David's Writing Blog

And Eat It, Too

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 17:00:00 +0000

They returned to the compound cold, dirty, and tired, but thankfully in the same numbers with which they had departed. They hadn't found much — Francis had siphoned a can and a half of gas, and Paco and Wilbur had scrounged maybe two bags of still-good canned food — but they'd cleared the approaches of danger, silently dispatching a dozen zombies with now-practiced ease.

The only surprise on the day was the smell that greeted them at camp.

Francis followed it into one of the walled-off houses the group occupied and found Emily, sitting in a chair placed a few feet from the oven, staring into it. He asked, incredulous, “Are you baking?”

“There was cake mix in the cupboard. Those eggs you found the other day were still good, so, why not.” It wasn't a question.

The smell was intoxicating. “What flavor?”

“Chocolate of course.”

He saw the empty cake-mix box lying discarded on the counter, and he picked it up and read the back. Half an hour at three-fifty... “You're using up a lot of power—”

“It was sunny today. And there was hardly anyone here to use electricity all day. I figure we had it to spare.” She glanced at him. “What.”

He shook his head slowly. “I dunno, Em, it just seems a little weird...”

She turned to look at him, spoke as if annoyed at having to explain the self-evident. “It's the end of the world. I wanted cake.”

Francis stood quietly for a minute, taking in the smell, before laying his guns and backpack on the empty kitchen table. He came back over to Emily and kissed on the top of the head. “Is there frosting?”

She pointed at a small can on the counter. “Also chocolate. We don't dare plug in the fridge so there's no way to chill it, make it solidify. Maybe if we leave it out back overnight. It's been getting down near forty.”

“Sure.” The back patio was enclosed, a sun room like you find in the south. Probably nothing would get in. “Maybe there's an open-top box we can put it in, just to be safe—”

“There's some banker's boxes upstairs.”

Paco pulled the door open and stuck his head in. “Do I smell cake?”

“Yeah.”

He was distracted, smiling, but then remembered his original purpose. “Hey, you gotta come, man. Some zombies coming up the road, must've followed us back, man. Guess we didn't get 'em all.”

“I'll be right there.”

Paco ducked back out, pulling the door shut behind him. For a long moment, Francis watched Emily watch the oven. “I'll be back.”

“I'll be here.”

“Keep the door closed.”

She leaned in closer, trying to make out detail through the cloudy stove-front window. “...Sure.”

He grabbed his guns and the backpack, and let himself out. He had the scent of chocolate cake in his nostrils the rest of the afternoon, even when he and Paco and Wilbur were burying the zombies that had happened upon the compound in a relentless search for a living meal.

Houseguest

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 19:31:00 +0000

Colton emerged from the back bedroom, closing the door silently behind him, his face ashen.

Amy whispered, “Jen and Morris left. They took the keys and left. They—”

“I know. He knows. He knew they were going to leave before they did it. He knows what's going to happen.” He sat down heavily in the recliner. “At least, that's what he says. I believe him.”

“Is he... going after them?”

Colton shook his head slowly from side to side. He stared at the pentagram burned into the hardwood floor, the overturned candles, the pool of blood. His own blood.

“Why not?”

“He's tired. He doesn't have to do it now. He knows where they are, if he decides to kill them he can do it whenever he wants.”

There was a demon in the bedroom. The pentagram hadn't imprisoned him at all and everything had gone immediately to shit. He didn't even look like a demon, not like from any illustration they'd ever seen. He looked like some sort of alien creature from the movies: six legs and crab-like claws, brown and black and purple and horrid-smelling.

Amy had gathered herself into a ball on the couch, arms and legs drawn up protectively against her body. She stared at the front door.

“If we leave he'll kill us too, when he's rested.”

She started crying. He wanted to get up, walk over, sit down beside her, comfort her, but he was weak from the blood loss. “He's hungry.”

“What? How do you know?”

“He's in my head, talking to me. Order a pizza.”

After a long pause, she sniffed and reached for her cell phone where it had fallen on the floor. There was blood on it, his blood, and she wiped it off onto the couch cushions.

