovered the answer even as he spoke. The telltale signs were all there, however subtly. Ears that came to a point, coppery eyes, thin lips and angular nose.

“Part elf myself,” Ryan said. “A quarter on my father’s side. Never met a pureblood before, though. Grandad was long gone by the time I was born.”

Gurien had heard stories of elves interbreeding with men, but he always suspected them to be flights of fancy. Fabrications. He’d certainly never seen the fruits of such indiscretions with his own eyes.

“There are more like you?” he asked skeptically.

“A couple, here and there,” Ryan replied. “Usually keeping their heads down, mindin’ their own business. Best not to draw too much attention among men. That’s just the order of things.”

“Curious,” Gurien said, and he wasn’t sure which part was more strange: that men allowed mixed breeds to live among them at all, or that they looked down on such children when they did. They were truly a species of boundless contradiction.

No matter. He turned and retrieved his arrows, one from the corpse’s chest and the other from the ground. He flexed the shafts looking for imperfections in the wood, then returned them to his quiver when he found none.

Ryan said, “It’s true what they say about your kind, I see.”

Gurien began to search the body for valuables. “And what is it they say?” he asked.

“That you’re uncanny archers. Fifty yards out and you took an ear clean off.” Ryan looked to the corpse, eyed the chest wound. “Punched a hole right through that one’s heart. Hot damn.”

“We aim true,” Gurien said, a simple statement of fact. He lifted the thug’s hunting knife, weighed it in hand, then slid it into his belt. “Tell me, Ryan Windsinger… why were you prepared to die today?”

“What? Oh. Didn’t have much choice, I s’pose. There’s a lot of wounded folk showing up on my doorstep right now ‘n they need my help. I can’t do much for ‘em without these supplies.” He patted the donkey for effect, and the beleaguered animal grunted in response.

“I see. Perhaps in the future, you will think to arm yourself when conditions are so dire.”

Gurien picked up the bandit’s sabre and tossed it slowly end over end. Ryan’s eyes went wide. There was an instant of indecision, of panic, then he ducked to the side and let the weapon fall to the ground with a clang.

“I… I don’t carry weapons. Took an oath never to harm no one if I can help it, and I take it pretty serious.” He eyed the weapon on the ground like it was covered in angry snakes.

Gurien winced at the word oath, but he nodded with understanding. “So be it, quarter-blood. Journey swift then, and pray the honored elders shadow your steps.”

He stood, turned his back on Ryan and started off for the road.

“Wait!”

Gurien halted but didn’t turn.

“Um,” Ryan said, and kicked at the dirt. His face lit up with a good idea. “You should come back to Carston with me. Let me repay yer kindness with a home cooked meal and a soft bed. Least I can do.”

Gurien waited.

Ryan sighed wistfully. “Don’t make me beg.”

“This Carston,” Gurien said after a moment, “is it far?”

“Half a day. We could be there before dark if we make good time.”

The elf turned and looked at the bespectacled physician, took a second to weigh his options. Then he ducked his head and said, “Lead the way.”

***

Carston. A slipshod monument made of wood beams and masonry, an imperfection jutting up out of the flat landscape like a ragged scab. It lay in a wide valley surrounded by bubbling hills, in velvet grasslands interrupted here and there by patches of bristly brush.

It stood at the confluence of two rivers that snaked throughout the valley, together feeding the rich soil and slaking the thirst of farmers and ranchers, merchants, gamblers and prostitutes, wandering criminals and bounty hunters alike.

For Gurien, the first and strongest impression was the smell. Close air carried a smothering mixture of stale human sweat and fresh animal dung. There was no escape, no refuge even on the outskirts of town where Ryan Windsong’s home and business lay.

“How do you stand it?” the elf finally asked.

Ryan smiled. “It’s not so bad. There’s work, food, and only half of these folk would kill ya for no reason at all. Those are pretty good odds, all things considered.”

Gurien covered his face with a rag. “The odor, quarter-blood. You don’t even smell it, do you?”

Ryan cocked an eyebrow in puzzlement. He looked around and when he didn’t find the supposed stench’s source, he sucked in a lung-full of air through his nose, pursed his lips and shrugged. “Is it really that bad?”

Gurien nodded.

“Sorry,” Ryan said. “I know it doesn’t smell like a Summer daisy, but… Guess we just don’t notice it anymore.”

And that’s all there is of Vermilion. A few good ideas here and there, but I don’t think I was ever quite as excited about the Western theme as I should’ve been.

