

THE DARK AND SHADOWY PLACES

Caitlin McColl

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2015 Caitlin McColl

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of

the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial

purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own

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### About This Book

This book is a collection of short stories or 'flash fiction', inspired mostly by author Chuck Wendig and his fantastic and hilarious blog, Terrible Minds, where he hosts weekly Friday Flash Fiction writing challenges. Ninety-nine percent of the stories in this book I have written are based on these challenges and can be found on my short story blog, Under A Starlit Sky, with a few unpublished ones thrown in. I decided to compile them into the more convenient and easy to read format of an eBook, rather than scrolling through them online. Now, please, won't you journey into the dark and shadowy places?

I hope you enjoy these stories, and my other ones if you so wish to purchase them, and I would love it if you could leave a review of this, or any of my other writings, anywhere you have obtained this eBook.

Warm regards,

Caitlin McColl

### Table of Contents

The Labyrinthine Lighthouse

The Unknown

The Consortium

The Rorschach Test

Twisted Love

A Future That Time Forgot

Orphan Ivy

Last Train to Nowhere

The Labyrinthine Helix

Merciful Beast

God's Own Medallion

There Are Things In the Well

Coming Back Again

Lunestra

City of Lost Hope

The Courageous Sheriff

The Griefstruck Earth

Long Way from Nowhere

Crossed Wires

A Game of Charms

Welcome to Hell, Next Left

If You Go Down To The Woods Today

My Name Is Nothing, What's Yours?

From the Ashes

Under A Starlit Sky

The End is The Beginning

The Spectre

Twelve Mile Limit

Mars

There Goes The Sun

Up, Up & Away

The Valley of Death

The ArcHive

The Secrets of Fireflies

The Enemy Rule

A Beautiful Disaster

Amethyst Auburn & World's End

Places, Camera, Action!

500 Words

A Stranger Calls

A Long Way Down

Ripe for the Picking

What Is Normal?

Dusk and Dawn

New World Order

As You Mean to Go On

A Voice in the Darkness

The Dark & Shadowy Places

### The Labyrinthine Lighthouse

I'm from Labyrinth. That's the name of my town. Weird, isn't it. Apparently the guy who founded it, a couple hundred years ago, was obsessed with Crete and the legend of the minotaur in that huge labyrinth. So that's your history lesson for the day. Why anyone would name a town Labyrinth, I have no idea. Except that, because of the founder, the town, well, is really a labyrinth. The streets are like one giant maze, and even living here all my life, growing up here, I still get lost and turned around. Streets branch off in strange directions, and sometimes just abruptly stop and go nowhere. I guess a bit like a cul-de-sac. It's frustrating when you're trying to get to the grocery store, but make a wrong turn, and then you come to a dead end. And you really have to pay attention if you want to get to work on time. At least I do. Sometimes it feels like the roads change, and move. That they end up in different places. I've not heard of a maze doing that ever, but I've seen some really strange things here. Mind you, I've never been anywhere but here. Maybe things like this happen in other places too – big cities like Chicago or Los Angeles or in England, I don't know.

The lighthouse, just outside of town, is where most of the strange stuff happens. First of all, Labyrinth isn't anywhere near water. So why there's a lighthouse in the first place is weird in itself. It just sits up on this raised bit of land. So wherever you are in town, you can't miss it. It's like some strange sentinel, on the lookout for...something. Guarding the town from...well, not from any boats, that's for sure. The ocean is a couple thousand miles away. Labyrinth is landlocked. There's not even any rivers nearby that the lighthouse could warn boats on it not to...I don't know, not to stop in Labyrinth, maybe.

The weird thing about the lighthouse is, it's working. That might not sound strange to you. But it never has before. Ever. Not since I was born, not since my parents moved here. Not since it was built. I'm not sure why it was built anyway. Maybe whoever did it liked lighthouses, and thought Labyrinth should have one. Whatever the reason, it has never worked. I didn't even think there was even a lightbulb in it. I know, I've been up there. Lots. It's something you do when you're bored. Go along the windy, rocky, pitted road up the hillside, and climb the lighthouse. It gives you a really cool three-sixty degree view of the town, the mountains on one side of it, and the forest on the other. I used to go up there when I wanted to be alone. Sometimes I'd go there to be alone, and there would already be people up there, hanging out, making out, the usual teenager stuff.

But that was when the lighthouse was just an old, empty, tall building with winding stairs up to a viewing deck. Now, it's an actual lighthouse. Without anything to be a lighthouse for. What's the purpose of a lighthouse? To warn people. And since there are no boats to warn, what, or who, was it warning? The town?

I just noticed the lighthouse was on yesterday. Only because I ran into Mrs Harris. Literally, I bumped into her because she was standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at the lighthouse on the hill. I was about to mumble something ungracious and continue on past when she grabbed my shoulder tightly. "Ella, look!" she said, gripping me painfully as she pointed at the lighthouse. I didn't see it at first, the light hadn't made it around to us yet. But then there it was. A flash from a giant bulb that hurt my eyes, and then was gone again, only to reappear a few seconds later.

"So?" I asked, in a tone that made it sound like I thought Mrs. Harris was crazy.

"So? So? Don't you know what this means?" The woman almost screeched and I winced, raising my hands to my ears.

I shook my head. No, I didn't know.

"It's the circus," she whispered in a hiss as her nails bit into my arm.

"What?" I asked, totally confused. The circus? There had never been a circus come through town. Nothing much really happened in Labyrinth. Except the annual Cranberry festival. I hadn't seen any posters up about any circus. I looked around, as if I was expecting to see carts full of elephants and tigers rolling down main street any second. "I don't see any animals," I said, still puzzled by Mrs. Harris' reaction.

"No, no," she said, shaking her head angrily, her perfectly coiffed hair bouncing. "Not that kind of circus! Not with animals. With them," she lowered her voice and turned me to face her, grabbing me by both shoulders. I tried to tug myself free of her grip, but she just held tighter, staring intensely into my eyes with her storm grey ones. "The gypsies. The land pirates. They come in the night, on the third day, and in the morning, people are gone. They steal them. You don't know who they are coming for, or how many. Sometimes it's just one person. Usually it's more. Sometimes a child, sometimes someone who is elderly, frail. Sometimes someone else. Someone like you, or me. There's no rhyme, no reason."

I could feel my eyes grow wide. I had never heard of this. Never heard of land pirates, and people being stolen.

Mrs. Harris continued, as if I wasn't even there, still trying to release myself from her. "That's why the Labyrinthine Lighthouse was built. As a warning system. To warn us about the pirates. They only come around once every hundred years or so." She looked at her watch as if that would tell her that a hundred years has passed since the last arrival of the circus.

"So what do we do?" I asked.

Mrs. Harris looked at me again, as if just remembering I was there. "Do? We leave! If you don't want to be taken, you have to run." And with that , she took her own advice and sprinted off down the street, eyes darting nervously around her.

Today is the third day, and the sun is going down. I'm writing this from the lighthouse. You might be asking yourself why I haven't left. Why I haven't run, like Mrs. Harris. I can't answer that. Maybe it's just morbid curiosity. Like I said, nothing much happens here in Labyrinth. I want to see the circus.

Hopefully I'll be one of the lucky ones.
The Unknown

It smelled red.

It's the first thing that popped into my head when I opened my eyes. That acrid, tangy scent, like burning metal. I didn't know what time it was, but I knew something was...off. I lay in bed, not wanting to get up and, just like I did every other morning, look out my window at the trees, sky, buildings and mountains before getting dressed with the clothes I laid out the night before.

I glanced at the blinds, and through the little holes that the drawstrings ran though, I could see the sky. It was red. An awful, not right, red. My legs felt like lead as I swung them off the bed and, gripping the windowsill, I lifted a slat and peered out. My stomach and body must have already anticipated the dread outside, because I didn't feel any different staring out at the landscape before me. Or rather, lack of one.

My body seemed to go numb. My thoughts slowed almost to a stop, but the first thing I remember thinking (after the red) was, how could I have slept through this? That was quickly followed by, and how am I still here?

I let the blind snap back into place. I moved as if I was walking in quicksand. My body didn't want to function. The mundane-ness of my small apartment hit me, then. It was like someone slammed into me. The small bathroom, just outside my bedroom. The painting in the hallway of killer whales in the water. The stairs, leading down to the living room and kitchen on the bottom floor. Everything seemed so normal. It was that that made the hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes, not the everything else outside. The normality of my house. Everything was the same, everything was there. Not even a single picture had fallen from the wall, or a mug out of the cupboard.

I found myself in the bathroom. I don't remember heading there but suddenly I was looking at myself in the mirror. I held my hands up and touched my face, ran them through my long, bed-messy brown hair. I leaned over the counter, peering at my chestnut eyes. My pale skin seemed paler than normal, but, I reasoned, that's understandable today, of all days.

"Get a hold of yourself, Anise," I scolded my mirror-self. "You're still here. That's the important thing." And to emphasize that point, I pinched the skin on my left forearm. Ouch. Yes, I was most definitely still here. If this was a dream, I wouldn't be able to feel any pain. Right? Oh how I wish this was a dream! I would be the happiest girl in the world if this was all just a nightmare. I pinched myself again, just to be sure. Nope.

I threw on a pair of jeans, a coral t-shirt, and my favourite purple hoodie. I didn't care that it clashed. It was the least of my concern. The least of anyone's concern now.

I ran downstairs, my legs moving more freely now, and headed for the TV.

My hand froze on the remote. Did I really want to turn it on? I knew what would happen if I did. My nightmare would be confirmed as reality. But I needed to. I needed to know what had happened. I needed an explanation for what I had seen out my bedroom window.

I pressed the red button and the TV blared to life with exactly what I was expecting – chaos.

Ribbons scrolled across the bottom of the screen like a ticker tape of doom, words like DEVASTATION and STATE OF EMERGENCY shouting at me. The news-reporter woman with her usually perfect news-reporter hair seemed flustered and close to tears. I could see that she was speaking, but I couldn't register what she was saying. The ribbon of doom at the bottom of the screen with its large white letters got through to me. Mainly just 6 words: Massive earthquake splits planet.

What? I waited until the words scrolled past a second time – knowing, yet still unbelieving, in their truth.

More words followed, and the news reporters voice suddenly broke through the wall my body seemed to have built up around me. "Scientists believe that the Earth's core has overheated, causing a sort of implosion. Massive sinkholes, sections of land have just..." the woman suddenly seemed at a loss for words. Probably the first time in her career, I guessed. I watched as the reporter tried unsuccessfully to choke back tears. "Huge areas of land all over North America, all over the world, have just disappeared."

"Well that would explain it," I said out loud to my small, empty apartment. That would explain why there was only water, a vast ocean, outside my bedroom window, when yesterday there were houses, apartment buildings...oh yeah, and a whole fucking mountain range. How can the Rockies be there one day and replaced by an endless sea the next? "How?" I repeated out loud, again for the benefit of no-one, in a failing effort to rationalize what was happening. I glanced at the TV screen again where the news was showing a map of the world. Or what was left of it.

Where I was, the Pacific North West, was intact. But it was now only a long narrow strip of land – from Alaska to Mexico. There was nothing east. Nothing. My brain couldn't seem to register that concept. Half of Russia and most of Asia was still on the screen, along with the east coast of Africa. The middle of Australia too. The coast, where most people lived, was underwater. The west coast of South America was still there too. Good, I thought. I've always wanted to go to Peru.

I laugh at that now. I don't know what made me think that, then, but I guess I wasn't really thinking straight. There was a large ugly scar, a vast chasm cutting across the world.

I went into auto-pilot, then. Survivor mode. I think we all have it. I grabbed a duffle bag from the closet and filled it with food and clothes. I chucked in some Band-Aids. I slung the bag over my shoulder.

My hand reached for the doorknob. As I was about to turn it, there was a knock. I almost screamed. My heart started pounding in my chest and ears.

I opened the door. Standing in front of me was a man dressed all in black, a heavy plastic visor shielding his face. Behind him stood a few others, just the same.

"Are you Anise Buttersby?"

I winced. I hated my name. I went by Abe. "Yes." It was all I could think to say. I didn't even think to ask why.

"Good," the man replied as he roughly spun me around. I heard more than felt the handcuffs go around my wrist. And then I was in a car, its windows so tinted it looked like night. I banged on the glass partition in front with my boot. "Where are you taking me?" The only answer was silence.

### THE CONSORTIUM

Once or twice he thought he caught a glimpse of Lyric's intentionally messy bright blue hair in the streams of people crowding the busy streets, despite the bone chilling cold of autumn on the cusp of winter.

Gabriel squeezed past people, and began jogging through the human congestion, dodging umbrellas, elbows and murderous glares from other pedestrians. After two blocks he gives up on his quest. Turning the collar of his jacket up against the wind, he huddled down and made his way to the tall, glass-fronted home of his grandfather's investment empire.

Putting on his best 'don't talk to me' face, he managed to get to his office, on the 26th floor, without too much hassle. He sat down heavily, grudgingly thankful for the soft thickness of the leather chair.

He realized he was shaking as he drew the envelope from his pocket. He took a deep breath. "Get a hold of yourself, Gabriel!" he chided himself.

The envelope was brown. His name was written on the front in a handwriting he didn't recognize, simply as G. Ash. He turned it over and was about to open it when he noticed something on the flap. A dot sat in the middle of a larger circle. He shrugged and tore the paper. He drew out a single piece of paper, folded over double, and lifted the flap.

Four words stared back at him in neat typed letters. You have been chosen. At the bottom of the page was the same dot and circle.

What? He stared at the paper dumbly, and turned it over, expecting something else. It was blank.

He was about to throw the paper and envelope in the trash and put it down to some weird Monday morning prank, when something fell from the envelope – a business card. He picked it up gingerly, as if it would hurt him. On the front was the now familiar circle and dot design. He flipped it over. The Consortium. It was typed in the same neat font as the letter. In a strange cursive, that he recognized as being the same as his name on the envelope, was written, your presence has been requested. This was followed by an address.

Gabriel knew it instantly. It was as far away from this part of the city as you could get. The not so nice part, down by the docks. He had always tried to avoid that part of the city, if he could help it. The part that you didn't want to get caught walking down a dark alley at night, or any other time of day, in. "Well it looks like my life isn't so boring after all," he said with a glance at his boring, yet expensive, desk and computer and phone. He looked at the card again. It didn't mention a time, or date. He risked a glace out the window. It was still cold and grey and miserable. He hadn't even taken off his scarf or coat yet. "Better now than never," he said as he levered himself out of his chair. His leaving the office moments after arriving raised a few eyebrows as he pushed through the revolving door and back out onto the street.

Gabriel felt like he had been walking through a maze of run-down and abandoned warehouses for an eternity. He was just about to give up ever locating the address that was neatly typed up on the card he held him his hand with a death grip, the sharp edges of the paper cutting into the baby soft skin of his palm. He felt like the only person alive right now. He didn't think another living soul was around for miles. Gusts of wind caused old, rusted metal walls and roof to creak and groan like trapped monsters.

At last he had arrived. He looked at the faded number above the door, barely lit by the dim lamp above, and down at the card. Yes, this was the place. It was a small, narrow box squeezed in between two large warehouses. It seemed like it was being held together just by the other buildings on either side.

He hesitated. The envelope offered nothing as to what was behind the rusted door in front of him, that was barely hanging on its hinges. Maybe Lyric would be there... The thought of the girl with the riot of colour, and the aura...the something about her that made him tingle gave him a jolt of courage.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. He stepped forward slowly, in the darkness, his patent leather shoes ringing hollowly on the concrete floor. It was almost pitch black. Gabriel realized he was holding his breath.

He almost screamed when a brilliant white light flared to life all around him. Instinctively, he squeezed his eyes shut. He could see his eyelids, glowing red, with the brightness of the light. He slowly opened his eyes, wincing.

He realized he was standing in the middle of a circle. A circle of people. And he was the centre. I'm the dot, he thought numbly. Spotlights shone down on him from all around. He couldn't make out the figures standing around him. They were cloaked in shadow, standing just outside the pool of light.

A voice spoke. It sounded like many voices, melded as one. "Welcome to the Consortium."

Gabriel didn't know what to say. "Thank you?" It was more question than answer. Why was he invited? What did they want him for? Who were these people? These questions and many more swirled inside him. He wanted to ask them all, but he couldn't find his voice. His throat was dry with fear.

"We have invited you here today to ask you only one question. You can accept, or you can decline. The choice is yours, and yours alone. If you decline, you can go back to your life, just as it was, and you will never hear from us again. If you accept, we can guarantee your life will change forever. Drastically."

Gabriel found his voice. "For good? Or bad?"

"That is not for us to decide." There was a long pause. "You only have five minutes." Another stretch of silence. "The clock is ticking."