“Don't cry on the phone or they'll know something's wrong.”

“I have an app.”

“Okay.”

“What should I get on it?”

“It doesn't matter. Whatever you want. He's going to eat the delivery boy.”

“Oh, Jesus, Colton...”

“Just do it, Amy. He'll eat you if it takes too long.”

She ordered two pizzas, plain because she couldn't concentrate on choosing toppings. “Half hour. I put it on your card.”

“Fine. I have to go back in.”

“What does he want.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then said. “I just have to go back in. He wants me in there. Amy, don't run. I'm asking you not to run. Be smart. We've got to be smart.”

“Too late.”

Colton went back into the bedroom. The bed had been disassembled, and the box spring and mattress were laid out haphazardly on the floor, the demon's seven-foot frame sprawled across them.

The Demon's voice was a needle in his head. Bring the delivery man to me when he arrives. You have a gun.

There was no sense lying. “Yes. It's in the desk drawer out in the living room.”

Use it to force him to the doorway here and I will take him.

“Yes.” He tried to turn to leave but couldn't.

Amy will stay.

“I think so—”

She will stay. I see it. The others will return. You will serve me.

“Yes. What... what will you need us to do? I only ask so I will be prepared, and so that I can prepare Amy.”

You will serve me.

“...yes.”

Go now.

“Yes.”

Colton went back out into the living room to find Jen and Morris standing in the front hall. “He said you'd come back.”

Jen started in, talking manically. “He's been in our heads the whole time. We got to the bridge but it just got stronger and stronger—”

Morris interrupted, “Where's Amy?”

“In the bathroom, throwing up. She's pregnant. She hasn't told me.”

They didn't ask how he knew. He went to get the gun from the drawer. It was cold and heavy in his hand.

“Colton. What do we do?”

Colton laughed, a little too hard. “What can we do? We've already done what we're going to do, to him. He knows how it's going to play out. He knows—“

“But what if he's lying?” Morris interrupted, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

Kill them.

“What do you mean? He said you'd left and you had. He said you'd come back and you did—”

“No, I mean about what happens next. What if he's using what he knows to try to make us not do what we're going to do?”

“What can we do? He can kill us whenever—”

“What if that's just what he wants us to think, Colton?”

Kill them both. Now is the time.

Morris continued. “You're not going to kill us, Colton. It's what he wants you to do, but you have free will.”

Kill them now.

He knew the gun was loaded; he'd made sure before they'd started the chanting, just in case.

Point and shoot. They must be punished. You will serve me. Amy will serve me.

Colton raised the gun halfway, and then let it drop.

“Go in there, Colton. He's weak; it took all his energy to break out of the pentagram. It looked easy, but it wasn't. You know I'm right, you're in his head just like he's in yours. He's starved and defenseless. Go in there. Or give it to me and I'll do it.”

Morris had never even touched a gun. Colton went to the bedroom door. The demon's teeth were bared but he was motionless. You will not kill me. You will try and fail, and to punish you I will punish Amy.

Colton raised the gun. Amy had come out of the bathroom, specks of vomit on her blouse and on her arm. She stood next to Jen, saying nothing. The demon was telling her to stop him, to convince him to stop, to rush him, to take the gun away, to kill him. He could feel her resisting.

You cannot kill me with bullets. If you fire you will know Hell and then death and then Hell again. Obey and you will be rewarded. It tried to rise from the mattress but only managed to prop itself up on three of six bony, horned elbows.

Colton pointed the gun at the misshapen head and squeezed the trigger.

Modus Vivendi

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 19:00:00 +0000

Midz-Aset woke to the clink, clink of arrows bouncing harmlessly off of his armor-plated hide. With one open eye, he surveyed the scene: a dozen archers loosing arrows over the heads of a handful of knights as they made their way past mountains of treasure to where he lay napping.