As the story unfolded, we would learn that Ryan Windsinger is treating refugees from a nearby town recently destroyed by a red dragon. The townsfolk of Carston come to believe they’re next, and they’re not wrong. Men with The Sunset Company (a group trying to build a railroad through the Dusklands) put a reward on the dragon’s head, attracting all sorts of adventurers and killers-for-hire. This would include a group of Drakhari Knights who hunt dragons for sport, and a spell-slinger (sort of like a magical gunfighter) named Eli Task.

For the time being, though, this one’s just not meant to be.

I haven’t quite decided what we’ll be looking at next week. It’ll likely either be the first chapter of a dystopian biopunk novel called Avarice, or the first chapter of Bronze Archer, which is about near-future drone technology. I suppose the one thing we know for sure is that it will be a first chapter.

Until then, keep it real my lovelies,
~Chris

If you missed the previous entries, you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

Let’s dive in, shall we?

I Vanish — Chapter 3

I came back the way I always do: buck naked, shouting gibberish and covered in a thin layer of frost. My heart was racing and my whole body felt like I’d just run a marathon. It’s like waking from a nightmare I can’t ever remember.

By the time I got my head on straight, the frost had melted and was gone. My clothes were in a heap on the floor beside me. Jeans the color of an October sky, long-sleeve shirt, most of a black parka, combat boots on their last legs, knuckle-gloves and socks made of wool. I sorted through them and dressed while panting and shivering. As usual, I tried not to pay attention to the gridwork of scars drawn all over my body, but I never could manage to ignore them.

I hadn’t traveled far this time. I found myself in the hallway just outside Biswell’s bathroom. Dull grey daylight filtered throughout the place, meaning I’d been gone seven or eight hours at the least. Maybe more. No way to tell.

I got to my feet and stalked out into the front of the shop, whatever it was. The place smelled of Lemon Pledge and lavender, with an undercurrent of mildew. Shelves and glass display cases covered the walls, crammed full of dusty old knickknacks and tarnished brass gizmos. Here a sextant, there a compass, and elsewhere small figures of men in tortured poses. I thought the place might be an antiques shop at first, but nothing looked inviting. Nothing said, “Buy me.”

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was an order to how his exhibits were arrayed. I was sure some kind of system governed their placement, more Feng Shui than Better Homes and Gardens. I just couldn’t see it yet.

Clive Biswell was seated in a leather chair that’d seen more years than both of us combined. He was a small man, fine boned with the sort of exaggerated features that would mean noble-blood a couple centuries back. He had a large forehead and nose, thin lips, and a pronounced chin with a deep cleft. His straw-colored hair had been painstakingly sculpted, and he wore a poorly fitted charcoal suit, like a little boy caught rummaging through his grandfather’s suitcase.

An unopened book sat in Biswell’s lap, and he stared longingly out the window into the falling rain. “Welcome back, Mr. Helik,” he said. His voice had an oddly stilted quality, like an actor from the earliest talking pictures. “Please, have a seat.”

I pulled out the chair opposite him and plopped down into it. The well worn leather didn’t make a sound. I scanned the room, still struggling to determine the hidden logic behind his decor, and he continued to watch the street. “How do you know my name?” I asked.

“I know a great many things, the vast bulk of which I rightfully shouldn’t.” That sounded like a heaping scoop of diversion garnished with self-loathing.

“That’s not much of an answer, Biswell.”

He finally looked away from the window, and I could see the exhaustion in his eyes. They were bloodshot and bone dry, and his tear ducts were bright as blisters. “No, not much of an answer at all. You could say I’m a listener, Mr. Helik. I hear what others don’t.”

That was intriguing at least. “Like what?”

“Thoughts, emotions, memories. Sometimes more.”

“You’re some kind of psychic?”

“By conventional standards, yes. That would be an apt description.”

My face apparently betrayed skepticism.

His voice dancing with sarcasm, he said, “Surely you’ve encountered mysteries which science would struggle to explain.”

“Totally,” I replied with a laugh. “Bellybutton lint, socks disappearing in the wash… the fact that grey t-shirts are more comfortable than other colors.”

His big dark eyes tightened, and the slight curve of a smile brushed his upper lip. “I was thinking of other, less laundry related phenomena. Tell me, Mr. Helik… was it a freak accident with fabric softener that chased you away from polite society?”

“Something like that,” I said. “More like a pen exploding in the dryer.”

Images I would’ve preferred not to remember flickered behind my eyes. Dim recollections of that night and a handful of crime scene photos, the sort of crap you can’t wash away no matter how many bottles you pour over them.