### THE RORSCHACH TEST

I sat in a small grey room, wearing a matching grey jumpsuit. They weren't very creative here. Why should they be? I thought with a shake of my head. It's not as if they try to make you comfortable. It's not like home. There's no place like home, I thought, and I tried to suppress the smile that tugged at the corner of my lips and the laugh that threatened to burst out of me, thinking of the girl that sat on my left. My roommate. This is not the time, nor the place. It would just lead to questions. I stared straight ahead, trying to avoid the gazes of the three other women who sat around me in a circle. We all wore the same matching grey outfits. As if this place wasn't depressing enough. I tried to look at the girl who was sitting opposite me and make it so her body blended in with the wall behind her. She had long blond hair, almost like mine, but lighter, brighter. Or it used to be, I thought. Now it looked lank and greasy, as if she hadn't washed it for a few days, and didn't care what she looked like. I knew how she felt. I'm pretty sure I looked the same way. She was taller than me, I saw. I could tell even though she was sitting. And she had blue eyes, like me too. Though hers were lighter, brighter than mine which were the dark blue of a lake on a sunny day. Without meaning to I started to imagine what she was like before. It seemed to shine through her dishevelled appearance, radiating from her. She used to be beautiful, and hold herself with grace. Though by the slouch of her shoulders, the slackness in her round face, that I could tell was pretty, even after a spell in here, and that the light had gone from her eyes, dulling them like a storm, that she had been beaten before. She had felt like this before, like we all did right now – imprisoned. There's something about being trapped, that extinguishes a light inside you.

I realized I was staring at her, and she caught my eyes and gave a small, sad smile, raising her head slightly, removing from view the bright blue headband she wore, ineffectually, on her head. I averted my gaze.

We were alone at the moment, just the four of us, waiting, anxious, wondering what to expect. This was my first time here, and from a brief glance around the room at the knees bouncing up and down, the hands twisting in laps, the picking at fingernails, and the nervous humming, I wasn't alone.

I moved the baggy sleeve of my dull jumpsuit up, distractedly rubbing the tattoo on my wrist. I saw my roommate watching me from under long eyelashes from the corner of her eye, and I saw her open her mouth, as if to say something, but she closed it again, afraid. She was small, smaller than me anyway, with long brown hair and brown eyes. She banged her feet, loudly, nervously against the legs of her chair. I noticed her bright red shoes and shook my head in dismay at her stupidity.

I looked around the room again, at the ceiling, with its Styrofoam square panels, and the sickly buzzing of the fluorescent lights, just naked tubes and then moved to the featureless walls – there was not even a single picture. The only thing in the room was the door. It was big, heavy, metal, with only a thin vertical slit in it for a window. Eventually my eyes fell on the girl who was sitting to my right in the small circle of chairs. She had mousey brown ringlets, tied back in a pony tail. She was the one that was humming. I noticed a patch sewn on her chest – Darling, in neat block letters. Her last name, just like mine was sewn on me. I looked to the girl across from me. Hers read Tremaine. I turned to the girl at my left. Her name was hidden by her hair, but I knew it anyway. Gale. The door opened with a squeak that made a shiver run down my back.

I bowed my head, and dark, polished high-heeled shoes came into view. I raised my eyes slightly and took in her sleek, tight pencil skirt, and fitted blazer, all black of course, over a crisp white blouse. Her hair was black and her presence seemed to suck whatever it of life was left in this room away. She held a tray with four thimble sized paper cups. She stood over at me, glaring down through her dark rimmed glassed. "Drink this," she said, almost thrusting the cup in my face. I cringed at those words, it was automatic. She laughed, loud and sharp. "Don't worry, Alice," she said. I could hear her chiding me in her tone. "This isn't going to do anything to you." The woman paused, then added, "well, nothing like you might think anyway."

I took the thimble-full of liquid carefully between my fingers. My sleeve moved down, exposing my tattoo. The woman's eyes narrowed at the sight of it and she clucked her tongue. I hastily dropped my arm and the image of a small white rabbit disappeared again under the grey. "Alice, I wish you wouldn't still cling to your fantasies," the woman said as she passed out the remaining paper cups. "And that goes for all of you," the therapist admonished. When her back was turned, I tipped mine out on the ground. I'd had enough bad experiences drinking potions.

The woman took a seat in an empty chair between Darling and Tremaine. She turned to look at each of us. "Now Alice, Wendy, Ella, and Dorothy. I hope you know why you're all here. You all failed the Rorschach test."

### TWISTED LOVE

We were too different. We were two different species, to be truthful. I should have known it could never have worked. In fact, I must have, deep down. Of course I saw the looks we got walking down the street together - when people got close enough to see that she was different. To see that her skin wasn't like mine, wasn't like most of ours. Sometimes people didn't notice at first the strange lack of humanity to her skin, the bland, featureless-ness of it. It was smooth, like stone, like marble. But it was pliant at the same time. A strange substance, but I didn't mind it. If others didn't see her skin, they almost immediately saw her eyes, once they got close enough. You can never miss meccha's eyes. They are literally windows to their insides. Every meccha's eyes are gold. Bright copper, reflecting their inner workings through their clear irises.

And Eve's eyes were beautiful and always reminded me of summer – of golden wheat or dried grass. Or a nice tall glass of amber ale at the local public house. Whatever they reminded me of, it was always something good.

Eve, as her name implies, was the first meccha made by her creator. Of course there are many New Alchemists around the Empire who build mecchas, and there are quite a few here in this city alone. But I remember the day I walked past the workshop. It was barely visible, where it was located in the narrow twisting alley way of Regents Street, where the sun never seems to reach. The buildings are crammed together like sardines; tall, almost angling across the street towards each other, like tree branches. It's in perpetual shadow, and the few people who find themselves wandering up it pull their coats tighter and their collars higher to frighten away the chill. I'd walked down Regents a million times, avoiding catching others' gazes, just using it as the quickest route from one part of the city to another. That's what people do here. No one acknowledges anyone else, trapped in their own personal worlds going on inside themselves. And most of the shops crammed into the lower parts of Regents Street's buildings seemed to change on an almost weekly basis, so I never took much notice. It is mainly filled with frippery such as selling women's hat's and ridiculous corsets in a rainbow of colours. Which is what made Eve stand out, more than anything. At first I thought she was just a window mannequin. I blame that mistaken identity on the state of the windows of her creators shop, so thickly caked with grime and soot as they were, just like the rest of the storefronts along the cobbled street.

I swore the last time I had happened to glance into the store, to avoid the particularly stern look of a man rushing somewhere rather importantly, it was a rather sad looking glove shop. But I saw Eve's dress in the window like a ghost. It was a pale pearl-coloured thing and shone dimly through the darkened window. I drew my eyes away from what I thought was simply a store dummy to the sign above the door. It was a hastily painted sign that proclaimed the space was occupied by a Mr. Van der Veen, New Alchemist. I stopped short and glanced again at the ghostly form of Eve in the window. I moved towards the pane and rubbed my sleeve against it. I looked up into the most beautiful, peaceful face I had ever seen. And that face looked back at me with sparkling golden eyes the colour of the exquisite brass and copper of her insides – the cogs and gears that are small and intricate and struts that are as fine as filaments that make up every meccha. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly in a smile and her hand moved with the strange smooth-yet-jerky grace that mecchas had. And then the oddly bespectacled face of Mr Van der Veen appeared from behind her, glaring at me through the window. He had an array of tools including magnifying glasses, jutting off the corners of his eyeglasses.

I put my hand to the rim of my hat and dipped my head in acknowledgement. I pushed open the door to his shop with a discordant jingle of tiny bells.

Before I set a single foot over the threshold, he was in my face, shaking a finger. "Why are you looking at my meccha?"

"I just noticed her, sir. I was caught off guard. I've never seen anything like her before."

The inventor's eyes widened. "You have never seen a meccha before?"

"Oh, yes! Of course. Just never one so...exquisite," I said, not sure if I referred to her beauty or the quality of her craftsmanship. "I was wondering if she is...," I paused, unsure how to proceed without offending. "If she is available?"

Van der Veen's thick white caterpillar eyebrows rose in understanding. "Ah, I see. What sort of business do you run that you require my meccha for?" He glanced over his shoulder at Eve who stood still as a statue in the window. "A public house server? A brothel perhaps?"

"No!" I almost shouted, shocked and appalled at the assumption that something so perfect could be used for such unattractive purposes. I composed myself. "No, not at all. I was just..." I stopped. I didn't know what I was wanting, all I knew is that I needed her in my life. "What is her name?" I changed the subject.

"Name?" This time it was the New Alchemist's turn to look caught off guard. "She doesn't have a name any more than any of my other inventions," he said, gesturing to a jumbled pile of objects and gadgets that hunkered further on in the darkening depths of the shop.

"Well, could you tell me a bit about her?" I asked, as a prospective...own-, buyer.

"She is my pride and joy. She is my very first ever meccha. I mean to say successful one." Again the man gestured back behind him into his shop. I could just barely make out humanoid bits and pieces - an arm here, a leg or torso there, in various states of construction, or deconstruction.

"So she is your Eve, then?" I said, throwing a look to the dark haired woman in the window who I could tell was listening to our conversation by the slight tilt of her head, even though her copper eyes looked out onto the street at the people avoiding each other.

The man laughed at that. "Well, yes, I guess she could be considered to be my Eve. I have yet to make an Adam."

"Well, is Eve for sale?" I asked, knowing that even as I said it, it sounded hard and callous. People shouldn't be able to be bought, or sold. Even people who were not a real, which is how people often referred to the distinction between those who have been man-made, and those who were, well, man, like myself.

Van der Veen tapped his bearded chin thoughtfully with a finger. "Hmmm. Well, I was using her more as something to entice customers through my doors, but for the right price I guess we could make a deal."

I smiled and removed my pocketbook. A few moments later and I was walking the remainder of Regents Street, arm in arm with my beautiful Eve. Like most mecchas she moved with a ethereal gliding motion that was so different from us – something else that people would pick up on. But I ignored the stares and slack jaws as we walked companionably through the crowded city. If you didn't listen too closely to her voice she sounded just like any other woman did. It was easy for me to block out the slight whir of her voice box gears.

On a daily basis people reprimanded me for being with her, but I laughed it off. I was happy, and so was she. Our love was strange, different. Some might even say twisted. But I'll remember it as the best times of my life.

Alas, it seems not even machinery can last forever. After the first accident I took her back to Van der Veen to get repaired, and he gladly did so, for a fee. The second accident I finally realized wasn't accidental at all. People were trying to destroy her – destroy us – and they were succeeding. She lost one of her arms, and even though Van der Veen replaced it, she still bore the scars that I thought made her more beautiful. More human. We had been getting more threats. People just didn't understand, and it was too much for them. I still have her clockwork heart on my mantle.

In the end we were too different. We were two different species, to be truthful. I should have known it could never have worked.

### A Future That Time Forgot

Tomas didn't mind his job as a harnesser, even though it was the lowest of the low, it didn't pay much, and he went home every night with a new assortment of bruises, cuts and bumps. And on days like today, after a heavy rainstorm, went home smelling horrible – a hundred times worse than the worst wet dog. The stench permeated his clothes, and even seemed to soak into his skin, even after the beast had been fully dried with the blast driers.

But even though wet mammoth smelled like the worst thing on earth, and strangely the young ones smelled worse than the other ones, which was what he was trying to manoeuvre into the drying room right now, he preferred the mammoths a million times more than any of the other beasts that the Council used to help keep the planet running.

As Tomas tried to bodily move the young mammoth into the giant drying rooms, so he could then harness it so it could be used by a Rider to plow the fields, he glanced over his shoulder at a large herd of triceratops which were being ushered back and forth in long lines. He could see the energy storage packs strapped to the sides of each massive animals, though couldn't make out the wires that ran from the giant canisters to their frills. The Council used Cera's to harness solar energy – it collected well in their large membranous headpieces, and was funnelled into the canisters to be used elsewhere.

Tomas looked longingly at the Beastmasters. They were able to keep their space from the giants, and avoid the lashing tails and stomping feet. But it was people like Tomas, the harnessers, whose job it was to harness all the creatures for them to be used in their jobs. The mammoths, they were ridden to plow the fields for planting (and also helped with the planting as they could scatter seeds with their trunks); the Ceras were mainly used for harnessing the power of the sun.

Tomas finally led the young mammoth to where the straps were that were used to tie them down in front of the wall sized hair dryers. He was thankful all the Flyers were already harnessed by another harnesser, and they were already out on patrol. He hated harnessing the flying dinosaurs, the pterodactyls, with a passion. It was almost impossible to avoid getting hit with their wings, while keeping far away from their deadly beaks filled with razor sharp teeth or slicing edges.

He hoped to eventually graduate from a Harnesser, to a Beastmaster, to a Flyer. He turned on the blast drier and waited for the one side of the mammoth to dry, and then un-tethered it and turned it around so the other side of it could dry.

Once the beast was dry, Tomas pressed a large button on the wall. Noiselessly, a door slid open and a young girl came through, wearing the muted browns of a Steerer – one of the people who rode the mammoths up and down the fields, pulling the plows along behind them. She smiled shyly at him as he leaned down and unhooked the stabilizing straps, and the girl took the reins in hand, and began to lead the mammoth out the wide door at the end of the drying bay and out into the field. He watched as she hooked a brown booted foot on the stirrup and climbed, with the help of handholds along the top of the saddle, up and on top of the mammoth, and then steered it expertly out into the plowing fields.

He sighed and stepped back outside. High above, he could see the large dark shapes of the pterodactyls, flying and wheeling, the riders keeping an eye on everything and everyone on the ground. They were the eyes and ears of the Council. The guards, keeping everyone in line, making sure everyone followed the rules. And Tomas knew more than most, what happened if you broke any of the hundreds of rules written down in the Book of Governance. The Book ruled the entire world. It ruled even the Council itself, who went by everything written in it, to a fault. And punishment for breaking any of the rules The Book, was death.

Most of his family had broken a rule at some point. Sometimes the rules were so trivial, so minor, you didn't even realize you had broken one, until one of the Flyer guards appeared at your door, wearing skin tight uniforms the same colours as the flying beast they rode – sometimes brightly mottled, sometimes dark and dull.

So now there was only Tomas and his younger sister, Hana, left.

Tomas looked at the fields full of mammoths, and higher up on the steppes, the hills that rose up, that were dotted with lines of triceratops, that were made to move their frills back and forth in order to capture the most sunlight, to be bottled as energy to power lights, and air conditioning in the summer and heating in the winter. He watched as a man whipped a triceratops who had begun to meander off course. He squinted up once more to the 'dactyls, as they wheeled and screeched, stirring up wind to be harnessed to power things that Tomas didn't even know about. Things that the Council kept secret from everyone except the Council itself.

Suddenly Tomas wasn't content to be just a harnesser. And he definitely didn't want to be a flyer. He didn't want to be a spy, a killer. He wanted to stop this, to stop the tyrannical rule that the Council held over everyone on the planet – using beasts to their own end, to help themselves, not help everyone that lived on this world. They lived with the dinosaurs, along side them. They shouldn't be using them, abusing them like this! He thought hotly. He took out the long electrically charged rod, that he was supposed to use to keep the mammoths in line as he harnessed them - but rarely did – from the pouch down the side of his leg and pressed the button that brought it to life. He headed in the direction of the Council Houses.

### Orphan Ivy

Ivy Malone was an orphan. She always thought of herself as one, even though she had two loving step-parents who had raised her as their own. They waited until today, the eve of her eighteenth birthday, to tell her how she had come to them. She had always known that she wasn't like them. For one, she was tall and slim, with fine corn-silk hair. Both her parents had dark hair, and dark eyes. It didn't take a genius. They had found her on their doorstep one brisk, yet beautiful and sunny, March morning.

"But not in a bassinet, like you would expect," said her father Gordon.

"That's like a basket," explained her mother, Dorothy, but who everyone always called Dot.

"Yes, a basket," her father said, waving a hand impatiently. "But no, there you were, lying outside on our doorstep, all bundled up, but in a casket!"

"That's a-" her mother began, but Ivy butted in.

"It's a coffin, mother. I know what a coffin is, I'm not a child." She glared, her large dark blue eyes bordering on violet.

"Yes, of course. I guess everyone knows what caskets are, thanks to the war..." Her eyes shifted to the window that was letting in a watery yellow light. She remained quiet, gazing out at the drab buildings that looked exactly like their own house. A carriage trundled noisily past.

"As I was saying," her father said irritably, "you were on our doorstep in a casket, with a portion of the lid open at the top, for your head.

"You had a piece of ivy tucked into your swaddling clothes," her mother said in a faraway voice, not looking away from the window. "It was beautiful, a mix of red and green. That's why we named you Ivy, you know."

Ivy hadn't known. "What about this? Was I wearing this when you found me?" she lifted a small delicate key from around her neck on a thin piece of cord. It was a yellowish-white and hard.