“Serves me right, I suppose,” the dragon muttered to himself. He would have little trouble with the interlopers; they hadn’t even bothered to bring a wizard. He lifted his head and rumbled, “You’re trespassing. How did you get past Winnis without her warning me?”

One of the knights held his sword aloft and intoned, “I am Prince Carlow, son of the Good King Haff, and I shall take your head as a trophy, foul Worm!”

The dragon snorted. “You’ve brought less than twenty men; I’ve destroyed armies, Princeling. Did your father send you, or was this your own silly idea?”

The knight cried out, “My father will see my worth when I’ve rid the Realm of your pestilence!”

“Oh, I see. He doesn’t even know you’re here, does he? What’s the matter, Princeling, not feeling the Royal Approval? Were you passed over in the line of succession?”

“The throne is mine. No woman will—”

“Oh ho! A woman, eh? A sister, perhaps? Passed over for a sister? No wonder you’re angry. Given how sexist you humans are, you’d have to be completely incompetent—”

The Prince screamed and charged. None of the others followed, which was telling. Midz-Aset dispatched the Prince with a flick of the tail; torso and legs flew in opposite directions, plate mail clattering and screeching as it bounced and scraped on the rocks.

The dragon surveyed the remaining Knights, who were backing slowly away. “Now then. I’ve forgotten already: what was his father’s name? The King?”

One of the other knights answered hesitantly, “…Haff, my Lord.”

“Well,” the dragon said, “Tell Good King Haff I will be coming to see him as soon as I am done with my nap.”

“…Yes, my Lord.” The humans hurriedly disappeared into the tunnels that led back to the mountainside.

Midz-Aset closed his one open eye and curled up even tighter atop his pile of gold coins. After a time, he fell back to sleep.

***

By the time Midz-Aset woke again, the Prince’s bones were bare and dust-covered, and the dragon was hungry, hungrier than he would have expected. He wondered aloud, “How long have I been asleep?” Of course, no one answered.

He crawled through one of the larger tunnels until he reached the surface. Sunny, and warm: summertime. He made his way across the mountainside to the tall pine tree that was the home of the Oreiad, the mountain spirit. Winnis was nowhere to be seen, and instead of the great tree and its resident mountain spirit, he found only a dead stump and fallen, rotten timber. Whatever had happened to her home-tree had happened long ago, while he slept. This time his exclamation thundered against the mountainside. “How long?”

He spread his immense wings and leapt from the mountain with a casual disregard for gravity, sailing down through the clouds, across the forested foothills, and out over the valley.

There was much he did not recognize: many of the dirt roads were now stone-paved, and at their crossings stood thriving new villages. And there, on a hill inside a curve of the river, stood a castle that had not existed previously.
He dove.

Most of the guards on the castle wall-walk fled, which made them smart, if not brave. The ones that remained at least had the good sense not to attack immediately upon his landing atop one of the bastions. He called out, “Where is Good King Haff?”

None of the guards replied immediately. He roared and spat fire in their general direction, causing a slightly singed archer to respond, “My Lord, King Haff has been dead these five years! His daughter, the White Queen Isenette rules…”

“Isenette? Sister, perhaps, to… oh, what was it now? Carl?”

“Carlow, my Lord.” The archer bowed deeply. “Please forgive me for correcting your magnificence — but Prince Carlow disappeared more than ten years ago…”

“His bones are in my lair.”

None of the guards had much of a reaction to the revelation. Not missed was the Prince, it seemed.

“Very well. I will speak to the Queen. Go and fetch her. I would imagine she will be cowering somewhere nearby. Perhaps behind the throne itself?”

The archer didn’t need to be asked twice: he ran down the nearest steps, followed in close order by his companions, leaving Midz-Aset alone atop the wall. The inhabitants of the courtyard having fled into hiding — leaving their livestock behind — he leaped down and gobbled up a milk cow more or less whole. He was taking his time on a second when a woman, dressed in finery reserved for royalty, appeared from behind a heavy oaken door.

“You would be Isenette, then?”

“I would. For what reason have you invaded my Realm? Surely not to devour a few head of cattle?”