Biswell’s face lit up with recognition, with sadness. “That night… was that when you learned your little disappearing trick?”

I nodded.

“And it’s continued on ever since, without rhyme or reason. How obscenely enigmatic. Where do you go?”

“No clue,” I said, and wondered whether it was because I couldn’t remember, or because I refused to.

“Probably a bit of both,” Biswell said after a breath. “The mind can be utterly mysterious that way.”

That was the precise moment I began to find his talent unsettling.

“Most do. You seem to have a knack for dealing with the unsettling, though.”

Another nod. “Still, I’d consider it a kindness if you’d let me speak. My sanity’s taken a hell of a beating these last few years, and this ain’t helping.”

“Of course. My apologies. Sometimes I lose track of myself in this place. My hearing is perhaps a bit too acute here.”

My gaze wandered around the room, and I finally recognized the hidden order. It was a spiral. All his many little statuettes and assorted relics of bygone eras were curled around and focused on the chairs at the parlor’s center. It was the swelling curve of a human ear, an echo chamber to enhance Biswell’s abilities.

“You’ve a sharp eye,” he said. “It took ages to get everything just right.”

I thought back to his immaculately organized bathroom. “The sort of work you’re cut out for. So… how about you clue me in on a few things, like what in hell that thing was last night?”

“Two nights ago. It’s known as an Unhound.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing to me,” I said.

He tapped the weathered book in his lap. “According to this, it’s a variety of photospectre. A semi-corporeal entity composed of light. That’s why our friend last night studiously avoided the street lamps.”

It’s a testament to how fucked my life was that his response didn’t bother me. Didn’t even put a hitch in my stride. “Shouldn’t the streetlights make it stronger or something?”

“Just the opposite. These entities have trouble maintaining coherence in a steady stream of light, like a drop of dye in a river. Anything brighter than the moon threatens to wash them away.”

“Good to know. I don’t understand how it followed us through midtown, though.”

“They’re able to enter one reflection and exit another… all photospectres can. As you can imagine, the average city block provides ample pathways for such a creature.”

Ample indeed. A city is a shimmering sculpture of glass held together with stone, and ours was dripping wet on any given day. I didn’t want one of those monsters on my trail ever again. Not if I could help it.

“That’s why I need your help, Mr. Helik.”

“Come again?”

Biswell set the unopened book aside and looked me earnestly in the eye. “You were a private investigator once. I’d like to hire you. I can offer you food, lodgings and a meager per diem in exchange for your services.”

I looked away, out into the rain-soaked street where legions of the oblivious marched by in breakstep. They walked and watched and waited at the curb for lights to change, smoking their slim cigarettes in dainty puffs and murmuring into glowing cell phones, their umbrellas in primary colors bobbing about like mainsails in a peaceful bay. “I’m afraid you’re confused, Biswell. I’m not that guy. He’s dead, and these are just the parts that were too stupid to stop moving.”

Biswell’s dark eyes never faltered. “There’s no confusion. You see those poor people out there, Ethan? The ones you so envy? They stumble about with their eyes closed, blind to the darkness and the festering rot it contains. Their blindness makes them weak. They’re ignorant and fragile and useless to me, but not you.”

I still had a few faint memories of being vulnerable once, but I kept them safely locked away. Even acknowledging their existence made me shudder. They belonged to another lifetime, one which ended when some kind soul ripped me apart and slapped me back together with junkyard scraps. All the fragile parts—the ones that made me human—had been neglected, and I was better off without them.

Biswell’s voice came quieter than before. “A locked door can be a dangerous thing, Mr. Helik. The longer you keep it closed, the harder it is to open. Someday, you may decide that you want one last moment with whatever it is you’ve hidden, only to discover you can no longer find the key.”

I turned back to him and saw the worry hanging all over his face. He was a real altruist and I could respect that, but I didn’t care for the way his eyes stared into me, searching for somewhere solid to drop anchor. “That day won’t ever come.”

“If you say so.” He hardly sounded convinced.

I reached down and gently fingered the scars on my left forearm. My fingertips skimmed across their surface, tracing out yet another pattern I couldn’t make sense of, a strange hybrid of map and circuit board. Each line was a deep groove carved with unerring accuracy, like the work of a wood router. “What does the job entail?”

“Nothing at all to which you’re unaccustomed. I was given something very peculiar and an as yet unknown party wants it very badly. Enough to summon an Unhound to do their dirty work, which is no small feat, I assure you. I would like nothing more than to be rid of it, but my instinct is to deny such wanton cupidity.”