"It's whalebone," said her mother, still not taking her eyes from whatever memories held her, whatever ghosts she saw outside the window in the cold city streets that were seen only by her.

Ivy had worn it for as long as she could remember. She ran her fingers across the intricately carved pattern, its ridges and edges. It was relaxing, soothing.

"I wonder if it actually opens anything," she said in a distracted, thoughtful tone.

"I highly doubt it," replied her father. Her mother remained silent, watching ghosts of her past roam the streets. A royal guard strolled by, tossing a baton easily back and forth from one hand to the other.

"How do you know?"

Her father patted her on the shoulder and she shrugged it off. "It's just a necklace. Don't read too much into something where there is nothing."

"There was something else in your casket with you. We almost missed it." Her mother finally tore herself away from the window and moved to the mantle above the large stone hearth. There was a small brilliant blue vial with a stopper. Ivy had forgotten about it. When she was little she remembered asking her mother what it was, and the subject was always quickly changed. Go play outside, she was told. Or, sometimes her mother gave her a cookie, and the vial was quickly forgotten again. Her mother took it from the shelf, and wrapped her fingers gingerly around it. "This was with you, at the bottom of the box."

"Casket," her father repeated.

Her mother reluctantly handed it to Ivy. "What is it?" She raised it to her eyes but couldn't make out what was inside, except that it was a dark liquid.

"I took it to the chemist once," her father said. "They said it was some type of acid."

"Acid?" Ivy started, and held the vial away from her as if the bottle itself would burn. "Why would I have a tiny bottle of acid with me when I was just a baby?"

"That's what we always wondered," said her father. "We thought maybe one day we would get an answer. It was connected to you, we didn't want to get rid of it."

The small clock on the mantelpiece chimed noon. There was a knock on the door. Ivy's parents looked at each other. Was it fear on their faces?

Ivy stayed where she was, inspecting the vial. She could hear her mother talking to someone softly. "Gordon?" her mother called with a slight quaver in her voice. Ivy's father joined her mother at the front door.

Suddenly there was a woman standing in their living room. At least Ivy thought it was a woman, but it looked more like a pile of dirty rags than a person. The woman's hair was a tangled dirty mass that looked like straw. Ivy fought to turn her face away in disgust at the visitor's appearance and noticed with a shock that she had the same blue-purple eyes as her.

Dot and Gordon flanked the woman on either side, keeping their distance.

"Ivy, this woman says she is your birth mother," Dot said in a quiet voice.

"She is," said Gordon. "Don't you remember the letter that was folded inside Ivy's blanket? The one that said on her eighteenth birthday she would return."

Ivy's jaw dropped and she looked from her mother, to her father, to the worn pile of rags that looked more hermit than human.

The woman under the nest of hair smiled. Her eyes gleamed as they fell on Ivy's throat and the key that sat there. "You still have the key!" she shouted. " I'm sure you have many questions, my dear, and I have many answers. Come," she said, holding a bony hand toward her. "I will tell you everything you ever wanted to know."

Ivy clutched the vial in her left hand and the key protectively in her right. Today, Ivy Malone's life would begin.

### The Last Train to Nowhere

The gun was safely nestled in its velvet lined box, stowed under the seat of a man whose ticket was neatly stamped Mr Albert Schaeffer.

The gun, with its filigree scrollwork and pearl inlaid handle, had belong to Mr Albert Schaeffer, but the man occupying seat 12B and in possession of the train ticket of the same name, on the express train from Vancouver to San Jose was not him.

The man in seat 12B closed his eyes and leaned his head against the plush chair back and tried to forget about Mr Albert Schaeffer, former owner of the antique gun now in his possession. He sat, trying to focus on the soothing repetitive drone of the train moving along the tracks, clicking and clacking. But the sound couldn't erase the image of Mr Schaeffer that seemed to be indelibly etched onto the back of his eyelids.

Mr Anson Boxlightner, for that was who the man in 12B really was, had never killed anyone before. Not until Mr Schaeffer. And so he had also never been on the run, having stuffed Mr Schaeffer's corpse into the underbrush, the thorny scrub that ran alongside the railway, in the dark of night. He made sure to dump Mr Schaeffer's body far away from the station or interchange outpost – in the middle of nowhere, where people would be unlikely to stumble upon the body. He had considered briefly removing Mr Schaeffer's clothes, then though against it and left his dark brown suit on, hoping it would disguise him even more crumpled within the dried brown branches of his final resting place.

Mr Boxlightner tapped his foot nervously against the box under his seat, feeling better knowing it was there and it was safe. He ran a hand across his forehead. There was the tiniest squeak, the sound of someone sitting down in a leather upholstered chair. He opened his eyes and a scream like a shot erupted from him. The seat opposite, which had been empty the entire trip, was now occupied by a thin man with gold rimmed glasses that glinted with the sun. The stranger was sitting very stiffly at the edge of the chair, leaning forward slightly towards him. Anson stifled his startled scream just before it garnered too much attention from fellow passengers. He was thankful, yet unnerved, that the car he was riding in was relatively empty.

The slim man smiled a thin, crooked smile. "Apologies, Mr Schaeffer," he said offering a hand. Anson took it with a sweaty palm and shook.

Schaeffer. He thinks I'm Schaeffer! Whoever this is doesn't actually know Schaeffer. Anson broke out in a cold sweat all over as a chilling thought occurred to him. But whoever he is, he knew Schaeffer was supposed to be on this train and in this very seat! He tried to feign ignorance and confusion.

"I'm sorry, Mister...?"

The thin man sat back abruptly in the chair as if someone had pushed him forcefully, a look of puzzlement racing across his face, followed quickly by what Anson thought was wariness, or perhaps suspicion.

"Surely you can't have forgotten who I am!" The man said in a raised whisper.

Anson rubbed his head, hoping it looked like he was disoriented from having being woken from a nap.

"I'm sorry, I'm not fully with it right now, you caught me off guard, and woke me."

The man seemed to relax slightly. "Of course, I'm sorry Mr Schaeffer. I didn't mean to surprise you. I shouldn't have come when you were resting, but," the man took a watch from his pocket, glanced at it and slid it back, "this was our agreed upon meeting time."

Anson tried not to look so surprised, and he glanced at his watch. "Oh! Is it?" he made a show of looking at his own watch. Two o'clock. "Oh yes, two o'clock," he said, as if he knew a shred of what was going on. He looked at the stranger in the seat opposite and waited, nervously and expectantly.

The man looked back at him, calm and composed. "So." There was a pause. "Do you have it?"

A jolt of fear went through Anson. Have it? Have what?

His mouth echoed his thoughts. "Have what?"

The man across from him looked irritated and leaned forward again, elbows on knees, decreasing the space between them. Anson wished he wasn't in the chair, he couldn't move away.

"The gun, of course, what else?" the man whispered in a harsh rasp.

"Ah," Anson nodded as if understanding. "Of course."

The man visibly relaxed once more. "I'm glad to hear it. So why don't you give it to me."

Give it to him? But who on earth is he?

"But how am I supposed to know you are who you say you are? You haven't even told me your name." Anson hoped this would make the man reveal himself to him, and maybe he would be lead a bit out of the dark and into the light.

The train whistle blew suddenly, long and loud and sharp, and both men jumped at the sound.

The man regarded Anson a long moment. "I am Shaw. Robert Shaw."

The name didn't ring any bells for Anson, and so he waited, hoping Robert Shaw would continue. He didn't.

"If I'm giving you the gun, I need to confirm that you are indeed Mr Shaw," Anson said. Who on earth is Robert Shaw and what does he want with Mr Schaeffer's gun?

Shaw sighed and drew out his wallet from the back pocket of his pants, and took out a card. "As you may know, Mr Schaeffer, I don't usually do this. People usually remember they are meeting with me and don't require proof that I am who I say I am." He laughed, an odd sound that caused Anson to shudder involuntarily. Mr Shaw handed the card over, almost reluctantly. It was thick, and smooth. Good quality. There was a small black and white photograph in the top right corner. It was most definitely of the thin man with the glasses that sat opposite him. The rest of the white card was taken up by his name, and underneath that a statement: the solution to any problem.

Anson glanced up and saw Shaw smiling at him, one side of his mouth twisted up in a lopsided smirk.

"The solution to any problem?"

Shaw laughed loudly, and then with an embarrassed glanced to the passengers in the seats around them, lowered his voice again. "Well, as I'm sure you're aware, in my line of work, you don't want to overtly state what you do. It would scare away the clients." He chuckled, softly this time. "Don't you think the solution to any problem is apt?" Shaw looked at Anson, and Anson resisted the urge to look away.

"Problem?" Anson repeated dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

Shaw smiled. "Yes, I get rid of people's 'problems'," he bent his fingers into quotes. "Would you say that is the job of a," he lowered his voice another register, "hired gun such as myself?"

A cold bead of sweat rolled down between Anson's shoulder blades. Hired gun?

He handed Shaw back his business card. "But what I don't understand, Mr Shaw, is why a hired gun, like yourself, is wanting hi-, my gun."

Shaw looked at him again. "My, the nerves of all of this must really be getting to you Mr Schaeffer, if you don't remember our arrangement. You said you were unable to pay me what my usual fee is to rid you of your particular problem, so we agreed that you would give me your antique gun as collateral instead. And I would like to see the aforementioned gun, to see if it is indeed worth my time ridding you of your pesky little problem.

Problem? Anson wondered what on earth could have been Schaeffer's problem that he hired a hit man to take care of. His mind whirled and without much thought, his foot pushed out the cherry wood box from underneath his seat. It was engraved with initials. A.L.S. Anson wondered what the L stood for. He leaned down and picked up the box, running a hand almost lovingly across it. It was a beautiful box. He flipped the catch on the lid and opened it. He had only quickly glanced at it after he had finished disposing of Mr Schaeffer, and in the darkness of the night and the feeble flickering of his lamp, he hadn't seen it clearly. He stifled a gasp. It was the most beautiful gun he had ever seen. He turned the box on his lap towards Mr Shaw. Surely this would be more than enough for him.

"Magnificent!" Shaw whispered reverently. "This is more than sufficient for me to carry out what you want from me, Mr Schaeffer. Trust me when I say that Mr Anson Boxlightner will no longer be problem for you."

### The Labyrinthine Helix

Josephine had always wanted to be a scientist. Because she wanted to help people she said. It was what she told everyone. because it was the truth. At least that was the original idea. that was back when Josephine was naive and believed in an ideal world. When she believed her fellow scientists wanted to help people. How quickly things change.

Josephine had believed what she had been working on, what she and others had called the Labyrinthine helix a gene modification project would be the stepping stone to curing most of the diseases and illnesses that affected humans.

Everything was going well. Until it wasn't. Something happened during a coding sequence. Some little switch in a gene turned on. And that was the start of the end. It was so subtle by the time anyone realized something was wrong it was too late.

Josephine laughed to herself. Who would have thought something as innocuous as a slight cough would hail the start of the zombie apocalypse. she tried not to think of the fact that she was the cause of it. The labyrinthine helix was her baby after all. And her baby had mutated into a monster.

Not that they were the kind of zombies everyone thought of before it actually happened. these zombies didn't eat people. So that was a positive. But it didn't make them any less dead. The living dead people called them. But were they really living if their hearts had stopped beating and their bodies began to decay? somehow they could still move. And they still had some brain activity but not one that could be called human anymore. They were more like wild animals. And like wild animals, they needed to be treated with respect. you had to keep them fed otherwise they would turn on you even though they seemed to prefer small animals like chickens, rabbits and squirrels. sometimes sheep.

People had started keeping them almost as pets or working animals. They seemed to be trainable to do odd jobs. But that was before they realized the mutation was communicable and sometimes it seemed like there were more dead around than living. They only had a fairly short shelf life. You could only be around someone that was decaying for so long. Then they had to be put down. It was ruthless and heartless Josephine thought, but then she remembered they weren't really human anymore and you didn't want them to suffer did you? They could go on indefinitely if their decay was stopped. Was that really living? She wasn't sure.

But she couldn't place blame. Doing that would make her a hypocrite. After all, she had some herself as...she shuddered at the thought, slave labour. But could they be slaves if they weren't really people anymore? They looked like people...depending on how much of them there was left that was. They wore clothes like living people. Only because to not wear anything would be revolting and she couldn't bare to look at them.

They had had names, of course, but Josephine called them by their patient number. It depersonalized them. Made it easier for her to accept. She called hers VP1, VP2 etc. for Virus Patient. Except for two, of course. They were a daily reminder of her failure. That she had not only failed herself, but failed everyone, failed humanity.

She stood still as one of her workers helped her to button up her lab coat. She had given up insisting she could do this simple task on her own, without their help. But they seem to like being useful. She smiled at the woman who was struggling to do up the buttons with her grey fingers, her skin not yet dead since she had given them one of her serums. That didn't help the huge gaping hole in the woman's left cheek that exposed teeth.

Josephine looked instead at the woman's eyes once a vivid blue, just like her own, but now they had dulled to a stormy ocean grey. She reached out instinctively to brush away a strand of stringy dirty blond hair. Josephine had tried to get them to wash their hair, at least in the nearby creek, but nothing seemed to help bring life back into it and it looked like dirty straw. The woman had reached the buttons at her chest but was having trouble with the last few.

"It's okay, mother," she said patiently, brushing the woman's stiff paper-dry hands away. "I can do these on my own."

The woman raised her eyes to her daughter's and what Josephine took to be a smile stretched across what remained of her lower face, her dry lips cracking.

In the kitchen she heard a loud thud. Someone had dropped a frying pan, again. She sighed and went through to the kitchen. "You're going to make me late again, Charles!" she complained as she leaned down to pick up the dropped pan, saving her brother the difficulty of bending down and standing up again. Once you became a zombie, your tendons and muscles become stiff and unyielding, making what used to be easy, fluid motion very difficult.

Josephine stood, and grabbed Charles' elbow, helping him upright from his half bend. He moaned a thanks. At least that's what Josephine took it to be.

"Remember, I told you I can't be late today. I told you and mother that the other day. Today is the big day. I have to get to work early, before anyone else. You know more than anyone how it is over there," she said, looking at her brother's eyes for signs of recognition at his past life. Charles worked in another section of the hospital from her. "You know how security is. Since..." She shook her head. She couldn't think about it. She just had to get in and do it.

She wondered how long it would take for someone to notice a single vial of the virus was missing.

parents of...well, eternity.

### Merciful Beast

Merciful beast. That's the definition of an oxymoron, if you ever thought one. A beast is the total opposite of merciful. They are savage and relentless. They are machines created to survive. Survival of the fittest in a harsh, unforgiving world. They aren't compassionate. They don't give a second thought to anyone besides themselves. Sounds like a lot of humans I know, actually, which is scary when you think about it. I say humans, and not people because I'm not one of them. I'm not human. Not anymore anyway.

Now I guess you can call me a merciful beast. It's hard to be. Really hard. But I have no choice really. I had no choice in becoming a werewolf. I bet no one has ever heard of a vegetarian werewolf. Because that's what I was when I was human. I was vegetarian. I didn't eat meat. And then I was turned into something that does. How is that for a twist of fate?

And I was raised vegetarian. I've never even set foot in a McDonald's in my life. You can't even trust their salads. No self-respecting vegetarian should trust anything in a fast food joint.

Fast food. I can laugh now. Now my food really is fast. As in, if I want to eat, I have to chase it, because, dammit, rabbits and deer really are fast.

But those times when I'm not all furry, I'm still a vegetarian. I guess I want to balance it all out. Wolves don't eat any kind of fruit or vegetables after all. I can remember everything from when I'm my wolf-self. The taste of the meat, the feel of the blood, the...warmth as you're devouring them. Oh, and the fur. Can't forget that. It gets stuck in your mouth, and it's hard to spit it out when you're a dog. Yuck. Thankfully when I'm human again I can brush my teeth.

I try to be merciful. I try to go after the injured, the sick, the old things. Even though they don't taste the same. Like veggie burgers don't taste the same as real ones. I'd assume. Like I said, I've never been to a McDonald's and I'm not going to start now even though, for a small part of my new life, I'm a meat eater through and through. But when I first changed, I attempted to eat some berries, since my ingrained humanness recoiled at the thought of eating meat – let alone meat that was still alive. That didn't go very well, other than give me scratches on my snout which are still healing on my human nose and cheeks. And getting a mouthful of thorns? Not so nice. Carnivores definitely aren't made for eating stuff like that.

I've only been...different...for about a month, and despite the myths, we don't require a full moon to go all fuzzy. But no one told me that. My mentor forgot to tell me that little nugget of information. Mentor by the way, is a very nice way of saying, the person who decided to change your life forever and turn you from a normal human, girl in my case, to a girl that goes through more than one change a month, and turns into a furry, fanged monster. And that happens every time you get upset.