He laughed, a great bellow of steam and noise. “I am Midz-Aset. Your brother made the same mistake: you are within my Realm, Queen Isenette. The mountain is my throne, and all that can be seen from its peak is my back garden.”

She walked slowly out into the open, to where she could speak to him without shouting. “My brother?”

“He imagined he would prove his worthiness to inherit your father’s throne by sneaking into my lair and killing me in my sleep.”

“I gather his efforts were unsuccessful…”

“You were not told? I spared his men to return and warn of my coming...”

“I was not told. My father the King spent the days after my brother’s disappearance sequestered in his apartments with his most trusted advisors. I was sent away, to Ricklemeade, and was not to return until my father’s passing.”

“There is a contract. Entered into after the battle at Clory by myself and King Walford—”

“Walford was my grandfather.”

“…It appears that my nap was longer than I had planned. I wonder how long I had already slept when your brother barged in.” He added, pointedly, “Certainly you have had time to build a sturdy castle and many lovely villages.”

The Queen did not react. Midz-Aset surveyed her: she was pretty, though not in a flashy way. A less romantic soul might have described her as ‘handsome’. She stood her ground, trying her best to radiate confidence and calm even as her hands shook at her sides.

“The contract lays out the obligations of the humans of the valley. Obligations to me. Walford signed it in good faith. His son Haff appears to have failed to uphold it. I am impatient with failure.”

The queen turned back towards the still-open doorway and called, “Castellan!”
No one appeared in the doorway, but a meek voice answered from within the darkness, “Your Majesty?”

“Find and bring me Walford’s treaty with the Dragon of the Mountain—”

“Midz-Aset.”

“…with Midz-Aset. And a table and chair, and some tea.” She turned back. “Whatever the treaty terms, I will meet them. I would offer my life in sacrifice, as penance for my father’s oversight, but perhaps we can agree that my brother has already done so.”

The dragon showed his teeth, though not in anger: in a grin.

Not Being Michael Collins

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 04:46:00 +0000

It was a dream, or it was like a dream. Alone, on Intrepid, with Mars spinning below him and the immense cylinder of the alien ship hanging above him, everything in his field of view defied the understanding of the most primitive parts of his brain. It left Rothmeyer mildly and continuously unnerved.

Below, on the planet, Heinz and Meade were packed like sardines in the MEM – the Mars Lander – watching the Polixaci building their embassy. They were the first and second men to walk on Mars, respectively. Gerald Rothmeyer, on the other hand, stayed on Intrepid.

There was little to do besides sit and watch the comings and goings above. Smaller subsidiary vessels – freight landers, themselves larger than an oceangoing aircraft carrier – would approach from below and dock for loading, then detach and drop towards the planet. It had been going on for two days, since just after the MEM touched down and the invitation to join them had gone up.

Rothmeyer slept a lot. It was quiet, peaceful, on Intrepid. The only noise was the whine of the air system. Quite a change from the weeks in transit, bumping elbows and knees with the other two men. When they had slid down into the MEM and detached for their de-orbit burn, he'd been too relieved to be jealous.

There had been a handshake meeting down there, performed in suits on the open surface. They'd gotten up close and personal with the Polixaci, the first to do so besides the old ISS crew. They were talking. They were in the Rollabout driving around the periphery of the building site while aliens in mech-suits built the temporary facility they would live in while they built the main embassy dome. He was jealous now.

During the weeks in transit, with Earth shrinking behind them, Meade had taken to calling him 'Collins'. Good-natured ribbing between comrades. Friendly. Michael Collins had stayed behind in orbit while Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the moon, and become the answer to a trivia question. It didn't bother him. Not really.

He was asleep when Captain Heinz's voice erupted from the comm system. “Intrepid, Hellas Base.”

“Intrepid here, go ahead Hellas.”

“Intrepid, we're going to try something here, we're hooked up our comms to the Polixaci communications system, we've been talking to Mission Control real-time. They want to talk to you, we're going to patch it through our system. You should hear Mission Control next, over.”