This guy must’ve kept a thesaurus under his pillow. “Good instinct,” I replied.

“I need to find out why it was given to me, and more importantly, how I can safely divest myself of it. Posthaste. Your assistance in both matters would be invaluable, as would your safe-guarding of my person.”

“Fair enough,” I said, “but I can’t help notice the way you’re dancing around the subject. What do you have exactly, and who gave it to you?”

All he said was, “A memory,” and his face paled.

I should’ve guessed that it’d be something I could never guess. Despite that, it only took me a second to make my decision. What the hell else was I doing? Staring into storm drains and fantasizing about oblivion. I’m no psychiatrist, but I somehow doubt that’s healthy behavior. “You’ve got a deal,” I said, “on one condition.”

“Yes?”

I cleared my throat. “You have some kinda handle on strange shit… stuff science would struggle to explain, as you put it. This thing that happens to me…” then I fell quiet. Falling rain thrummed sullenly against the building’s tired wood.

He pursed his razor thin lips then spoke. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do what I can. I may know someone who can help you understand it.”

I shook that off. “I don’t want to understand it, Biswell. I don’t want to know a damned thing about it. I just want it to stop.”

“As you wish.”

He reached out a skeletal hand and I took it in my own. My fingerless wool glove scraped against his parchment skin, and beneath it I could feel the mad rhythm of his pulse. He was terrified.

We shook, and I was on the case.

Chapter 4

I faced an immediate problem. How the hell did a walking corpse like myself investigate something?

The process, I decided, would have to be like it is for the living, but with a few marked differences. Most of them had to do with money.

Despite appearances to the contrary, the modern private investigator is flush with assets. He has an arsenal collected throughout his years in the business, including an SLR camera with a big ol’ telephoto lens, audio recorders in a variety of sizes and disguises, a computer hooked into a half-dozen legal and less-than-legal databases, an unmemorable car with enough room to comfortably sleep in, and (more often than not) a handgun. Even the most ragged, gin-pickled PI also keeps a few hundred dollars squirreled away for emergencies.

As I stepped out of Clive Biswell’s parlor and into the mid-day drizzle, I had the clothes on my back and 45 bucks. It wasn’t exactly an embarrassment of riches, but if the previous three years had taught me anything, it was how to make due. I could make an awful lot of due out of that much cash.

Clothes would come first. My tattered rags were a cloak of poverty that deflected wandering eyes. The civilized can’t bear to think of men living like animals so they hurry their pace and look the other way, while you live a half-formed phantom existence on the blurred edges of their peripheral vision, where their conscience can’t reach you.

Camouflaged like that, I could pass unnoticed through downtown, along crowded streets and shaded alleyways, and wander alone through the labyrinth of subway tunnels beneath. I could fade into the dirt and litter and vivid twisting graffiti, just another uncleaned mess waiting to be swept away.

However, I couldn’t set foot inside a building without security swarming me like flies on an overripe banana. I couldn’t strike up a conversation without making someone fear for their personal safety. I couldn’t participate in society in any meaningful way.

I needed to go from invisible to perfectly forgettable.

If your ultimate goal is to fade into the woodwork, you can clothe yourself for a shockingly low price, just as long as you know where to shop and what you’re looking for. The color of choice is middle-grey, preferably dull and mottled like a concrete block. As long as you can stand the feel of it, wool is a sound investment; it’s warm, durable and naturally water repellent.

For 12 dollars and change, I transformed myself from untouchable to unremarkable, a ghost in a clever shade of why-would-you-bother-looking grey. For another 15, I bought a new pair of work boots at a third rate sports shop. They were the sort marketed to EMTs and the like; strong and comfortable with a non-slip tread. I had a sneaking suspicion I’d be pounding a lot of pavement, so I splurged a little. You have to take care of your feet, or your feet won’t take care of you.

###

It’s hard to say precisely why I stopped there. The story seemed to have a decent amount of momentum, and the investigation aspect was really what had excited me about the project to begin with, but no matter how many times I went back, I just couldn’t manage to forge ahead. After banging my head against the next paragraph for a few months, I gave in and the story languished on the hard-drive.

The rest of the novel was planned out in very general terms. The memory that Clive Biswell received was from a graduate student named Hector Cardenas, a brilliant mathematician who’d made a major discovery which put his life in peril. Rather than allow it to be taken, he destroyed his notes and gave the last memory to Biswell, then was murdered.