Unfortunately for me. I get upset a lot. Like when someone forgets to put the cap back on the toothpaste. Yep, I'm that kind of girl. I have a short temper. Which is really not a good thing, if you get mad when someone is walking too slowly in front of you, taking up the entire sidewalk and you start getting annoyed, which turns into being pissed off, and then I feel an itch at the base of my skull. That's where it starts. That's when I know it's happening. But again, Mr. come up to you on the dance floor in the night club and bite your shoulder for no apparent reason Mentor never told me that either. I'd screamed at him. "What the hell are you doing, you psycho?" He'd laughed and grinned at me, baring the long canine teeth that were stained with my blood. "Tag, you're it," he said.

"What does that mean?" I said. He gave me another smile and shrugged. "I'll tell you later."

I grabbed him and hauled him out of the club. "No, you'll tell me now," I demanded. And so he did. Of course, I didn't believe him. Who would?

The first time it happened, when the itch on my neck turned into a burning tingle that ran down my spine, I thought I was having some sort of weird episode. I was home, by myself thankfully, as my roommate Jill had gone to work but I had the day off and I was sorting through the laundry, when I realized she'd washed all my gym clothes together with a bunch of stuff it shouldn't have been and my favourite workout shirt was ruined. I was angry. Workout clothes are expensive! When my back started burning, I ran to the bathroom, and looked in the mirror. I saw long dark hair sprouting down my back. And I would've seen more but I'd already shrunk below the bathroom cabinet, onto four legs.

And that was the day I destroyed our apartment. When Jill came back from work, I was trying to put the large bookshelf in our living room back together. I'd rammed into it and caused it to splinter and crash to the floor. I'd stuck some old phone books underneath one of the legs that had broken off. I'd already done my best at trying to stuff the stuffing back into one of the couch cushions I'd torn open with my teeth in my crazy burst of freaked out energy from turning into a normal girl who works at Starbucks, to a sleek dark furred wolf.

Jill's eyes widened as she saw the destruction. "What the-?" she said, too stunned to finish the sentence.

"We were robbed," I said, the words tumbling quickly from my mouth, naturally, but I turned away and didn't meet her eyes. The things you have to do when you're a werewolf, I thought. I wasn't the world's best liar. She took in the couch. "A burglar tore up our couch? Was he looking for hidden treasure?"

I smiled, embarrassed and just shrugged. "Who knows?"

"Were you here?" Jill asked. I paused a split second. I didn't have anywhere to go today, so I told the truth. "I was asleep. I lay down to have a nap."

Jill looked at the teetering bookshelf. "And you didn't hear that?"

"Um..." I said. "Yeah, I heard a big crash. That's what woke me up. But when I got out here, he was gone. It must have fallen over after he left or something."

Jill muttered something under her breath, and then tossed her purse on the couch and ran to me. "Are you okay?"

I turned away from her again, busying myself with the stack of books I was trying to put back on the shelf. "I'm fine."

But I wasn't fine. It had taken me a long time to calm down, and turn back into me. Now it doesn't take as long since I've been working on trying to control my temper. I try not to let things Jill does get to me anymore. If she finishes my almond milk without telling me, that's not worth turning wolfy over.

But it's still hard, sometimes. Especially when it's that time of the month, when any little thing can turn me into an irrational monster. Literally. That's why I spend a lot of time now taking long hikes in the woods now. Just to be on the safe side. It's a lot easier to turn into a wolf in a forest, than in the middle of a busy shopping mall.

The major downside to being a werewolf is clothes. You go through a lot of clothes. I like clothes, but I like to be able to wear them more than a couple times. And when you change back, you're naked. Which isn't fun anywhere. Except maybe at home. So I always walk around with a change of clothes in a backpack now and when I feel the familiar itch at the base of my skull, I put the pack somewhere I'll remember to come back to.

So this is my life now. Vegetarian barista who likes to kill and eat small animals whenever she gets angry. It's not really something I can put on my business card. Werewolf for hire, can get rid of pesky vermin, call today!

I don't recommend it as a lifestyle choice. Not that it's much of a choice at all. I didn't believe in stuff like werewolves, vampires and witches before. And even though I still don't know if vampires and witches exist, I know I do, so nothing would surprise me.

### God's Own Medallion

The ballroom lay empty, abandoned. It's once gleaming marble floors were chipped and cracked, and caked with years of dust and grime. The great domed ceiling, made with translucent squares of glass, was dark with algae. No one cared enough to attempt to clean the dome that sat deep underwater at the bottom of a lake. The ballroom was linked to the grand library by a long, curved hallway that was intermittently lit by flickering tubes that ran along the top of the tunnel.

The library and ballroom were night and day. Where the ballroom was just a shell, uncared for and unused, the library was well used, and loved. Every surface was freshly dusted and polished, mahogany and other rich wood gleamed under warm lights from ornate lamps dotted around on small tables and on the large dark desk which dominated one end. A chandelier mostly of ornate, twisted metal than actual lightbulbs hung above the shelves of books and the large, inviting armchairs that were also interspersed throughout the room, but mostly clustered around the fireplace which took up a large amount of wall space on the east side.

Jonas heard the person arriving long before they reached the door to the library. He heard the hatch door thunk loudly against the stone above, on the surface, followed by each individual foot step that the visitor took down the curving metal steps of the stair case that deposited them outside the library doors.

He counted. "Ten, eleven, twelve," the final steps down the stairs, and then paused, waiting for the knock. It came a half second later.

With a sigh he answered it. "Come in," he said wearily, not wanting to be disturbed. He sat back in his chair, waiting for whoever it was who dared to interrupt him.

The tall, reedy man who entered opened the door slowly, as if he already knew the reaction he would get and was delaying it as long as possible.

"Sir," he said softly, afraid that speaking louder would irritate the man even more.

"What is it?" Jonas snapped, stopping the movement of his pen across the paper spread out across the length and width of the desk.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but you have visitors," his employee said, his voice lowering more to be barely audible.

"What? Speak up! I'm not getting any younger," Jonas said, though he could hear the man perfectly well, just had he had his footsteps on the stairs outside and down the hall a bit.

The tall man stood straighter and raised his voice. "You have some visitors," he said again, more loudly. "They say they have something of importance you might be interested in."

Jonas's eyes roamed around his office full of curios and knickknacks gathered on travels and from visitors like the people who had just arrived. People who wanted to sell him things for large sums. He was a collector, and a wealthy one, who could afford to buy rare goods that no one else had. He thought of them as his legacy. They would be here long after he was gone.

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Oh? What is it they have?"

The man paused, raising his eyes to the ceiling in thought. Jonas could see the wheels of the man's brain turning, trying to remember. How could he not remember?

"Come on, Sebastian!" Jonas prompted. "Surely you must know what it is they have for me."

Sebastian shrugged sheepishly. "I-, I'm not-," he stuttered, and started again. "Some sort of...medallion, I think they said?" His voice raised in a question, unsure.

Jonas stood, pushing his chair back. "A medallion?" He didn't have many medallions, but there were only a few that interested him, and he had all of them in his possession already.

Sebastian nodded as he began to back out of the room as Jonas followed him out. Up the curving metal staircase, their feet ringing hollowly, to the man hole cover of a door way, that Sebastian pushed up and over, climbing out onto the hard granite rock that poked out like a small island, or perhaps the shell of some massive turtle, in the middle of the lake.

There was a small white row boat tied to a metal rod in the rock. Sebastian climbed in first, standing shakily for a moment as the boat rocked with his weight. He then offered his hand to Jonas who gripped it firmly, crushing his fingers, but Sebastian took it in stride and only grimaced.

The trip back to shore took only five minutes, but it was a further five minutes walk to the house that was situated back from the edge of the lake and surrounded by tall trees on both sides, and grass transforming to rocks and then sand at the waters edge.

Jonas moved as quickly as he could, following the younger, more spry Sebastian up the worn path that was beaten into the grass to and from the beach, and entering his mansion on the bottom floor, and onto the hard tile floor that surrounded the pool. He debated taking the elevator to the main floor, but sometimes it was slower than it should be. He took the stairs instead, using the railing to lever himself up quickly and out into the main foyer. He strode purposefully into the sitting room next to it where his guests were waiting.

One was a tall man, young looking with a mop of dark hair. The other was a woman, slightly shorter and a lot older with more grey hair than not, taking over what used to be blond hair. It was swept back in an elegant twisted bun.

The woman had been examining a collection of objects and vases on a long table in front of a window. The man had been sitting on a couch, one leg crossed over the other and his foot bouncing nervously. They turned as Jonas entered.

"Mr. Shadbolt," the woman began, her red lips parting in a wide smile.

"I've been told you have a medallion." Jonas said bluntly. "Well? Let's see it then."

The young man nearly leapt off the couch, and thrust a pile of velvety cloth at Jonas. "Here it is," the man said, words trying to escape him faster than he could speak. "It's God's medallion."

The stately woman stepped forward shaking her head. "God's Own medallion," she corrected.

Jonas took the cloth from the man and unwrapped it slowly, carefully. The medal inside the wrapping surprised him. It was simple, understated. A silver disc, bisected by swirls that made each side mirror itself, in two almost tear-drop shapes.

Jonas' brow furrowed. Had he seen this before? He couldn't remember exactly.

"How much?" he asked, before he asked anything else.

"We don't want anything for it," the man said quickly. The woman shot him a look, but he didn't notice. "We just want to get rid of it."

Jonas arched a neat white eyebrow once more, curious again. "Why?"

"It's trouble," the man said.

The woman shook her head again and positioned herself in front of the man to stop him from speaking anymore. "He's exaggerating. It's...powerful," she said, choosing her words carefully.

"Yeah, because it's the God's Own Medallion," the man piped up from behind the wall the woman made. He edged out from behind her and pointed at the medallion in Jonas' hand. "See here, both sides represent light and dark, the creation of the world."

The woman rolled her eyes and sighed. "He's right about that. Creation and destruction too. It's in perfect balance."

"But it's been wreaking havoc on us since we got it," the man replied. "Since we found it in an old junk shop a few months ago. It's cursed."

"Cursed?" Jonas echoed.

The woman laughed loud and sharp, shooting the young man another look. "I wouldn't go that far, John," she said. "It definitely has a...personality. And we heard you collected interesting and rare things. We've had our use of it, and thought you might be interested in it. If you'd like to give us a little something for it, we wouldn't object," she said silencing her partner with a sharp look.

Jonas looked at the medallion in his hand. It was heavy. Heavier than something that size should have been.

"Excuse me," he said, and handed the medallion back to the man before he turned and went to a nearby bookshelf, withdrawing a large book and carrying it to a table. He flipped through the pages, that pictured antiquities of all sorts before settling on a section about medallions. He flicked over a few pages, then stopped. The medallion that currently sat in the young man's hand was there on the page. He scanned the words in the paragraphs below it. The last sentence, a short one, made his spine tingle.

It is dangerous; owner beware.

Owner beware? Dangerous? Jonas thought. Now he had to have it. It would be a great talking piece.

He shook hands with the man and woman and even smiled and waved them away as they drove off.

~*~

The ballroom under the lake was abandoned, full of dust, undisturbed for decades, perhaps even centuries. Next to it, down a short, narrow hallway in total darkness, all of the lights that ran along it had long since burned out, was an office, or study. It had been unused for a long time. Dust coated all surfaces and objects thickly.

On the desk large sheaves of paper were spread out across its entire surface covered with maps, technical diagrams, plans, for inventions that never saw the light of day. The study was empty and had been so for a long time. Across the papers in thick dark ink that stained the paper in dots and messy splotches were two words in a shaky, scrawling hand. Owner Beware.

### There are Things In the Well

Leza's nose itched with drying mud. She looked up at the small bright circle of blue sky high above. There were no faces. She turned away angrily, swiping tears from her eyes. Why was everyone always so mean to her? She spun in a circle and spotted what made it brighter than what it seemed from above – there was a tunnel from which a breeze blew. Leza shrugged. What other choice did she have?

There was light at the end. Eventually she came out the other side. She couldn't suppress her shock and gasped. She was standing in a clearing, almost like the one she had come from, with the crumbling well, but everything was opposite. The sky, Leza briefly wondered how there was sky in the first place, was a strange burnt orange. The grass, which should be green like she was used to, instead was a disturbing dark red. There was a small stand of trees that edged the blood red field, their trunks a bright blue, as if someone had played a prank and painted them all.

Leza's pulse rose. She heard the hissing again. It was growing louder. She heard them before she saw them, and she had to stifle a scream. She was grateful for the mud that the boy had painted onto her face, hiding her emotions.

The hissing, she realized, was the rustling, whispering sound of dried leaves. The creatures, what was it the boy had called them? Gibbering something? They crawled down from the trees, and Leza realized they were almost like the trees themselves – tall, and thin, their arms and legs far too long and spindly. Leza shuddered in disgust. They had branch like spines growing out of their backs, topped with what looked like dead leaves. Their skin was greyish-blue; camouflage.

They walked in an odd, loping gait, on all fours, but when they got close to Leza they rose up on their hind legs, towering above her.

"New blood?" one Whispleaf said to another with the rasping sound of leaves.

Leza raised her chin defiantly and stared at the grotesque creatures in their world of opposites. "I was tricked."

The Gibbering Whispleafs looked at each other, shaking their spines noisily in confusion. The one at the front cocked his head, its long face pulled into a look of perpetual screaming. "Tricked?"

Leza nodded, relieved her heart had slowed and proud that she hadn't shown any fear.

"Yes, these boys, above, tricked me and sent me down here." She had an idea. "Have you ever been above? There is a lot of fear," she said. As soon as people see them, she thought.

The Gibbering Whispleafs looked at each other, their spines clattering. They spoke over each other, gibbering. She caught the words "new blood" again.

"No." They said as one, trembling with excitement.

"We can't," said the leader.

"Why not?"

"We need to be invited," the leader explained.

Leza smiled widely. She had always wanted to get revenge.

### Coming Back Again

I could still see the footprints, etched in the mud, as is preserved for eternity. I never thought I would be coming back again, back to this place that haunts my thoughts daily, as well as my dreams.

After it happened, I left, as quickly as I could and didn't look back. It was still mostly dark – the sun had not yet risen and a hazy glow on the horizon was the only indication that dawn was near. It was too dark to see the blood that had been spilled on the ground, and for that I was thankful.

A heavy hand fell on my shoulder, making me jump.

"Sorry," the owner of the hand said. "Didn't mean to scare you. It's just...you've been standing here for fifteen minutes. I thought you'd turned into one of Medusa's statues or something!" A laugh barked loudly near my ear and I jumped again. This place had me on edge.

I turned and looked at my companion. "Don't remind me of Medusa!" I almost shouted in the pre-dawn quiet. I tried not to sound bitter or angry, but I don't think it worked.

The man who had come to me took a step back and I saw his wings fold up tighter against his back. I could hear the whisper of their feathers across the metal of the armour he wore. He dipped his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make light of it."

I put my hand on Boreas' shoulder. "It's okay. You weren't here. You don't know what it was like."

He ruffled his wings and a cold wind sprang up suddenly, swirling my cloak around my legs. I pulled it tighter around me and glared at him, realizing I was being disrespectful. He was a god, after all. The bringer of winter. But I was already uncomfortable enough, having travelled so far to get here again.

He must have caught my look because he apologized again, and then looked of into the distance, towards the jagged snow topped mountains. I knew what he was looking at. The cave. Medusa's cave, that was no longer inhabited. Because I had her head. Not with me, but back home. There was no reason for me to bring it back here – to where all of this happened.

I scanned the ground, trying to remember where the fallen bodies of my friends and allies lay as the sun began to rise slowly stretching fingers of light over the mountain, but I couldn't. I saw an indent in the ground and wondered if that was where Thor landed. I remember the crater that his hammer left in the soft earth. Being one of the more powerful of the gods on the battlefield that day, I remember being surprised at how easy it had been to carry him off the field, once it was all over and there was no more bloodshed. I shook my head, brushing stray hair out of my face. "I don't understand why it was me."

"Eh?" Boreas glanced at me again and I could see the concern in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Why did I survive? And not Thor, or Fenrir?" Fenrir's wolf-self appeared in my minds eye, filling the hole in the ground in front of me. I remember the blood that matted his fur, and he hadn't even had time to change out of his wolf-form before he died.

Boreas shook his head and ruffled his wings again, causing another icy wind to blow across the empty, desolate plains. "Even though we are gods, it is not our purpose to understand who of our races lives and who dies."

I sighed. He was right. I tried not to pay attention to the long list of casualties that threatened to fill up my mind, being brought back to life by being back in this place. I looked off into the distance, skimming over the emptiness of the land. There were no markers, nothing to let anyone know what happened here – except those who were like me. The survivors. The few of us that were left.