Real-time... instead of an half hour round-trip light-speed delay. “Roger, Hellas Base. Ready, over.”

There was nearly a minute of dead air, and then came, “Intrepid, this is Mission Control, do you read, over?”

“Mission Control, Intrepid. I read you five by five. Go ahead.”

“Rothmeyer, Houseguest is asking if you want to visit Mother. You'd EVA, they'd come pick you up and then bring you back. What do you think, over.”

'Houseguest' was the robotic Polixaci representative secretly observing the mission from NASA. 'Mother' was the liner; the immense alien ship hanging in orbit just above him. “Mission Control, Intrepid.” He couldn't formulate a response. “Mission Control... Intrepid. No one would be on duty on the flight deck, over.”

There was a pause, and then: “Intrepid, Mission Control. The consensus here is that it's acceptable under the circumstances. The P... Houseguest says Mother will bring you back to Intrepid if there's any problem. Bill's call is that it's up to you. Over.”

He studied the alien ship; it was more than a kilometer long, a series of cylinders – some overlapping – around a central spine, with a tapered spike at one end and a bulbous projection at the other. There were reportedly tens of thousands of beings aboard, from hundreds of different races. There was unimaginably advanced technology; Somewhere inside that cylinder was the secret to super-luminal travel.

How could he say no?

The Captain's voice replaced Mission Control. “Jerry, we're on private now: we're agreed down here, you should definitely go. The Polixaci guarantee a ride back if anything goes wrong with Intrepid. That was my condition. What do you think?”

He was exhilarated and terrified all at once. “I guess I'm game.”

“I'll tell Mission Control, and Houseguest will tell Mother. I'd expect company pretty soon. Over.”

“Roger, Hellas, Intrepid out.”

By the time he had his suit on, an elongated black egg the size of a two-story house had appeared outside the viewport, close aboard. He made his way to the lock and cycled through.

Mostly for the log, he spoke. “This is Rothmeyer. I'm leaving the spacecraft for my rendezvous with the Polixaci support craft. If I'm not back in an hour, send Flash Gordon.”

It wasn't his first EVA. He'd been engineer on one of the first second-generation shuttle missions. The new suits were thinner, though, tighter, more form-fitting and. This was as naked to the vacuum of space as he'd ever felt. He willed his muscles to pull the rest of his body out into the speckled darkness.

There was an oddly-shaped figure standing on the hull of the alien craft. The Captain's description of their suits as 'mechas' was apt. Rothmeyer resisted the urge to wave.

It was waiting to see what he would do. Fine. “I'm moving away from Intrepid now.” He activated his suit's maneuvering system and slowly, carefully, traversed the distance between the two vessels. When he was close enough, the alien reached out and grabbed him by a carabiner on his suit. Rothmeyer was passive as the alien pushed him with practiced ease down into his craft.

First human to set foot on an alien spacecraft. None of the ISS boys did that. “Aboard the alien support craft now. Roomy inside. Laid out pretty much like ours; form follows function, I guess. Chairs are different.”

The alien wasn't a Polixaci. It was a bit smaller than a man, and heavily furred, with a mouth and nose out of a horror film. Rothmeyer spent the last few minutes of the ride up to the liner trying to get a good high-def photo of its photo with his suit camera.

The unidentified alien never took off his suit, and so neither did Rothmeyer. They docked. The alien gestured towards the airlock, which was already in the process of opening to him when he looked over at it. His pilot stayed behind. “I'm moving from the support craft into the liner now.”

There was gravity without spin. He pulled himself awkwardly into it, and stood up. There were dozens of them, mostly Polixaci, but others also.

The compartment was large, and there were observation galleries above. Both spaces were brimming with aliens, all fixated on Rothmeyer. He was the only one wearing a pressure suit. He knew the Polixaci breathed a mix close enough to an Earth-normal atmosphere; he reached up and unfastened his helmet. “I'm inside. I'm on board the liner.” He allowed himself the luxury of wondering how jealous of him Heinz and Meade were right now, knowing that he'd always be the first human to board an alien starship.