As Ethan begins to investigate Hector’s murder, he comes back into contact with a local police captain who also needs his help. Seems the captain’s daughter has joined a cult, and he wants Ethan to get her back by any means necessary. Eventually, these two cases intertwine and Ethan is forced to face some of the dark powers that seethe within the city. Does he find an answer to his vanishing problem? That’d be telling.

My notes also contain a number of strange creatures and dark gods, which should probably surprise no one at this point. In addition to the Unhound, Ethan would come across such diverse oddities as Photovores (small simian-like animal with a single large eye for its head, that feeds on and can regurgitate visual information), Hemogoblins (nasty, blood soaked creatures that hunt in packs), and Ragmen (animated bundles of clothing who are sent to retrieve stolen objects).

And that’s all for I Vanish. Next week, we’ll take a quick look at a fantasy western called Vermilion, before delving back into longer unfinished pieces.

Until next time,
~Chris

If you missed the previous two parts, you can find them here: I Vanish Pt. 1 & I Vanish Pt. 2

All caught up? Good. Let’s roll.

I Vanish — Chapter 2

The way I’ve come to see things, life is like a really slow race. Everyone marches around their own little track, ambling along from place to place until they loop back around to the start again. There are cycles nested inside of other cycles. One breath leads into the next, days feed into weeks, then months and years. Little changes creep in with each trip around, and sometimes a detour becomes a permanent part of the course, but the overall shape usually remains the same.

We go round and round until something breaks down.

When I broke, I suddenly found myself running laps on the homeless circuit. Yeah, vagrants are in the rat race, too. Our tracks are just a little less symmetrical.

Out here, bare necessities are landmarks and life is a tireless slog from one to the next, never staying in one place long enough to get noticed. Today, you grab a whore’s bath in the library bathroom then fish for change in the fountain out front. Tomorrow, make a stop at the soup kitchen downtown, and find some shelter in Tent City down by the creek.

Contrary to what you may’ve heard, you always know where tomorrow’s meal will come from. You won’t last long if you don’t, and no one will give two shits when you’re gone. That’s just how it is.

Long-term survivors are the ones who blaze their own trail. They’re the ones like Barnaby Wills. He lives by the grace of a paper cup, haunting a corner near the rec center where bleeding hearts flow easy. Dark shades and a red-tipped cane keep Johnny Law off his back, even though old Barny can see about as well as an army sniper. He learned that props can make all the difference in life.

That’s a lesson Cornelius learned, too. I pass him every now and again whenever our tracks overlap. You’ve surely seen him crossing the street with his great loping stride or smoking a Swisher up against the bus stop. He’s lanky tall and dark as night, with a patchwork backpack and a blue mop slung across his shoulders. Life for Cornelius is a series of grimy floors, which he swabs after hours for a pittance and the occasional bag of fries. There are worse ways to live, and at least he’s got a shred of dignity left. He takes pride in something.

I’m not so big on pride. I’m a scavenger, a back alley buzzard who spends most of the night hip-deep in trash. I know when the italian place on 5th dumps old bread, and which nights to check for still-edible fruit behind the organic grocer on University Avenue. I’ve got a good eye for valuable office cast-offs, and once a month, I dive for stripped paperbacks behind Barlowe’s Books.

That’s my life. I eat, I sleep, I scavenge. I wander from one end of this shithole city to another until my cycle loops back on itself. Until the serpent eats its tail.

I vanish. That little detail refuses to fit into any pattern I can recognize. It won’t play by the rules, so I relegate it to an after-thought.

But that’s enough bragging about my glamorous lifestyle. Even I get tired of it sometimes, and that’s probably why I found myself standing on the curb that night, watching the gutter stream rush down the drain. The lights of the city—furious red and jealous green, smouldering coal fire orange—reflected on the water’s surface, only to burst apart at the sewer grate like so many endless party streamers.

I was onto this idea that I could just dissolve. I’d wash away in the stream, glittering with all the city’s gaudy neon lights before crashing into an underground ocean. I wanted to be dragged down and drowned in a darkness so pure that light perished before ever touching its surface. It could swallow me whole and snuff out the last flickering spark of me.

I begged and begged for the rain to rinse me away, but it refused. It spattered and dribbled down my grease-caked skin and ran off in tainted rivulets. It recoiled in disgust.

And I stood there like that, lost in a dream and numb to the wet, the cold and my own perfect despair. I was a broken robot, slack at the shoulders and shiftless, with run-down batteries that refused to hold a charge. Sooner or later, my joints would rust and I’d be permanently frozen in place, a mottled red-orange reminder of someone already long forgot.