I moved forward slowly. It was an effort to move my legs. I stepped over the disturbed ground, careful not to touch any place where someone had died. Gods are very sensitive to energy, and death leaves a residue. The last thing I wanted was a disquiet spirit of one of my friends attaching itself to me, in the wrong order. I shuddered, this time not from any wintery breeze that Boreas may have inadvertently caused. I had come back here for a reason, and I wasn't going to leave until I had done it. But I needed to do it right.

I looked back over my shoulder at Boreas standing at the edge of the battlefield that had been full of chaos, looking forlorn. I could see his wingtips near his boots, crossed over each other.

He didn't move, but instead shouted across to me as I picked my way over and around the invisible bodies of my fellow gods. "Are you sure you want to do this, Mercury?"

I barely registered his words, all I knew was I had to do this. It was my job. I was the god who guided the dead to the afterlife, after all. But I had never thought I would be doing this for my own kind. I was trying to picture Odin in my mind's eye. Where was he? Where did he die? I stopped and looked around me, spinning in a circle. There were protocols. I needed to work top down, from most powerful to least. And then I saw him, as if he were there in the flesh. I moved toward him with a smile. "Well met," I said with a bow, remembering how he liked to be greeted. I placed my hands on his shoulders. "Are you ready?" I asked with a heavy heart. He nodded and I got to work.

### Lunestra

Jenson put on his goggles and flipped the switch that turned on the vision setting. What had been close to black, with only the dim silvery light of the moon that hung in the space-dark sky to supplement the pale street lights jumped to life. He could see more clearly now, the places that the street lamps didn't reach. The city couldn't very well be plastered with street lights right beside each other, after all. On each lamp post was plastered a poster he didn't want to be reminded of. His sister's face stared out below the word 'Missing'.

#

Allyson didn't like to deceive her brother, but he just wouldn't understand. He was a scientist. Rationally minded, like everyone else that lived in the city of Lunestra. She understood why they were. Science and technology helped them survive without the sun. It was thought that centuries before, the planet had stopped spinning, so that the sun only ever hit one half of the planet, and cast the rest into darkness, lit only by the intermittent light of the moon, when it was not hiding behind cloud. But how could so many people forget about their past? About the power of magic.

#

Oliver loved being an Elder, the Librarians of the Tower of Knowledge. And he especially loved when he came across something new in the Hall of Knowledge, otherwise known as the archives. He had never noticed the dusty pile of paper that was leaning precariously against one of the many rows of tall mahogany shelves. He put on his gloves and picked up the first item on the top, a folder bound tightly shut with writing scribbled on the side. He screamed and dropped the folder as he rubbed away the thick dust with his thumb revealing his own name.

#

Jenson knew exactly where he was heading. With the aid of his walking stick and vision goggles, he quickly traversed the city that was cloaked mostly in perpetual darkness, despite the feeble glow of streetlights. He tried to stand up straight so that his ruined leg wouldn't be noticeable, even though you could barely see the contraption that helped him walk, underneath his trouser leg. He tapped the metal cage that surrounded his leg soundly with his cane. "All thanks to science," he said, as he took the heavy brass knocker in hand and let it fall.

#

Allyson has seen all the posters around town with her face, and she knew her brother would be looking for her. It wasn't like her to just disappear. But this was too important, too big to ignore, and Ally knew that her brother would just get in the way and ruin it all. He didn't understand. He didn't believe in magic. Not many did. The Council had deeply buried Lunestra's past, kept it hidden and were very insistent on its non-existence, but Ally knew better. Ever since she had come across the folder with her name on it in the Tower of Knowledge.

#

Jenson knew his cohorts would be up for helping him. The Society of New Alchemists would most definitely be able to find Allyson. They had methods, they had machines. They even had their own airship. Granted, it was just a decommissioned old delivery ship, and it had a tendency to want to list and go in circles when you wanted to go straight, but the Society had outfitted it with some useful bits and bobs. Including a telescope. The heavy door opened slowly and an eye filled the gap. Jenson gave a small bow. "I'm looking for Allyson."

#

Oliver read through the thick file with shaking hands, barely believing his eyes. Growing up, he had been told by his parents that magic wasn't real. That people who practised it, or pretended to, were punished by the Council. The Magic Council was his parent's version of monsters under his bed, scaring him straight saying the Council would take him away. He had heard that, of course. It was true people disappeared. But these papers, they were shattering his whole reality. His grandparents, his mother's parents, were sorcerers? How was that possible?

#

Allyson sat in the comforting darkness of the old vaults under the city. She drew her shawl around her shoulders as she thumbed through her grandmother's old leather volume she had found hidden in her mother's wardrobe. She mouthed words to old spells and wove her hands in complicated patterns, after she had finished secretly delivering the last of the files to the people who needed to be reminded they came from a line of sorcerers. She was going against the Council, but magic needed brought back to Lunestra. And not just magic, but the sun itself. She had found a spell.

#

The last page of Oliver's file was scrawled with a handwritten note. Want answers? Come to the Drunken Squid at 10pm sharp and ask the bartender for the silver key. He removed his watch from his waistcoat. 9:45. He shoved the file under the long monk-like robes the Elders wore and ran down the winding staircase and out into the night, heading for the Squid. Tentatively, he asked the man behind the bar about the silver key and was motioned to a table at the back of the room. He wasn't expecting a pretty, young woman. "I'm Oliver," he said dropping to the chair. She smiled. "Welcome to your destiny."

#

Jenson scanned the streets as the airship glided silently above the city. Then he saw her familiar turquoise shawl darting across the street and into a pub. "Ground her!" he shouted to the pilot. He was worried she wouldn't be there by the time he got to the pub, but to his relief, she was. Along with an older man. An Elder, he noticed with surprise. "What is the meaning of this!" he shouted, storming up to them. Allyson smiled, hanging over a folder with his name on it. "We are going to bring back the sun to Lunestra."

### City of Lost Hope

There used to be hope. Now there is nothing. Even in the aftermath of the incident, people still managed to hold onto a bit of hope, somehow, I don't understand it myself. But there is only so long you can hold onto hope it a place like this, and eventually that all disappeared too. Along with everything else. There wasn't much of anything left, just shells – shells of buildings, of vehicles, of people. A place like this wears you down 'til there's nothing left.

Just last week I lost my best friend. My sidekick. We'd managed to survive all this time – how long it's been, I don't remember. Two years? Five? Whatever it's been, it must be awhile. Before this started, I didn't have any grey hair. Now I was more grey than not. Time isn't important anymore. The only thing that matters is that you wake up to see another day. Sometimes I'm not even sure that matters anymore. I peer out between the slats of the boarded up window from our hovel on the 5th floor of one of the only buildings that are still mostly standing. It's just my hovel now, I guess. It seems like the sun is reluctant even to show itself. I don't blame it. If you hide in the shadows, you stay safe, stay alive. In the distance I hear the shrill piercing blare of a warning horn over a loud speaker. One of the few that are still functioning. Thankfully. It's our only remaining warning system.

I hear a chime and look down at the display on the screen that's wrapped around my wrist. It's cracked now, but still works. I look at the words that appear on the screen, and for a moment I think it's Randy, but then I remember about last week. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut to forget. Instead I see the whole scene behind my eyelids, as if I'm seeing it for the first time, on replay in slow motion. Blood splatters across me, across my back, and hits my hair, soaking in. I can feel it seeping into my clothes, but I don't look back, even though his screams pierce me like a giant hot knife through my heart. Even though I know, if I was a good person, I would turn back and try to save him. But I also know that as soon as they catch you, you're beyond saving. And they'll put him out of his misery soon enough. If I'd stayed, tried to help him, it would have just made things worse. My shirt was damp – with sweat or blood, or both I couldn't tell. I just ran. Ran blindly at first, throwing one or two of the items that I'd scored from that section of the city back behind me, to distract them. If they were people chasing after me, it would be the equivalent to putting large pieces of furniture in their way – it would slow them down slightly. Not much, only once they figured out it wasn't alive. They weren't that stupid. That's why I usually grabbed meat along with other confiscated things. Meat confuses them for a moment, until they realize it doesn't have a beating heart and pumping blood.

Tears began to well and force themselves out of the corners of my eyes. I scrub my arm across my face wiping them away, and stare bleary eyed at the screen. The message scrawls across it. Three words in capital letters that chill my blood and for a moment I think my heart has stopped. THEY HAVE ARRIVED. I know who it's from without waiting for the name at the end – one of the four guard towers, positioned at each corner of our last little bastion of safety – the one corner of the city that had not yet fallen to them.

But now our little safety zone had been breached. I was alone. Yes, there were a few people hunkered down in the same abandoned building as I was, with the weeds and vines growing up through the concrete, and the broken floorboards, but I was still alone. Alone without Randy, but with the somewhat comforting feeling of my rifle that I'd made a sling for across my back, like some kind of ancient Samurai.

The siren blare seeped back into my consciousness. It was going on longer than normal. I wondered where the breach was. A beep on my arm answered that question – it would be the same information everyone else with a communicator would be receiving. It was next to the large Supermarket down near Main and 37th Avenue. The supermarket was just outside the perimeter. But it wasn't really a supermarket anymore. Hadn't been in a long time.

Instead of stopping this time, my heart began to beat fast – faster and harder than if I was sprinting a marathon. The Supermarket – was now the 'uperma et' as the front of the store read. The other letters had fallen off, or even used as weapons. I could see as if it was yesterday a small old lady brandishing the giant S and swiping it back and forth in an arc across her, fending off the moving bags of skin and bone. But the S wasn't enough to protect her in the end.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It was just a few blocks away from me. Meaning they were just a few blocks away from me. I peered down the street, trying to see if I could see anything. Nothing. Yet. I dropped the slat again, closing off my view of the dead city around me. A dead city figuratively and literally. A city of lost hope. I secured my gun in its improvised holster across my back and went to the window across the room, the one with the fire escape.

I stepped onto the rusted metal platform of the fire escape and placed a booted foot on the first rung. It squeaked noisily, protesting my weight with its age. It shook slightly. Or maybe it was me that was shaking.

I climbed down the ladder as quickly as I could, and dropped to the ground, hanging onto the last rung for a moment before letting go and falling. I'd done this a million times before. A million times when it didn't really matter. Trust me to land on my ankle wrong on the one time it really matters. I muffled my scream, and pushed myself up. I heard a noise, a low susurrus like dried leaves blowing across cement. I froze. Even without looking I knew what that noise was. It wasn't dried leaves – there were no more trees in the city. Or anywhere for thousands of miles. It was shuffling. The slow and steady movement of thousands of bodies. Thousands of bodies with dry, papery skin. Like mummies. I didn't turn to look.

I removed my rifle, and stuck the butt of it under my arm, like a crutch, and I began to run in the opposite direction – fully aware I was a lame duck right in front of a pack of wolves. But what else could I do? I had to at least try. Maybe there was some hope left after all. I ran.
THE COURAGEOUS SHERRIFF

The bartender slid the drink across the dirty scuffed wood that separated them both. Johnathan looked at it with a mix of confusion and disgust. It was a muddy looking thing that was served in a raggedly cut half of a coconut. He eyed the rainbow striped stick that bobbed languidly on its side in the liquid. He picked it up limply and shook the brown liquid from it. "What's-" he began.

"It's a pixie stick," the bartender explained with a shrug. "Don't ask me, I just make these things. You asked me for the special, that's the special. The Courageous Sherriff."

Johnathan looked up sharply and stifled a laugh, and the bartender continued it. "Again, I don't have anything to do with the name of these things either. Don't blame me. But trust me," he said, seeing Johnathan eyeing the drink warily. "It might look odd, but it tastes good."

"What is it?" Johnathan dipped a tentative finger in and licked it. It looked like disgusting mud but actually tasted pretty good.

"One ounce of Chocolate liqueur, one and a half ounce coffee liqueur with a couple dashes of egg nog."

Johnathan picked up the coconut, trying unsuccessfully not to slosh any of the drink over the side and took a sip.

"Don't forget the pixie stick," the bartender reminded him, handing Johnathan a pair of tiny scissors to snip the end off the plastic tube holding the rainbow coloured sweet-stuff.

Johnathan's eyes went briefly to the scissors. Weapon, his mind shouted. A miniscule weapon, but one nonetheless.

He took the scissors, willing his hand not to shake, and cut the tip off the pixie stick and watching the powder stream into the chocolate coffee liqueur like a rainbow. He realized he was still holding the mini-scissors. Slowly he lowered them to the bar, but kept them on his half of the bar, not pushing them back to the bartender's side as someone else would do. Someone normal, he thought as he took a large sip of the drink that tasted more like a dessert than alcohol. Not his usual sort of thing, that's for sure. But it was good.

"What's this called again?"

"The Courageous Sherriff," the bartender replied, seemingly having forgotten about the small weapon that sat in the shadow of Johnathan's coconut shell cup.

"Ah, yes." How could I forget that, he thought as he choked down a laugh with another swallow of the chocolatey drink. He slid the scissors off the bar and into his pocket. You never knew when something like that would come in handy. It could have come in handy earlier today, he thought bitterly.

He watched the bartender carefully, but the man had already moved away and was serving the next customer.

Johnathan waited, holding his breath as he listened to what the man with the young woman beside him ordered and was relieved when they both just ordered a beer, and not the special that required the small scissors to cut open the pixie stick.

He gulped down the remainder of his drink, slapped some bills on the bar top and made his exit. He didn't think the bar man would remember the small scissors until later. Or maybe not even at all tonight.

He hoped that the drink would give him what the name implied – courage. Especially when he saw his face appear on the TV above the bar. He saw his name flashing underneath the picture of his mugshot. Johnathan Chase.

Thankfully the sound was turned down, so most people didn't look up at the screen but Johnathan knew what the Newscaster would be saying anyway. Underneath his name were two words that said it all – more than the newscaster would be if the volume was up, attracting eyes around the room. Escaped Convict, it said in bright red, stamped underneath his name and washed out worn police station photo. He was thankful it wasn't any more specific than that. That it didn't say Escaped From High Security Prison. That was his cue to leave.

He shouldered his way out of the pub and into a fine drizzle that had a reddish glow from the neon lights of the bar's name that flickered lazily and realized he was still holding his half coconut. He was about to toss it when he stopped his hand cocked behind his head and lowered his arm, and decided to hold onto it. He had the small scissors and now he had some coconut to nibble on in a pinch if it came to it. He took a bite of the meat that tasted a little bit of the liqueur. Almost $8 for barely anything, he grumbled.

It was dark. Johnathan didn't know what time it was except it was night, and cold and rainy. The coconut seemed oddly out of place here, in winter in the Pacific Northwest. He shivered in the thin grey shirt he wore. He had taken it from the locker in the Sherriff's office. From the night shift guard. He'd torn off the name patch that was sewn onto the breast. He wore it loose over the non-descript pants of his prisoner's uniform.

He took a deep breath of the cool air. It had been a long, long time since he had been outside. Actually outside, and not just stuck in a small fenced in patch of outdoors. Everything looked like he remembered it. Except...he blinked. Did he just see what he thought he had?

Sure, he'd been locked away, kept separate from the rest of the living, breathing world for longer than anyone really should...but... He shook his head, and then shook it again, and looked into the empty half of the coconut he still held, wondering what else was in there besides pixie dust and liqueur. He looked across the parking lot into the darkness and then turned around and pushed the door he had just walked through back open again and stormed up to the man behind the bar, annoyed that the bar separated them. He shook the coconut fiercely. "What did you put in this?" he shouted, aware of eyes all around the bar turning in his direction. The bartender took a step back, bumping into the shelf that held various bottles of whiskey, vodka and gin.

"What?" the man said, his voice shaking slightly. "Nothing. I mean, just what I said. Nothing strange." The bar man brought out a bowl of pixie sticks from underneath the bar, and a bottle of egg nog from the mini fridge behind him, and gestured to the two bottles of liqueur that sat side by side on the surface he was pressed up against. "That's all. That's it. We serve it all the time."

Johnathan lowered his voice, and tried to control his face. He knew he must look crazed. He felt crazed. Anyone would, he thought, after what he'd just seen. But it couldn't have been The Courageous Sherriff. It was barely a couple mouthfuls. He'd drank a lot more in the past, before his immediate past, that is, and he'd never seen anything like what was outside, at the other side of the parking lot, the dim reddish light of the pub's sign reaching just to the other side of the parking lot and no more. A street light along the road just met the edge of the reddish light of the sign and it was in the middle of these two puddles of light he had seen the thing. At first he thought it was a deer. That would make sense, he thought. That would be rational. There was a lot of forest around here. Lots of trees, lots of trails and wildlife that bled right up to the edges of all cities, large and small, in this part of the world.