What was walking on Mars next to that? Mars wasn't going anywhere...

Zombie Drabble #391 “Awareness”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

It was just a head.

It sat there, leaning against the curb, the bloody jaw moving, tongue writing, eyes, darting back and forth. The body was still under the truck.

“Whadda you reckon it’s thinking?”

“I doubt it’s thinking anything at all. They appear to act on instinct. It might not even be aware that it’s been decapitated.”

“Betcha it does. I bet that head flew off that body right when the truck hit it. I bet that zombie’s eyes was wide open as the head rolled on the ground. I’d betcha anything. That sucker knows it’s just a head.”

Zombie Drabble #390 “Empowerment”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

The scouts were lined up against the wall, talking, eating. She walked up purposefully, as if she wasn’t afraid, and pointed to Ching’s crossbow. “I want to learn.”

Ching didn’t even look at her. “Girls don’t have to stand guard duty. Go on now.”

“Mother says they should. And I wanna learn anyway.”

The others laughed, but Ching regarded her coolly. She couldn’t be more than twelve, and less than a hundred pounds. “I won’t take it easy on you just ‘cause you’re a girl.”

“I don’t want easy, I wanna learn to shoot.”

“All right then.”

SF Drabble #390 “Monsters”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

Kathlogroh knew the mirror-surface was a window behind which the natives watched his every more, studied him. He didn’t mind, not as long as they kept bringing him food.

The language barrier was formidable. He continuously tried to make them understand what components and materials he needed to build a transmitter that would bring rescue, but they seemed not to understand; certainly the components were not forthcoming.

Perhaps they were attempting to build it for him. Given their level of technology, the idea would have amused him had his desperation not been so great. He would have to keep trying.

SF Drabble #389 “Hoover”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

“We poked a hole in the Universe.” The disheveled man in the lab coat said, beaming proudly.

“Where does it go?” The general frowned, watching the otherworldly shimmer hanging in mid-air.

“Outside… outside the Universe.”

“As in you have no idea. As in anything might come pouring out of that hole and—”

“Actually, the prevailing water-cooler theory around here is that it’s much more likely that our Universe will start pouring into the hole. Sucking everything in like a v—”

The general had grabbed the man by the collar of his lab coat. “Close it. Now.”

“But we don’t—”

“Now.”

SF Drabble #388 “Methuselahs”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

When they made it illegal, I didn’t really mind it: I figured they’d ‘grandfather in’ those of us who’d done it while it was legal. For a while that held true. But then they passed all those discriminatory laws, and then finally, the General Assembly made kill-on-sight laws constitutional. Most of us went on the run then. Those that didn’t, well, I’m sure you know how that went. Of course, you can’t exactly tell us on sight, so it’s pretty easy to pass with forged documents.

I paid good money for immortality, and I mean to get my money’s worth.

Zombie Drabble #389 “Differently Abled”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

They walked over, serious looks on their faces. “JIm…”

“Just spit it out, Reggie, I can take it.”

“Well,” he started, “It’s just, we don’t think you can keep up in the chair. And nobody wants to have to push you.”

“I can make better time on pavement than any of you, carrying more weight. This isn’t your grandma’s wheelchair, Reggie.” They wouldn’t make eye contact. “Fine. I’m taking my .32 with me.”

“Fair enough.”

A week later, sailing down Highway 3 at twenty miles an hour, Jim passed Reggie’s zombie. He yelled, “Asshole!” He didn’t bother to shoot him.

Zombie Drabble #388 “Sniper”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

The zombie was almost to him, mouth agape, arms outstretched, when its head disintegrated, spattering him with blood and bits of rotten flesh. He sat, dumbstruck, with the gore dripping off of his face, while two more zombies were felled. Only then did he hear the distant crack of a rifle shot, and it came after the bullets found their mark. Whoever he was, his benefactor was far away.

Too far to tell the difference between a zombie and a blood-spattered man? He crawled on all fours, as quickly as he could, towards shelter. Best to not take the chance.