Maybe that’s how things would’ve gone if that man hadn’t run into me, sending us both tumbling into the path of oncoming traffic. My death-trance crumpled under the weight of a sudden and immense clusterfuck.

Headlights flashed in the falling rain. Horns cried out like braying donkeys and sheets of creased metal swerved to make way. The river parted, creating a pocket between funhouse mirrors on either side of us. Each distorted reflection revealed a new perspective, a new face twisted in its own fleeting instant of terror.

Despite dead batteries, the robot lurched into motion. Its fingers clenched the other man’s jacket and dragged him back to the sidewalk in a single, turbo-charged lunge. Its weight bore down on him through forearms of hardened steel, pinning him to the rain-slick concrete. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” the robot growled through my teeth.

The man’s eyes were wide with terror. His whole body was a whisper-thin wire ready to snap, and his lips spasmed around a word: “Help.”

It was the right word. The one I couldn’t ever ignore. Old voices clawed up through my head, attached to wet and desperate eyes. They were memories of a lost life. They were still-lit cigarettes in an overfilled ashtray.

I tried to ignore them, but they demanded to be heard. They called, and they cried, and they begged to be saved. They pleaded, and against all sense, I listened.

Before I had a chance to process all the crap running through my head, something else grabbed my attention. It was some kind of howl that flagged, surged and crackled like a tape being eaten by the deck, and it made every hair on my body stand at attention. I scanned around for whatever could make such a ruined sound, and I quickly caught sight of it.

The beast stood in a shadowed alley not twenty yards away. It was a dog. I think. Maybe it wasn’t. I’m still a little confused, in case you hadn’t noticed. Its fur was the color of the waxing moon, too bright where deep shadows clung to it and too dark where touched by the light. It stood there, watching and waiting, with a growl rumbling deep in its throat like a train rolling over distant tracks. It leveled a hungry gaze at me, and I’ll be damned if its entire body didn’t flicker for an instant.

Dogs don’t flicker. Not last time I checked.

I was frozen in place while blood ran ragged through my veins. All the while, the impossible thing looked on and licked its lips, then peeled them back a little too far, revealing gums as black as tar and too many rows of glistening, jagged teeth. Its tongue lapped back and forth behind them, a caged thing eager for a new playmate.

I couldn’t move a damn muscle, but—bless its electronic soul—the robot could. It did the sensible thing and ran. It transformed my shaking, insubstantial legs into steam-powered pistons, and drove them hard into the asphalt while the creature’s tortured voice wavered behind us.

Our pace was fueled by adrenaline. Threadbare boots splashed in puddles and launched sparkling streams into the air. All the while, the sound of the beast followed, somehow keeping pace while remaining out of sight. It bounced from one shadow to the next, from unlit alley to storm drain and on and on, echoing all the while in sickly tones that filled the night air. It snarled and moaned and squeeled with delight, while we did the only thing we could.

No one paid us any mind as we passed, but that’s just how cities are. Everyone exists in their own little microcosm. Their own universe. They live behind a thousand yard stare, watching the next turn in their race-track approach, perfectly oblivious to the world beyond it.

I miss being one of them. Bitterly.

Meanwhile, my universe became a huffing and puffing blur of Chinese characters in neon and impossibly beautiful female faces mounted on walls. My new friend and I fled over sidewalks and through intersections, around turn after turn guided by his insistent tugging at my sleeve, until finally his heels dug in and pulled us both to a skidding halt.

“Here,” he said as he thrust his free hand into a pocket. He pulled out a brass ring with a thousand keys and promptly dropped it to the ground. Chunks of cut metal rang out in discord. “Fuck,” he said, the word tumbling clumsily from his mouth.

I drove my panic away and caught my breath. We were somewhere in the old town. A multi-ethnic ghetto with signs in Arabic, Chinese, Korean, Spanish. Streetlights flickered in blue-green, and everything was silent except for my labored breaths and my companion’s spastic fumbling.

The shop before us, an old fashioned two-story, was wedged between two larger buildings trying with all their might to squeeze it out into the street. The sign on his door was written in flowing Victorian cursive: Biswell.

An angry howl sounded and the lights at the far end of the street blinked out with a pop. Shards of glass clattered to the asphalt, and my panic surged back to life. “Hurry,” I said, as if he needed to be told.

He plucked the keys from the ground and began to sort through them, while grumbling beneath his breath.

Another pair of lights popped, and I could finally see the queer silhouette of the beast. It strode a few steps forward and stopped just shy of the light, a barrier it apparently couldn’t trespass. It stamped its feet with impatience and huffed in fury.

“Please hurry,” I said.