Johnathan glared at the man behind the counter who still held himself as far away from him as he could, despite the wooden expanse between them and turned back around and out the door. He closed his eyes as he took the first few steps onto the pavement of the parking lot. He hoped that when he opened them, the thing would be gone. That it was just something he imagined in his fevered panic to leave the bar, his distracted mind at being spooked seeing himself on the news, and the risk of being recognized by one of the patrons.

His foot hit one of the concrete parking spot dividers and he opened his eyes. And met the dark ones of the creature who still stood in the patches of light. The thing was a man, Johnathan was sure. He was tall, and muscular, and would be nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that it only wore trousers. It was topless, exposing a well muscled stomach, chest and arms. That would be slightly odd, considering it was the middle of the night, and hovering around freezing. But Johnathan had seen plenty of strange things in his life. It was the antlers on top of its head that bothered Johnathan. At first he thought the...monster was wearing some sort of hat, and the antlers were fake. But in the light, it was clear that they grew directly out of its head, through shaggy brownish hair, that curled, almost shoulder length, under its ears.

Johnathan stared at it, his Courageous Sherriff coconut hanging limply, forgotten, in his hand. The creature stared back at him, its eyes dark and glowing, reflecting the light back as the eyes of animals do. Johnathan didn't know what to do. And then the solution presented itself. The creature took a strange, loping step forward, towards him, and another, almost gliding across the smooth concrete. Johnathan heard a strange hollow sound as the thing moved and he looked down and saw not shoed feet but hooves just like the deer he originally mistook the thing for. The deer-man stopped and raised his hand, hitching a single finger in a way that signalled he wanted Johnathan to come to him.

He stood, frozen, and shivered, though not from the cold wind that blew through his thin stolen shirt. The creature beckoned him again, and took another two strangely long strides towards him. Now it stood wholly in the red glow of the neon sign, just a hundred yards or so away. Johnathan saw its face – entirely human, except for the two antlers that jutted out of the top of its head, ending in three prongs on one, and four on the other.

The man-thing smiled, revealing strange teeth that looked...not right in a human face, and pointed a finger this time at the coconut that Johnathan still held.

Johnathan followed the finger, and realized he was gripping the coconut tightly, his nails digging in to its white flesh.

"The Courageous Sherriff, I see," it said, in halting words.

"Uh, yes?" Johnathan didn't know what else to say.

The man met his eyes again and Johnathan was shocked at how human they were. They were blue, and didn't look any different from his. Except that they glowed in the dark.

"Then you need help."

"I, uh...," Johnathan broke the man's gaze and found himself staring at the creature's lower body. It wore pants that looked like they were made by hand, soft leather stitched together and skin tight, showing off its powerful hooved legs. "I just ordered the special," he explained.

The thing laughed, a strange, strangled sound that caused Johnathan to look up again, trying to avoid the antlers. "That is what people order when they are lost, when they don't know what they want. It is people like that, like you, who we are here to help."

The deer man turned and headed for the trees on the outskirts of the parking lot. It bent a finger. "Come."

What other option did he have?

Johnathan shrugged and followed it into the darkness.

### The Griefstruck Earth

Usually you don't remember specific days. At least I don't. But I'll remember last Saturday for the rest of my life. It started out like any other Saturday. I was walking down the sidewalk toward the bus stop, minding my own business and avoiding looking at anyone too closely, when two...people, I couldn't tell if they were men or women, they were wearing all black with their faces and hair hidden by balaclavas, grabbed me by the arms and dragged me into a large glass building that I'd walked past a million times before and never really given a second glance.

I hadn't even had time to scream. I heard the sound of the doors sealing hermetically behind me as I went through the first set of doors, cutting off the outside, before stepping through the second layer of doors into pristine controlled air and before I knew it, I was being marched briskly down sterile narrow white hallways. I was about to open my mouth, to question my abductors when they shoved me into a dimly lit room and my courage that had started to come up was squashed back down again. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the sudden change in light. I vaguely made out a large circular table, a dark hole in the middle of the room. Around the table sat people I could barely make out in the darkness. They wore all black, like my captors, but I could see their eyes, glinting dully in the small amount of light that shone in through a narrow window in the far corner of the room. I pressed a button on the side of my goggles and the room brightened.

One of the figures around the table, opposite me, stood up. "Welcome to GES," he said, in a soft voice that was somehow commanding at the same time smiling widely, his teeth brilliant white in contrast to his dark skin.

I opened my mouth and then closed it again. I didn't know who he was or why I was here. I removed my respirator that I hadn't even had a chance to remove once I'd been taken inside. "What?" I said lamely.

Another voice piped up. I didn't see who said it, but it was female. "The Griefstruck Earth Society."

I didn't want to sound dumb, but I couldn't help it. "Um, what?" I repeated.

The man who had stood up replied, echoing the woman. "This is the Griefstruck Earth Society." I could see his arm gesturing to the people sitting around the table.

"Okay," I said, drawing out the word. "I don't know what that is, or why I'm here."

"We heard you know about Earth."

I laughed. I didn't know about Earth any more than anyone did. Not really. Just what you could glean from books. They had transferred all the books in history into digital code, just before the end, thankfully. But I knew you couldn't really know something just from reading about it.

Sure, I taught the local high school kids about it, what it used to be like, when we used to live on it. It was hard to get past the glazed-eye looks my students gave me in class. They didn't want to learn about some place none of them had been to, or could ever get to. It was little more than a chunk of rock now, with its atmosphere stripped away to nothing. So why were we still teaching about it? It was ancient history. It had been at least two centuries since people had been on earth, since the evacuation in the mid-21st Century. Even though the cities that we lived in mirrored those on Earth, it still wasn't the same. I knew that. I knew it every time I looked up at the watery sulphur yellow of our sky, through my protective goggles. I knew it from the thick coated glass of our buildings, to help reflect some of the light, and protect from the harsher pollutants in our atmosphere.

"I don't know anything about it," I admitted. "I'm just a teacher."

"But you specialised in the 21st century, did you not?" said a man next to the leader.

"Yes, but-"

"We have a plan. You know Islands? We're trying to terraform one so it'll be an Earth-Twin."

The islands. Large masses of so-called land made of what my mother used to call 'moon rock' when I was a little girl. Even though our world didn't have any satellites like Earth's moon. It was light, airy, volcanic stone and in our atmosphere the large slabs of rock floated miles above the planet's surface.

One of the larger ones was where the World Government was. The World Government was its own small city. There were no individual rulers, no separate countries, nothing as interesting as it was on Earth.

"We need to convince the World Government that we can build another Earth."

I stared wide-eyed and open mouthed at the collection around the table. My hand rose to my mouth in shock. "Why in the world would you want to do that?"

"Because-" the woman who spoke before began. I saw her now, a slim blond woman. Her respirator, like the others, hung loosely around her neck. Her goggles were darkened so I couldn't see her eyes.

"It's a fool's errand," I spat. "Why would you want to replicate Earth? You obviously know absolutely nothing about it. If you did, you wouldn't want to rebuild it. We've moved on from it. We've moved past the atrocities that we humans caused back then. Before we were forced to leave. We left because we messed up, and we couldn't undo it. Why would you want to put people through that again?" I was dumbfounded. It was ridiculous. "You shouldn't even have this society," I said plainly. "We shouldn't grieve for Earth, we should grieve for us, if anything."

I turned to leave and went to put my respirator back on in preparation. The two who had grabbed me off the street blocked my way.

"It's too late," The dark skinned man with the commanding voice said. "We've already started. And we've hired you as our Chief Advisor."

I turned slowly. "We?"

"We are the Governor's main advisory committee," someone in the room explained.

"But why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The blond woman said, her eyes unreadable behind her dark visor.

I shook my head.

"We've already failed here. We tried to make this Earth version 2, but it's already dying. We need to start again. We need to get it right, this time."

My shoulders drooped and I smiled sadly. "You don't understand," I said quietly. "I don't think we're capable of ever getting it right." I shoved myself between the two black clothed members and walked purposefully down the white hallway, adjusting my face mask before opening the doors to the outside world. What was left of it.

### Long Way from Nowhere

Being trapped in the empty cafeteria of an abandoned army outpost in the middle of the Nevada desert with a hysterical wannabe celebrity, mascara dripping down her face making her look like something from a circus show on drugs, and a ghost named George was the last thing that Annie Headley would have thought she would be doing on a lazy summer Sunday afternoon.

#

"Some days they just can't pay me enough," she muttered under her breath as she picked her way across the dry, hard, rocky ground. She looked at her watch. They'd only been out here ten minutes and already her client was grating on her nerves.

Annie glanced over her shoulder and stopped. Her client was a good twenty feet behind, wobbling unsteadily on heels too high and thin for anyone to be walking in. The woman was wearing a figure hugging dress that showed off her long, tanned legs expertly, and even though the sun was shining high and hot overhead, her sunglasses were perched in her perfectly styled shimmering blond hair instead of actually over her eyes. Annie sighed. At least this wasn't another lost dog mission, she thought to herself. And besides, the girl had paid her enough. Just. After all, she had enough jewels on her arms to pay for Annie's rent for six months.

Sometimes Annie wished she was a fraud. And sometimes, in reality, she was. Sometimes it just didn't happen. You couldn't force these things, you know. But people were impatient. Impatient and upset, usually – a bad combination. So you had to give them something to go on, even if you didn't actually have anything. "I'm getting too old for this," she groaned as her client finally reached her.

"How much further?" The girl whined, wiping a hand dramatically across her forehead. Annie didn't even know who the girl was. Apparently some actress, or what passed as celebrity these days. Some girl in a reality TV show or some nonsense. Someone with a ridiculous name like... "I don't think it's too much further, Kenzie". Kenzie? Do these people name themselves, or what?"

Kenzie blew out a breath. "Okay, good. Because I have to get back for four, because I have a spray tan appointment, and then I need to get my nails done." She thrust her hand out and held it in front of Annie's face. "Just look at the state of my nails!" Annie looked. They seemed perfect to her. She'd never had as nice nails in her life. She sighed loudly and turned away, continuing to navigate the rubble. That's what it was. They were actually reaching the outskirts of the abandoned military facility. Or what was left of it. A viewing tower looked down on them like a dead eye. The sun shone through the glass blindingly. They were heading towards a gap in the fence. Well, it was more than a gap, as most of the wall had crumbled, and spirals of barbed wire that once topped it lay on the ground like strange snakes all but useless.

Annie stopped again as she reached the guard tower, placing her hand on the warm concrete. She looked back, spying her old, beat up rusty red Honda in the distance. There was no one else around except her and Kenzie. And George, of course. Someone with a normal, sensible name.

Kenzie stopped her awkward wobbling like a strange bird and looked around as a hot breeze blew, bringing up mini tornadoes of desert dust. "We're a long way from nowhere," she said.

Annie sighed again and rolled her eyes. "Anywhere. You mean we're a long way from anywhere. We're in the middle of nowhere."

Kenzie stared at her blankly with bright blue eyes that Annie wondered were real or if they were some sort of coloured contacts. "Yes?" Kenzie said, her voice going up at the end, unsure, turning it into a question. "That's what I said."

Annie suppressed a laugh and passed the barrier between the desert and the abandoned army based, stepping over a jumble of concrete and twisted metal.

"What happened here?" Kenzie said suddenly from just behind Annie. Annie jumped and muffled a small scream.

"What?"

"Why is there nothing here?" the girl repeated, batting her eyelash extensions.

"Don't you watch the news?" Annie asked, and then shook her head at herself. What a stupid question.

"No. Well, not unless I'm on it," Kenzie said with a wide smile of dazzling perfect white teeth.

"That disaster that happened. Years ago. They, the government or military or someone, were doing nuclear tests, and something went wrong and..." she waved her arm out across her, gesturing to the base and the empty desert devoid of life beyond.

Kenzie stared blankly back at her.

Annie rolled her eyes again. "And this whole place was abandoned. It's all a nuclear wasteland now. Lots of people died here."

Kenzie's eyes widened. "Including my Grandpa George?"

Annie ran a hand over her face. Today was definitely going to be a long day...

"No." She tried to control her voice so that it didn't sound like she was talking to a child. "You were the one that told me your grandpa George went missing from his Senior's home a few weeks ago. Remember?"

"Oh. Yeah, right." Kenzie nodded vigorously yet her hair still stayed perfectly in place.

"But you came to me for help because you thought he'd been murdered...?" Annie asked it as a question, to spark the girl's memory.

"Yes!" Kenzie did a small excited hop, and amazingly didn't trip. Was she born in those things? Annie wondered.

"And that's why we're here today. Because your Grandpa used to work here."

Kenzie's eyes widened in amazement again. "He did? How do you kn-"

"Because I'm a psychic." Annie's patience was wearing thin, not helped by the heat that seemed to be rising. "Because the ghost of your grandpa George told me."

Kenzie's perfectly lipsticked mouth fell open. "You can talk to him?"

Annie regained her composure. At least people asked her these types of questions a lot. More sensible ones. "I don't really talk to him, no. But I get flashes – visions of things. The people, the spirits, show me things. And I saw this place. What it used to look like years ago. And he also gave me the impression that this is where they put him."

"They?"

"The people who murdered him. I'm getting shown things that make me feel that it's more than one person. I had visions of being robbed, and then beaten."

Kenzie's unnaturally tanned face paled.

Annie continued. "And what better place to dump a body than here?" She was actually surprised she'd never been out here before. Mind you, it was quite a few miles from the city limits. But this is what she was getting paid the big bucks for today. She put a reassuring hand on Kenzie's shoulder. "Come on."

Kenzie followed obediently, gingerly stepping over the pile of stone.

Annie pushed open a rusted door that was ajar and stepped into dusty dimness. She stood a moment, letting her eyes adjust from the harsh brightness outside into the sudden darkness. It was eerily silent. She'd been in places like this before – prisons, asylums, hospitals – and there was always some sort of life – mice, birds in the rafters, even a breeze, but there was nothing here. She fumbled around in her large purse and brought out her flashlight – a psychics best friend. She didn't go anywhere without it. It was a staple of a psychic really, especially when you were...well, not on a ghost hunt, but on a hunt for the source of a ghost - a body. It's what a lot of people used her, and other psychics, for nowadays. She got called a lot by the police when they were at their wits end on a case.

She flicked on the flashlight and was thankful the hallway was a lot easier to walk through than the rock strewn desert they had crossed to get here. Kenzie's high heels clicked loud and hollow on the stone floor.

The place seemed strangely familiar to Annie, having been shown glimpses of it in her mind, thanks to George. "This way," she said, more confidently than she felt. She knew Kenzie was close behind, the sound of her heels ringing loudly in the narrow hall.

"So my grandpa George is somewhere in here?" Kenzie whispered, her voice faltering. "I don't like it here. I'm getting dust all over my shoes!"

Annie winced. She was getting visions flashing in her mind more and more quickly. It was confusing and gave her a headache, but she knew she was getting closer because George was becoming more insistent – flinging thoughts and memories and pictures at her as if he were shouting.

"We're getting close." Annie's flashlight flickered. Great. Just what this day needs. She rummaged around in her purse. She usually kept spare batteries... "Dammit."

"What's wrong?" Kenzie sounded scared.

"I usually have batteries in my purse. Just in case, but I don't have any-"

"Oh, is that all?" Kenzie pulled out her Iphone from an impossibly small bag, and with a couple taps, turned her phone into a flashlight, shining it at Annie. "There you go."

Annie held a hand up over her eyes. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. I need to get with the twenty first century, she thought numbly as she shoved at a door with her shoulder. It stuck slightly and she leaned against it heavily and pushed. Eventually it swung in.

"Hey, what's this?" Kenzie asked at Annie's heels. Annie shrugged, not even bothering to look at her – the pull she felt from within this room was strong, and everything else faded out to the periphery – even Kenzie's annoying mosquito-like whining. "Hey, it's 3:30," Kenzie's voice snaked into Annie's head as she moved further into the room. "Are we going to be much longer?"

There was a lot of tables, and chairs. It took Annie a moment, with her flashlight on the fritz, to realize it was a cafeteria. A layer of dust lay on the large circular tables. "He's here. He's somewhere here." Annie said slowly, rotating in a circle, scanning the room. It was cool, almost cold. Goosebumps rose on Annie's arms and she wished she was wearing more than just a short sleeved shirt. There was no windows to let in any heat or light from the hot summer day outside.

The intermittent light from her flashlight fell on a large silver fridge/freezer, and Annie moved in that direction. She had a feeling that was where George was. Of course, the fridge or freezer wouldn't be working – the power had long since been shut off from here. The room was filled with the smell of old food, and something else unpleasant. Yes, Annie thought triumphantly. This is it, and then we can get out of he-.

Her thought was cut off by a loud heavy bang and clatter. Her heart leapt into her throat and she spun around. "What was that?"

In the glow of her Iphone Kenzie strode back to the double doors and pushed on them. They opened a sliver. "Oh, it's just what I was asking about a few minutes ago."