SF Drabble #387 “Still On Vacation”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

We went from Friktik to Ri’ on the mail-runner, not wanting to wait three weeks for the next liner.

I guess something about the Liner, maybe its size, minimizes the physiological effects of the Polixaci drive, because when the mail-runner left normal space, we both got dizzy and fell out of our chairs. The crew apologized: they thought we knew. They wouldn’t say why it doesn’t happen on the liners, though. We got the impression they weren’t supposed to.

Ri’ is beautiful. Mostly forest, these immense trees that sing in the wind. Worth it, so glad for those extra weeks.

SF Drabble #386 “Not Monster”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

It had a name. Kathlogroh. The little boy told them the name, told them it was a he, that he was friendly.

On closer inspection: they should have known he was no monster: he wore clothes, had tools attached to the clothes. He was injured, though not severely. He could talk after a fashion, in single words, in simple concepts. Not learned from the boy. Maybe he’d been monitoring communications before crashing.

He agreed to come back to the army base; he wanted electronics to build a transmitter. And: "Stay away crash. Invisible death." We’re assuming he means the radiation.

SF Drabble #385 “It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

He was staring down at his Pad, like he did in most of his free time, when suddenly he laughed.

“What?”

“I accidentally switched this thing to Earth time. It changed the calendar, too.”

“So?”

“So, guess what today is.”

“John, I really don’t—”

“Merry Christmas.”

She stared at him for a minute. “John, what does it matter if it’s Christmas or Easter or Boxing Day? That’s Earth. This isn’t.”

He scowled. “I just thought you’d get a kick out of it, that’s all.”

She sighed, shook her head. “Oh, fine. Merry Christmas, John. Happy?”

He grinned. “Yeah, I am.”

Zombie Drabble #387 “Ghost Dog”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

“Don’t turn around.”

He hadn’t heard anyone come in, and of course he’d searched the house for zombies before starting in searching for supplies. “Sure.”

“Got any .32 ammo?”

“Nope, only nine mil. And solid shells.”

“You’re wasting your time here, I cleaned this place out three weeks ago.”

“I always think someone should come up with chalk marks, like hobos used to.”

“Most of ‘em would be lies.”

“Sure.”

There was a long silence. Eventually he risked turning around; there was nobody there. He searched the house again, and found nothing. He was almost certain he hadn’t imagined it.

Zombie Drabble #386 “Safety First”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

You go into a house, you never know what you’ll find. There could be one zombie, there could be five, there could be none. There could be a pantry full of canned goods, there could be bare shelves. If you spend more than ten minutes in one house, you’re risking getting surrounded, and anyway, if you haven’t found the good stuff by then, you never will.

Don’t even think about apartments if you’re out alone. one way in, one way out. Whatever’s in there isn’t worth your life. I mean, unless it is. If you’re starving, all bets are off.

SF Drabble #384 “Hand To Hand”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

The ship rang like a bell, again, and she was thrown forcefully against the bulkhead. She kept her grip, and was regaining her bearings when Reese floated by with blood globules leaking from his flattened nose and disturbingly open eyes.

The intercom buzzed. All hands, prepare to repel boarders.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” She pushed off, sailed across the half-lit compartment, and grabbed a handhold close to the weapons locker. “I hope somebody remembered to charge these things this time.”

No such luck: plenty of beam rifles, no live power cells. “That’s it. I’m not re-upping again.”

SF Drabble #383 “Sour Grapes”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

I knew from the knock that it was the Deacons. I wanted to put on pants. “Just a second.”

“Now, sir.”

I answered the door in boxers. It slid open to reveal blasters at the ready and a fill-in-the-blanks search warrant. I didn’t bother reading it. “Come on in.”

I wasn’t worried. I didn’t have any illicit materials, or even drugs, not that the Deacons give a crap about drugs. They’re looking for schismatics, blasphemers, apostates. My ex keeps informing on me, but the joke’s on her: lying’s a sin, and filing a false report will get you six months.