The thing’s eyes locked with my own, and in its own alien way, it smiled. I shivered. Its gleaming fur grew brighter and then darker and back again, cycling slowly from one extreme to the other, building up momentum as it went. The lamps began to cycle with it, and I could guess what would happen next.

Luckily, I didn’t have to find out.

A key rattled in a lock and there was a sudden gust of dusty air. The man’s spindly hand latched onto the back of my coat and yanked me inside, then he shut the door behind us, bolted it and collapsed against the wall.

My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet. I could tell the place was cluttered, but the rest remained a mystery. “What the hell was that thing?”

“Unhound.”

“Can it…”

“No. Safe here. Sealed,” he said, pointing to twisting figures carved into the doorframe. His voice was weak and insubstantial, like an old man on his death bed. His breaths were labored, his teeth chattering.

“You okay? It do something to you?”

He pushed himself away from the wall with a grunt and stood. Even in the darkness, I could tell he was teetering on the edge of falling. “Be fine in the morning. Took something I shouldn’t have.”

I didn’t know a hell of a lot about the guy, but he didn’t strike me as the type to pop a mystery pill at a party. I smelled double entendre.

“Is there anything I…”

“To my room,” he said, cutting me off again, and motioned to the staircase.

Without a word, I pulled his arm over my shoulders and lifted him up. His feet pedalled at the floor in a pantomime of walking, but there was no need. I held the entirety of him aloft and like a sleepy child, I carried him upstairs and set him on his bed.

He somehow found the energy to climb under the covers on his own, and with his eyes half-lidded, he looked at me and said, “You’re a good man.”

I hadn’t heard that in a long time.

“It’s still true,” he replied. “Sleep downstairs. Shower if you like.” He yawned. “Talk tomorrow.”

I didn’t have time to disagree with Yoda; he was out cold, and I had no idea if that thing was still pacing around outside. If the situation had been even the slightest bit different, I’d have headed for the door, but that didn’t sound like a smart decision.

Instead, I walked back downstairs and blindly groped around until I discovered the bathroom. I closed the door and flicked on the light, and after a long squint, found myself in a kingdom of blue tile and tiny plastic organizers.

Every last toiletry was packed away in its place. At one corner of the sink sat a soaptray, a toothbrush stand, and a floss-dispenser, all placed exactly parallel to one another. On the opposite side rested an old fashioned safety razor, a badger-hair brush and ivory cup. Behind the mirror: three identical toothbrushes still in their packaging, black comb, two packs of disposable razor blades, hand sanitizer, Brylcreem, Old Spice, a prescription bottle containing combo acetaminophen/caffeine tablets. The scrip was a week old and half the pills were already gone.

This man—Clive Biswell, if the bottle was to be believed—was fastidious. Clean and well kept to a fault. Possibly a hypochondriac. Likely gay.

It was around then I started to hear the calling. It was coming, and I knew it would be on me soon, but it was still out in the distance. I had time.

Time enough to do something about the haggard, bearded face in the mirror at least. I found an electric trimmer and a pair of shears beneath the sink and went to work. I was slow and methodical, so focused on the task that the rest of the world shrank away. Inch by inch, I worked across my cheek, throat, lip, chin, revealing pale skin to the fluorescent light, until every last trace of beard was finally gone.

An old, familiar face looked back at me through the looking glass, a little older and worse for wear. New wrinkles crossed faint old scars, and years of worry had piled up under his eyes, but I still recognized him.

Ethan Helik flashed a smile at me, and I wondered whether I even knew him anymore. I wondered what he’d think of who I’d become.

The calling was getting loud, and the pressure was sitting at the back of my skull. It was like standing in the middle of a machine shop with a bad hangover, and I knew it was time.

I gave Ethan one last glance, then reached over and flicked out the light. An instant later, the calling descended on me like a ravenous mouth, rattling the windows and tossing all of Mr. Biswell’s toys from their containers. The world screamed in my ears and I vanished.

That’s it for chapter 2. Not exactly a sunny, upbeat piece of fiction, but that’s to be expected from the genre. It’s also a little too avant-garde in a few places, in a way that my editor (if I had one) would probably have a field-day with.

Come back next week for Chapter 3, in which we find out more about this Biswell fellow, followed immediately by the tiny stub of Chapter 4 that’s the end of this particular unfinished oddity.

See you next Wedthursnesday!
~Chris

Let’s get on with the show…

I Vanish — Chapter 1

That was the second time my life fell apart, but after this great fall, there weren’t any king’s men waiting to put Humpty together again. Instead, I slipped through the cracks of an imperfect system and like so many other poor bastards in this world, I just kept falling.