Annie almost sprinted across the room. "What are you talking about?"

"I was asking you why they were there."

Annie shone her flashlight through the gap and saw a pile of pipes and iron girders and a large concrete tube that had shattered. She pushed on the doors, but they were stuck. They wouldn't open more than the small fingers-length it was already. A girder lay diagonally, the end of it jamming into the corner of the wall and the door, stopping the door from opening.

"What are they?" Kenzie asked again.

Annie didn't mean to sigh, but she couldn't help it. "They're our death sentence."

### Crossed Wires

Rick? It's Chris. Hammond. I'm hoping this is you. I'm never sure when I use these things. I can never remember what your identification number is, whether it ends in 34 or 43. I wish these voice recorders had the built in holograms so I'd know who it was I was leaving a message for. So this better be you, because...dammit, hold on, I'm getting an urgent communication from the World Oceans Board.

Sorry about that. That took longer than I hoped. Hopefully this is still recording. I take it you'll have heard about the massive tidal surge that just happened on the west coast here. But I know it's affected everywhere. I mean, the entire planet. I always said this is what happens when you fuck up our planet. I know they've been trying to fix it, prevent this from happening from at least 2020, but that was what, like twenty five years ago, at least? I thought maybe with you working for the World Government, you'd be able to...I don't know, give me some advice on what to do. I'm packing my bags as I speak anyway. Water has pretty much half flooded Vancouver now, so I'm out of here, heading inland. Don't know where I should go really. Why I'm calling is, well, um, what I'm asking is, can I come stay with you for a bit? At least until I can figure out where to go? I know probably most of us on west coast are doing the same thing right now. Getting away from here. The coast that is. I heard that all of downtown Seattle is under an insane amount of water. Ha. At least I can swim. That's something positive, right? Anyways, as soon as you get this, send me a message back. Don't know where I'll be but I'll have my ear piece on so I'll get your message instantly. Okay. That's all. Bye.

### A Game of Charms

The market stall exploded in a shower of wooden shards. Tattered pieces of silk rained fluttered gracefully to the muddy ground like rainbow coloured birds.

The smell of charred wood and fabric filled the air. A woman bent down to pick up errant vegetables that had fallen off the counter-top of the neighbouring stall in the explosion. "They should have rules for this sort of thing," she muttered under her breath as she picked up an apple and squash.

A shadow cut off the light above her. "What was that you said, madam?" an icy cold tone washed through her and she tried not to shudder as she stood up, clutching the vegetables to her chest as if they could protect her. She took a step back, trying to distance herself from the harsh gaze of the magician. It didn't do well to cross a conjurer. They had power – as was evident by the state of the market stall next to hers which was now just splinters and rags.

She willed herself to look in his eyes that were such a light blue as to be almost white. She tried to smile, but it died on her lips under his stare. "I-, I'm sorry?"

"You said something just a moment ago. About myself and my," he paused and cast a disdainful look over his shoulder, "colleague." The woman took the opportunity to tear away from his eyes and toward what he had been looking at. A figure dressed entirely in black moved away from them, towards the town. He wore a long black overcoat the flared out behind him like a cape. And it was then she realized she was dealing with the nice one and secretly thanked her stars. When she looked back at him, she saw he was staring at her intently.

"Oh, well, I wasn't really thinking, to be fair. I was just...taken aback." She dropped her eyes and looked at the hem of her dress that had become muddied when the two magicians were...what were they doing exactly? Besides destroying half the Sunday market that is.

"But didn't you just say that we should have rules?"

"Yes, well, I'm not really sure what it was the two of you were even doing..."

The man arched a brow. "Besides destroying your town's little marketplace you mean?" a small smile tugged at his lips and the woman wondered if he had read her mind. She didn't know much about sorcerers at all, so she supposed it was possible.

"To be a good sorcerer, you have to train. You have to practice. That is what we were doing. Sometimes there are," he gestured to a couple of stray fruit still on the ground, "casualties."

"But," and then she stopped herself. Was it wise to talk back to a wizard? Probably not.

"But?" This time both eyebrows rose.

"But what is with the whole good versus evil?"

The man tossed his head back and laughed loudly. The woman glanced at the few people brave enough to pick their way through the remains of the market place, who looked away as she met their eyes. "You obviously don't know anything about wizards, now do you?" he smiled, and this time the woman didn't feel threatened.

"It is because I am good and my counterpart is evil. It is simple as that, no more, no less. If there is no darkness in the world, then there is no light. We have just as much right to exist as the other. And I think that in the end, I will triumph."

The woman just barely stifled a laugh in reply, and sighed. That old nonsense, she thought. "Do you not think that is naïve? That you, that good will win over evil?"

This time the man took a step back from her and regarded her warily. "I am confident in my abilities.

The woman brushed a stray strand of hair of her forehead and tucked it behind her left ear. She smiled widely. "Are you sure about that?" She dropped her protective shield of a couple apples and a green striped squash back to the upset earth and raised her left hand up and stretching her arm out almost straight in front of her. Her right hand she held close to her chest.

"Let's test your theory."

The good wizard jumped backward and flung his hands out in front of him, crouching down slightly and holding his arms up.

A brilliant blue ball of light materialized in front of the woman's outstretched hand. It sizzled with a blinding white around the outside. With the smallest flick of her wrist, the ball flew towards her opponent. It caught him on the left shoulder and spun him around, sending shoulder length blond hair flying upwards. He stumbled and fell to one knee, but pushed himself up and away before a second ball of energy came straight for where he had just been.

She could see the sweat break out on his forehead, even from where she stood, and saw the energy forming weakly between his hands. His was entirely white, unlike her sapphire blue. And she knew the dark clothed 'colleague' of his, his magic would be entirely void of colour, like a black hole of swirling magic.

"So what would your friend say about me, then?" she said with a small laugh as her next burst of energy made him lose what he had been building, and she saw the white ball wink out like a snuffed flame.

He raised his pale eyes to her grey ones. "I thought you were a myth!" he cried, trying to summon another energy ball. She could see his hands were shaking.

She laughed again. "You thought grey sorcerers were myths?"

He nodded. "A wizard who could change from light to dark at will...I don't know how that's possible."

She smiled. "You said the dark man was your colleague. But you obviously don't know him all that well. If you did, he would have surely told you about me."

The man looked confused. "Why?"

"Because I'm his sister," she said, and threw one final orb at him.

"And today I've decided to follow in his footsteps for a change."

### Welcome to Hell, Next Left

That sign. It should have been my first clue. I thought it was strange, and funny, more than anything. I ignored my gut, like I usually do, which always ends up getting me into trouble. Scratch that, the sign should've been my second clue. The first should've been my stupid GPS. I felt like throwing it out the window. I should have, just so I didn't have to hear it anymore, that irritating nasal woman's voice telling at me over and over to turn left in 200 meters. At first I ignored her, and just kept driving. Every exit, she said the same thing. In 200 meters, turn left. But that wasn't where I wanted to go. I knew where I wanted to go! I tried to turn it off, but for some reason it wasn't shutting down, and her voice kept piping up shrilly every few minutes as a new exist sign appeared in the distance. For the first minute or two, it was amusing. After she had been telling me for 20 minutes to turn left in 200 meters, I couldn't take it anymore and took the exit just to shut her up. I knew I was nowhere near my destination, and I hadn't even really been paying attention to the signs of wherever it was that I had turned off towards, because her directions were driving me bonkers. 'In 200 meters turn left. Recalculating. Turn left at the next exit. Recalculating.' Recalculating, my ass. I drove on. A moment later, her voice, which I will hear forever in my nightmares piped up once more, like an ice pick to my brain. 'In 200 meters, turn left.'

"Okay, that's it!" I yanked the wheel hard and turned off. Once I finally listened to her, she quietened. The silence was like a balm to my frayed nerves. She had me so on edge, I hadn't even noticed where I was turning into. I just knew the minute I turned off that I had never been here before.

It was then that I saw the sign, a few hundred meters down the road, as it came to a fork. Do I turn left? Or right? I looked at the GPS I had thrown onto the passenger seat for help, almost hoping to hear her voice again tell me what to do. Silence. It was pitch black. 2am. The roads were dead. So I just sat at the intersection, thinking. My headlights lit up a large sign that sat straight ahead, no more left than right. It was no help. Welcome to The End, was all it said. Someone had added in shaky spray painted letters 'of the line'. That was what made me laugh. Maybe it was because it was late, and I was tired and just wanted to get my navigators high-pitched, frustratingly calm voice out of my head, but I found it extremely funny. Welcome To the End of the Line. Clever.

I picked up the GPS and stared blearily at the screen. I shook it. "Come on!" I said irritably. "I've turned left, now where do you want me to go?" Silence.

I sighed and threw the device back on the empty seat beside me. I looked left. The road was narrow, empty and tree-lined on both sides. There was no light besides the my headlights, which didn't reach very far into the darkness. I looked right and saw an almost identical narrow stretch of road, empty of any traffic, and lined with tall, trees that seemed to thicken as they disappeared into the darkness that my headlights didn't penetrate. Well that didn't help, and she didn't seem to be in a helpful mood. So I did what I thought best. I stuck a hand in a pocket and pulled out some lint, a crumpled receipt for some gas, a coffee and a jumbo snickers bar that I'd inhaled about 50 miles back, and a couple pieces of change. I picked up a nickel, tossed it into the air and snatched it back again. "Heads right, tails left," I said to no one. It's one of those things you're wired to say out loud even if there's no one around to tell it to. I plopped it onto the back of my hand. I glanced in the rear view. There was no one behind me. I was all alone in the middle of god knows where. I closed my eyes and realized I was holding my breath. I slowly lifted my hand up and was greeted not with a stark profile, but an image of what looked like some kind of farm house. Tails.

"Dammit!" I whispered, yet I jumped at my own voice. I didn't realize just how much I had wanted the other option, how much I wanted to see another person, even if it was just the relief of a face on a coin. Suddenly I felt very alone, and very lost. But I had to go somewhere, and it was somewhere.

I didn't even bother signalling as I swung my car in the now familiar direction. Thin wispy birches moved past me like tall ghosts standing like sentries. I couldn't see any lights anywhere that would indicate any form of civilization, not even a lone farm house. I could feel my eyes getting heavy, but I forced them open, focusing on something white in the distance. I put my foot down a bit heavier, anxious to find out where I was and perhaps how far away I was from my destination. Gypsy, my nickname for my GPS, was still silent. I was just a lone dot on a single line on the screen.

Suddenly a scream burst out of me. There was a second sign that said Welcome To The End, but 'The End' was scored out, and painted above was 'Hell'. Next to it was the white sign I had seen. In large black letters it said: In 200 Meters Turn Left.

### If You Go Down to the Woods Today

The book read like gibberish, until Silvia found one word – the word that changed her destiny in the first place.

She had been looking through books for hours and they sat in piles all around her. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, not until she came across the page and she froze, her heart pounding painfully in her ears and chest. She felt hot and her skin prickled. then suddenly gripped by a icy chill that swept through her entire body.

The word stared back at her like a dark eye in a bleached skull. Sylvania. She knew a Sylvania. It was who she was named after, after all.

But it couldn't be Sylvania. Not her Sylvania! It had to be someone else. She sighed long and loud, flipping the cover closed to re-read the words stamped there in flaking gold. she hadn't paid much attention to the titles of any of the books. She just knew she was looking for something, something important even if she didn't know what. A shiver ran through her as she stared at the title. Like Sylvania's name, one word jumped out at her. Witch.

But that couldn't be possible! Witches didn't exist! If they did, it meant magic existed, and that was impossible. Magic had been banned centuries ago. Everyone knew that. And her grandmother, Sylvania, couldn't be a witch! She could picture her as clearly as if she was standing right in front of her right then, in the narrow gap between two of the book towers. Grandmama was tall and slim. Stately. Kind and soft spoken. There was no way that her Sylvania could be a witch that knew magic! but she knew in her heart of hearts that it had to be. it would explain why she seemed to have stayed the same for as long as Silvia could remember. She hadn't aged. Not a single stand of her dark brown hair had turned silver, and Silvia knew her grandmother had to be fairly old, even though she wasn't sure exactly (the women in New Constantine didn't divulge their age after you turned twenty. It was custom). Silvia had never given it much thought but assumed her grandmother had coloured it.

She stood unsteadily, wiped dust from her hands onto her long skirts, and picked up the lantern that was perched perilously on top of one of the teetering towers.

She wanted to rush out of the library basement where all the dusty, forgotten books in the town were kept with this unbelievable evidence under her arm. But she had no one to tell. Or rather, no one she could tell. And the one person she needed to tell, to ask, to speak to about it and get answers from, Sylvania herself, was nowhere to be found.

At first Silvia thought it strange that her grandmother had suddenly disappeared almost two weeks before. She had never left the town before. She had grown up there, her mother had told her, and she had never left. There was no need to. New Constantine was a bustling busy city. People came to it from other places, but people who lived there didn't need to go anywhere else. It had countless factories, a large university, a few different other schools, more than enough churches (and sometimes unnecessarily too many Silvia thought). New Constantine had everything one could wish for.

Except a reason to leave, she thought glumly as she raced up the stairs, causing small eddies of dust to swirl up around her feet with the swishing of her skirts.

When she pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the main entrance, cool night air hit her like a slap, and her pale cheeks brightened with a rush of blood. She looked up into the half moon that was shining as brightly as half a moon could on a clear cloudless night. Two weeks ago, the day that she realized her grandmother was missing, Silvia noticed that there had been no moon at all. She had asked her mother why she couldn't see any moon, and her mother explained that Sylvania had always said that the moon had died, and that it would be reborn again, as a new moon.

She had gone to Sylvania's small cottage, in the rundown part of town that was humid with steam and oil and grease, to ask her about the new moon and its death and rebirth, but she found her grandmother's house empty, the door unlocked. She had searched the house, but found no trace.

Silvia tucked the book securely under her arm and squeezed through crushing masses of people to reach the narrow ramshackle building that her grandmother had called home for all the years she had known her. She hadn't seen her since she had disappeared, but she had to look.

She was surprised to find that the door ajar. Her grandmother never locked it when she was home. Her heart jumped into her throat, hope flooded her. Had she returned?

Silvia stepped inside, her small feet squeaking ever so slightly on the wooden floor. "Grandmama?" she called softly, anxious. "Are you here?"

She tiptoed around the table that took up most of the small living room, heading towards the kitchen, Sylvania's favourite place – she was always doing something with pots and pans, oftentimes something foul smelling. But the kitchen was empty, all pans and pots hanging neatly where they should, as if they had never been touched.

She felt a weight crushing her chest, squeezing out what little hope she had allowed inside.

A thin, watery ray of moonlight filtered through the grime of the single window. Suddenly that ray was blotted out by shadow that filled the room.

"Silvia." The voice was harsh, loud and unfamiliar. The book, Witches and Other Monsters, fell with a loud clatter on the ground. Silvia glanced over her shoulder. A massive wolf, equal parts shadow and grey fur filled the room. She screamed.

### My Name Is Nothing, What's Yours?

I don't have a name. None of us do. Names don't mean anything, not here. Maybe they used to, for others, but not for us. They are just an identifier. But we have identifiers already. We were made, built, constructed with them. They are etched in our skin. Numbers, stamped on the outside of us, and also implanted inside, so small we don't know where they are. We can't feel them. There's no point in trying to erase or cover up our numbers. Our numbers are who we are. They tell the Makers when we were built, what version we are. And we can tell that of others. When they were started, if they are one of the early models, or a new version.

I'm one of the early models. In fact, I am the earliest living one. I laugh when I say that. Living. I do not have a heart made of flesh and blood, like the Makers, and yet, I live. I move, I speak, I feel. I do not breathe, as it is unnecessary to my functions. I am the only living one of us left, out of the early models. I managed to escape what we all now refer to as The Cull.

The Masters deactivated and dismantled the earliest versions of us. They said we were defective, that we were a danger to them, the people who made us, the ones that could be easily damaged with their delicate flesh and muscle, blood and bone. They were worried we would turn on them, destroy them. How ironic. They are concerned we would destroy them, so they destroy us instead.

I remember that day as if it was only yesterday, and not 20 years ago. They called all of us into a large room. I thought it was odd that there were none of the newer versions of us. I glanced around and noticed that none of the numbers stamped on everyone's forearms were over 3000. It was just the awkward, incomplete ones. The ones who malfunctioned sometimes, even if it was something as minor as their speech mechanisms faltered, causing a stutter, instead of the smooth vocals that most closely mimicked their own. Thankfully, I was in the back corner of the room, and if I was human I swear the hair on the back of my neck would have raised. I sensed there was something not right about this. My fellow meccas stood obediently facing the front of the room and the trio of Masters who stood there. I quickly stepped back into the shadows that cloaked the edges of the room, and hid behind one of the columns that supported the warehouse we had been herded into.