Fantasy Drabble #300 “Last But Not Least”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

Shywild was old, even for his kind. The others of Elven-kind had died during the wars, or by their own hand or of grief after losing the wars, but, unhappily, he had hung on, had soldiered on, had lived on. He despised as lonely a world bursting with people.

Now there were cars and parking lots where there had been fauns and forest, skyscrapers where there had been sky, machines where there had been magic: the humans had defiled their hard-fought prize. They didn’t even remember that they were at war. They were fools, and they had inherited the Earth.

Fantasy Drabble #299 “Annulment”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

She was still cleaning up the detritus of spell-casting when Mauritz appeared in the doorway. “Ah, you’re here. Have a seat. Anywhere’s fine.” It was Mauritz’s house, after all: she wouldn’t fret over the stains or smell.

Mauritz’s zombie lumbered over to the couch and settled onto it, bits of flesh sloughing off onto the upholstery.

He needed marching orders, direction. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Maury.” There was still one more order of business, the locator spell.

Mauritz, suspicious, had wisely invested in revenge. Mauritz’s wife had bought his death, but alas for her, not its permanence.

SF Drabble #382 “Reporting From The Scene”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

“Jack, I’m not sure, but let me try to see what I can make out from the top of the stairs here. Again, we’re in the basement of a partially collapsed building near twelfth street, about eight blocks from… yeah, yes, that was another explosion, sounded like it was a good distance away. There was some artillery falling around the landing site about ten minutes ago, and then some level bombing, but it’s been quiet since… yes, Jack, I can see up the street and the alien craft seems to have disgorged numerous smaller… okay, I’m seeing a bright li—”

SF Drabble #381 “Reproduction”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

Tracking. Cloak engaged. Stand by for course correction: mark. Stand by for full power: mark. Range closing. Scans inconclusive. Stand by. Stand by.

Range closing. Scans indicate nuclear power source, hydrogen scoop design. System of origin computed. Destination system computed.

Range closing. Scans indicate five organisms active, one thousand four hundred and twenty three organism cryogenically frozen. Biped, opposable thumbs; bipeds probable crew and colonists.

Range closing, no change in target attitude. Cloak stable. Stand by weapons.

Stand by to match course and speed. Mark. Parallel course achieved. Position directly above target achieved. Stand by boarding. Stand by ovipositor teams.

Zombie Drabble #385 “The New Economy”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

There was a farmer we ran into only because we smelled wood burning on the wind, and followed it back to his place. Nice enough guy. For him, the end of the world hadn’t changed much: he worked his land, tended his livestock and his crops, only instead of selling his product he lived off it himself. He knew what was happening, of course, but he figured, what’s it to him?

We explained it. He had guns, of course, that type always does, but we got the drop easy. Shelter. Lots of food. It’ll be months before we move on.

Zombie Drabble #384 “Relics”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

It had been going for a while before he realized he’d been hearing it: a radio, or somebody’s iPod earbuds up way too high. He wrestled his way out of the too-small sleeping back and padded through the room in stocking feet to try to find the source of the noise.

It was the Carsons’ teenager, what was her name? “Emily.”

She reached into her own sleeping back and the noise stopped. “What?”

“What are you listening to?”

“Some classical piece I’ve never heard of before. Found the iPod yesterday.”

He convinced her to share. It was Debussy, “La Mer.”

Fantasy Drabble #297 “Sir Hubert”

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 01:00:00 +0000

Midnight rounds are unfailingly uneventful: everyone's asleep, including any enemies of the Crown. You’ll be patrolling the quiet halls, trying not to let your sword or armor clatter, and there he’ll be, a shimmering panic.

They’re coming.

“They’re not coming, Hubert, that was a long time ago.”

They’ll kill you all. They’ll kill me.

“Got your tenses mixed up, you have. Still: I appreciate the warning. Well done, you: mission accomplished. Eternal rest well-earned.”

It never works. They’re almost here.

We don’t know what his real name was in life; ‘Hubert’ suits his face. “Best get ready, then, Hubert.”