The system wasn’t built to handle situations like mine, of course. Society is a loaded gun aimed dead-bang at the known knowns, the things that fit into tidy little containers with trite, one-line labels. When it comes to the other stuff—things that refuse to be so easily explained—society is caught flat-footed. It shoots and it misses, and with brutal efficiency, it cleans up and it forgets.

My story doesn’t even remotely fit in a tidy container.

The change came in the blink of an eye. One moment, I was standing in an unfinished office building, smoking a cigarette and talking to Jonah Greene, a recent convert to what we call a restrictive religious movement. The next moment, I was gone. I vanished.

I don’t remember anything about it, but I’ve heard second-hand tales about the day they found me. A construction crew stumbled onto the scene three days after I disappeared, and they got the authorities involved. Uniforms in various shades of blue swarmed the place, and what they found emptied plenty of stomachs.

The room had been turned into a modern art exhibit; Jackson Pollock in one shade of red. Jonah—what was left of him—was still strapped down to the chair. The zip-ties were unbroken, but his arteries were all split open like over-filled tires in July. His rib-cage had been cracked down the middle and his internal organs were gone, leaving the hollow cavity propped open like a beartrap.

Me? I was stretched out on the floor, naked as a jay and painted in sticky gore. I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Some of the first responders thought I was repeating a phrase, but they couldn’t make heads or tails of it. No one thought to record it for posterity.

Normally, I’d be the prime suspect just for having the gall to survive, but anyone could see we were both victims. The kid exploded from the inside, and I’d been cut up and stitched together with catgut. The incisions were deep, clean and methodical; not the work of a crazed psychopath, and clearly not self-inflicted.

I was turned into an antique anatomy chart, like something out of Leonardo’s sketch books. One doctor said that if he didn’t know any better, he might think someone had dissected me. If you can keep a secret, I don’t think he actually knew any better.

Either way, the mutilation kept me clear of the courts, and that’s a silver lining wrapped around a particularly gruesome cloud.

I spent a little time after that recuperating at Old Bethlehem where they pumped me full of pain meds and put bandaids on my owies. I spent my waking hours thrashing about and screaming. This got me a quick transfer to a different facility, since that particular sort of behavior tends to make other patients understandably anxious.

My next stop was at beautiful, calming Creston Falls, a crumbling building with floors the color of a robin’s egg, where the populace quietly mumbled to themselves and the soup was always luke warm. It was a difficult time in my life, and if you’re lucky, I’ll never tell you about it.

That accounts for six months of my wasted life. Give or take. Time flies when you’re tasting the rainbow out of paper cups. Then one cloudy morning while I was watching the pigeons splash around in their little shit stained bath, my time ran out. They rubber-stamped my papers and shoved me out the door. I still don’t know whether someone thought I was sane enough to release, or if state just got tired of footing my vacation bill.

That’s the magic and mystery of modern psychiatric care.

Then came my moment of reckoning, when I finally had to confront the truth of my situation. My life had been bashed apart, burnt and had its ashes scattered to the winds. Things were never stable in my life before—work came and went, and little of it was completely legal—but now my world had fully collapsed. Clients mostly found me by word of mouth, and even if this catastrophic shitstorm wasn’t my fault, no one would ever ask for my help again. Not after Jonah Greene blew up in my face.

So, my ass met the street and I learned to live like a rat. It’s not glamorous but it’s a living, and that’s a start.

The real son-of-a-bitch is that I never stopped vanishing.

This piece shifts into a more standard narrative tone, quickly recapping the time between the introduction and when our story actually jumps into motion. My intent was something akin to a montage, where you get quick graphic glimpses of the intervening time, and we start to learn just a bit more about our protagonist, his career, and his particular view on life.

Next week, the story really picks up in earnest, so be sure to stop by and take a look!
~Chris

Copyright 2012, all rights reserved, and a delicious chicken sandwich.

The first question you’re likely to have about Proteus also happens to be the source of all the controversy: What the heck is it exactly?

Even now, I can’t say I’m completely sure. Proteus arrives dressed like a game and my first impulse is to call it just that, but I know it won’t fit most people’s definition of what a game is or should be. There are no weapons or scores, no puzzles or obstacles. There isn’t an overt narrative or any visible goal other than exploration. Essentially, Proteus is motion, music, and the passage of time. There are only these three pieces, and you’re invited to take a stroll about and observe their interplay.

Interest piqued? Check out the full review by following this link.