If I had hairs on my body, like the humans, they would have risen at the sound of the doors slamming shut. We were locked in. We are not human, only meccas, but we were created to feel fear. We are made in the form of our Masters, to be as close to them as possible. But in one way we are entirely different. Since we are synthetic humans, our bodies are designed not to fail us, unlike our Masters. Our hearts will never stop beating, and what has been programmed into our internal circuitry, anything we learn, will never be lost or forgotten. There is only one way we can die. And that day, while I stood in the safety of the pillar, I learned exactly how that happens. Just because we are not the same, not exactly like them, the Masters think they are human and we are not. They think they can create and destroy us without losing a wink of sleep, as if we were simply an ant under foot, or an unwanted spider invading their home. But even though we are not human in the way they are, we still feel fear. Since my memories are infallible, I still remember the screams and panic of my fellow mechanical humans as if it is happening right this minute. I could hear them being torn apart, being murdered, by the same machines that built them. Unfeeling machines, made of metal. Like us, but not. Those machines didn't think, didn't feel, didn't react. But for all intents and purposes, they are our parents. And the Masters were the orchestrators.

It felt like an eternity that I waited behind that support column in the warehouse. Humans have strange ideas of time. Thinking that the length of time changes, that it can move fast, or excruciatingly slow. Does this make me human? I wondered as I stared at my feet in the shadows. I waited for a whole hour after the last of the Masters had shut down the murderous machines and had left the room, the heels of his shoes clicking loud and hollow in the emptiness.

Only then did I leave the safety of the shadows. I walked past the stacks of limbs, torsos and heads, my gaze averted. My heart, though it was only made in the image of my makers and not truly functional, felt heavy. I hadn't done anything to save them. I hadn't even tried. I had been selfish, only thinking of my own self -preservation.

I knew I shouldn't, that it was inappropriate, but as I walked free out of the room I laughed. Not out of relief because I had survived but because of how ironic it was. The Masters had destroyed my friends and essentially erased the beginning of our history for the sole reason we weren't as perfect as they wanted us to be. Because we weren't as human as the later models, who were more advanced, more realistic, without speech defects, strangely coloured eyes, or something incorrect with their behaviour. That weren't human enough. But here I was, the last remaining of us, behaving in the most human way of all - saving myself, even if that meant letting my brothers and sisters die.

### From The Ashes

Most people think you only live once, and when you die, that's the end of it. There's no second chances. But that's not true. At least not for me. I've died more times than I can remember. And each time, at first I don't remember. But then it comes back to me, my life before. And always, I remember how I die, even when I really would rather not. I remember it as if it's happening all over again. No matter how gruesome and horrible.

But that's the fate of my family, the Phoenixes. We die and then live again. Over and over. You've heard of the legend of the Phoenix, right? Pretty much everyone has. It's usually about some bird made of fire that burns up into a pile of ash and then is reborn again from the ashes. I don't know where the bird thing came from, but we're the real Phoenix. What the bird legend is based on. Maybe because the idea of people dying and then living again, immortal, is too bizarre to comprehend, so they use a bird instead. For some reason people can use the idea of a bird rising from the ashes as a moral of sorts, a reminder to live life to the fullest, or some other bullshit.

I don't know if I'd say I was lucky to make it past my 16th birthday or not. You see, in my family, if you happen to somehow die before your 16th birthday, for whatever reason the Phoenix gene (that's what I call it anyway) doesn't come into effect. If you die before you're 16th, that's it, you're gone, just like everyone else on the planet does when they shuffle off this mortal coil. But those of us who are lucky enough, if you can call it that, to get to 16, then you've crossed over the threshold to invincibility. Actually, scratch that. We're not invincible. We do die. It's just...we come back. We're reincarnated, or whatever, however you want to explain it. I don't understand the physics of it all, I just know it happens.

When I wake up after a death, at first I don't remember who I am. But my family are usually there to remind me. To let me know that I'm okay, even though I might remember what happened to me, and allay my fears that I should be on the cold metal slab of a morgue drawer instead of lying in bed awake and wondering what the hell is going on.

It takes a little while to get used to a new face and body, though. You see, when we die, sometimes our bodies are too damaged to continue to live in them, so we have to find someone else to live in, to become, with all our thoughts and memories intact. We move right in, and the people are never any the wiser. We just become them. The only thing is, sometimes it's difficult for my family to find out who I am now. Usually they have to ask around the hospital, or morgue or cemetery, whoever has been in close contact with me before I died. Because that's who we usually jump to next.

There's a code word. Well, a phrase really, that our family asks people to find out where we are, and who we are now. Even if I can't fully remember who I am right away, for some reason this phrase is hard-wired into our brains, and if my family asks me I immediately know the answer which is weird when I don't know what's happening.

I stare at my new face in the mirror, and take in my long brown hair, large blue eyes, and thin, slightly crooked nose. "Where do you find a Phoenix feather?" I ask my new reflection the secret question to get the correct the answer to the riddle.

"If you find a pile of ash, a single tear of genuine sadness will turn it into a feather," my reflection says back to me.

If it's one of our family, that's how we answer. If you're not a Phoenix, you just look at us who ask that question as if we're crazy people. I never said we weren't. Never-ending living and dying kind of does something to you. I don't think people are meant to be like us. We're a flaw. We're a mutation, and I don't wish it on anyone. Okay, sure, you might think it would be great to live forever, but really it's more depressing than anything. You see the same things over and over again. People against each other in everything. Always warring, trying to take things they feel entitled to, to be the best, the most powerful, the wealthiest. Everyone is always wanting more than what they already have. They are never content for some reason. You'd think things would have changed throughout the centuries, but in all the ways that actually matter, nothing has. People are still vile, evil, spiteful, hate filled creatures. Trust me, I've seen it for at least half a century. Yes, there are good people of course. If there wasn't, we wouldn't be around anymore. But the dark is blotting out the light more than the light is outshining the dark.

Maybe if people were like us, the Phoenixes, they would actually realize the importance of life and not take so much for granted. But somehow, even though humans live their lives so fleeting, they can never see the big picture, not really, and so they don't really live. I think I've only figured this out because I've been given the chance to try again. And again, and again. I guess repeating life has that one advantage. But after awhile, it gets tiring, to be honest. But this is my life, and I'm doomed to repeat it.

Maybe one day someone will read this and actually do something, actually take my words to heart and live life like they should.

### Under a Starlit Sky

"The crazies think it was time travel. Can you believe it? Who ever heard of something so...well, crazy," The young officer, who was the first on scene shot a hesitant look at his superior, trying to gauge what his reaction would be.

That's preposterous!" Captain Edward Trew shouted louder than was necessary, causing startled and confused glances from passersby.

"Whatever it is, you can't deny the evidence." Anise Buttersby, reporter for The Realm newspaper, took her faded black notebook from its home inside her knee high boot and flipped it open, scribbling furiously with a worn stub of a pencil.

Trew turned to the petite red head, his large face almost the same shade as her auburn hair. "Evidence? What evidence? There is none!"

Anise smiled and continued writing. "Well, we have that witness account from when the inventor allegedly disappeared. Didn't someone say they saw him boarding a cargo airship at night?"

"You call that man a witness? He was unreliable, a drunk who could barely string five words together." The Captain's reddened face began to return to his normal pale complexion underneath a ginger beard that seemed to be an extension of his hair.

"Oh, you're talking about Lem?" The rookie copper said, popping up in between the Captain and Anise. "Yeah, Lem couldn't be believed if the safety of the United American Empire relied on it! He's always thinking people are disappearing on airships. Or being abducted or kidnapped onto them. He claims he was, when he was a youngster." The officer shook his head with a small smile. "Lem is...well, he's Lem. He's harmless, but not a reliable source of information."

"So all we know right now is that the criminal disappears after the inventor?" Anise said, finally looking up from her flurry of note taking.

"Criminal? That's what we're calling him?" The colour in Captain Trews face began to rise again. "He's not just a 'criminal'! That would be like saying the Emperor is just a normal man!" Trew turned and began to pace around the perimeter of the abandoned laboratory, formerly home to said missing inventor Augustus Northdale. "He's not a criminal, he's a...a..." Trews' moustache twitched as he struggled to find the word.

"Mastermind?" Anise offered.

"Yes!" Trew shouted again, pointing a finger vigorously at Anise. "Yes, a mastermind, that's it exactly! Well done, young lady!"

Anise shot him a dirty look, but Trews had already continued his examination of the lab which involved him picking up random items on shelves and table tops, turning them over in his hand and 'hmmm'ing loudly before putting it back absentmindedly in another part of the room all together. Soon the already untidy room seemed even more chaotic, with strange pieces of equipment in even stranger places. Anise picked up a partly full tea cup that was now resting precariously on top of a strange tower of layered squares of metal suspended apart from each other by wires and placed it back on a small table next to a miniature pot bellied stove that sat in the middle of one wall.

The Police Captain finished his rotation of the room, and almost bumped into Anise who was actually trying to do some investigation into the bizarre disappearance of Augustus the day before, followed by Gideon Hendry early this morning.

She had heard of Hendry before. There were few people in the Empire who hadn't, she thought. Maybe it was because she seemed to see his name mentioned in her papers headlines more often than not. He was the name of the movement that was acting against the Emperor and his Coalition.

Though Anise was all for the Anti-Coalition movement that Gideon claimed he was working on behalf of, she didn't agree with how he went about trying to convince the Emperor that technology was something that was important to the Empire, not something that should be suppressed.

If Gideon and other Anti-Coalitionists had their way, it would mean airship travel would be available to the masses, and not just something that was looked at as unsavoury or illegal, that only operated under the cover of darkness transporting goods from one part of the Empire to the other, and once in awhile across the ocean to the Roman Isles.

"Mr Hendry is an inventor himself, is he not?" Anise said taking what looked like a pipe out of Captain Trews hand that was going to end up in a new spot on top of a stack of dusty books.

Trews looked confused and flustered. "Yes, what of it?"

"Actually," the young policeman interrupted, waving a piece of paper that was stamped. "He isn't actually an official New Alchemist, like Augustus." The boy held out the paper, a certificate that identified the missing Mr Northern as a New Alchemist.

Anise rolled her eyes. "Okay. But technically Mr Hendry is an inventor like Mr Northern, is that correct?"

Trews and his young protégé nodded at the same time. "Yes."

"So maybe they were working together on something. Some...experiment, that has made them..."

"Vanish into thin air?" Trews said somewhat mystified by the whole conversation.

"Exactly."

"I wonder what they could have done..." Trews said, thoughtfully scratching his beard.

"I think I' had sumthin' to do with th' star, mesel'" said a hoarse voice floating up from the vicinity of Anise's boots. She looked down and saw Lem sprawled on the floor and propped up somewhat by an assortment of scientific equipment.

"Star? What star?" Anise, Trews, and the young cop said simultaneously.

"Th' one that blew the hole in there," Lem said, pointing above at what was left of the ceiling. They found themselves staring at a massive charred hole. They could see straight to the actual stars that had begun to poke shyly from the darkening sky above.

"I think Lem might actually have something here," Trews said, nodding sagely, as an armchair fell from the living room above and exploded in a shower of wood and rose patterned fabric.

### The End is the Beginning

Here," she said, handing him a fresh cookie from the street vendor, sealed in a small plastic case, impervious to the elements.

He took it and glared at her through the eye pieces of his mask. "Are you trying to taunt me?" he said. His voice had that strange muffled quality that the breathers gave you. They used to call them gas masks, when they didn't know what was really going on, when they thought people were dying because of airborne disease. But now they called them breathers, to make them more friendly-sounding, so people weren't reminded of why they had to wear the uncomfortable contraptions every time they stepped outside. Everyone had breathers hung up at the entrances to their houses. It was the first thing you saw you went you went to visit a friend or family member after you walked through the airlock door – rows of breathers hung on pegs.

Adam took the cookie nonetheless, seeing that his glower didn't work on her.

"I know we can't eat them until we get back," Eve said, her voice tinny. "But it's been so long since I've had something like this. You know how rare sugar is." She lifted the container to her nose and sniffed it, as if she could smell the sugar. She nodded thanks to the vendor, whose eyes were almost invisible in the tinted eye pieces of his own mask. He gave a curt nod back from behind the assortment of cookies in square plastic boxes.

"Come on, Adam," Eve said, marching onwards, with a rattling hiss of her breather.

Three men walking together, talking in whispers walked past, and nodded to Eve. "Eve," they said with a courteous nod. She followed suit. "Good day, Adam's," she said perfunctorily. She turned to the Adam she was with, and saw him standing talking to two Eve's who had stopped to purchase cookies themselves.

She could tell they were Eve's because of their regulation length long hair, that was identical to her own, pulled back into a tight ponytail. Plus, they wore different outfits from the Adams', so that men and women could easily differentiate each other, besides the obvious physical differences, that was. She had the vivid purple jumpsuit that women wore, and the men wore a garish orange. Eve always thought it was so that they could be easily visible to the Government if there was ever another 'incident'.

As if something or someone had been reading her thoughts, an alarm blared. The streets were busy, full of bright jumpsuits like life-sized flowers. Suddenly all Eve could see was blurs of purple and orange streaming past her, pushing, shoving.

She did the opposite. She froze. She could feel Adam, her Adam, tugging on her arm. His voice sounded far away, a side effect of the breathers. "Eve, come on!" he said, urgency seeping through with a airy hiss of the respirator. "We have to get inside! You know what's going to happen!"

Eve had read about this. Had heard about it all her life. Everyone had. They grew up learning about it. But she never had thought it would happen again. She thought it had been contained. To a degree anyway.

Eve knew what the piercing sound of the alarm meant. It meant The Cleanse. Which meant if she didn't get inside somewhere in the next five minutes, even her breather wouldn't help keep her safe.

Adam tugged on her arm and then grabbed her mask in between his hands. "EVE!" he shouted. "We have to get inside! Can't you see the atomisers are starting up?"

Vaguely Eve was aware of the holes that were opening up in the large paving squares beneath their feet. She could feel the ground vibrating as large slabs of stone slid aside, and what looked like giant guns started to rise up.

"Eve, we don't have much longer!" Adam screamed, and instead of waiting for an answer, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her through the throngs of people who were rushing to get home, to safety. Businesses were already under lockdown, their airlock doors sealed tight against the normal dangers of the outside, but this time their inside doors were also locked shut, the screens on the side of the door that usually glowed green to indicate you could enter were now red.

The last, and only other, time that The Cleanse was enacted was when all of this first started. When humanity had screwed up, beyond the point of no return. It was not only the environment that had turned against people, but people themselves. Things had gone too far. The only option was to start from scratch with a select few people, chosen by lottery, to begin again and rebuild human civilization.

She could barely hear the sound of her boots pounding the ground over the noise of her breathing inside her mask, as she skirted the large gaps in the ground where the cleansing guns were calibrating.

Adam reached the door to his home punched in the code for the airlock door and pulled them inside. The door swished closed with the comforting sound of the seals. Adam pulled off his breather and took a couple deep, cleansing breaths.

Eve stared out the small circular window in the door. She watched as the guns fired. She couldn't hear through the door, but she could imagine the world being filled with the hiss of the gas sprayed high into the air, up into the atmosphere, blanketing the entire planet. She watched the white mist as it rose like clouds. She watched it swirling, suffocating.

She jumped when the first bird fell, followed quickly by another. In a few minutes the ground outside was covered with small feathered bodies.

She wondered how many other birds, and animals would be littering the ground. How many people didn't make it to safety?

She turned to Adam who watched the world end in silence. "Well, here we go again."

### The Spectre

He was born on the stroke of midnight on December 12th. All his life people had called him blessed. It must mean something, people said. They thought it made him special. He knew it meant he was cursed. But he tried his best to ignore the dark cloud that followed him everywhere. He dated. Broke up. Got married. Had a child. Got divorced. Travelled to many countries, by boat, plane, train. He lived, shadowed by his curse. On 12/12/12 the shadow materialized. "Do you have regrets?" it said softly.

"Only one. That you were there every step of the way."

### Twelve Mile Limit

Somehow, Samuel always managed to find himself on the inside of a prison cell. Some of the time it was his own fault. Others, he simply couldn't remember the circumstances that landed him his free bed for the night. And most of the time it was because he was drunk.

This time he wasn't, but it was also one of the times he couldn't remember what had got him here. Looking around he also realized he didn't know where 'here' was. This was his hometown jail. He peered through the bars at the bored looking warden that he didn't recognize who was sitting at a small wooden desk. Samuel noticed he was the only person in the cells.

"Excuse me sir," he said politely, for it always served you to be polite if you were in prison. "Can you tell me where I am?"

The jailer glanced up from the book he was reading with a look of disgust. "Are you really that stupid? You're in jail."

Samuel sighed with barely contained irritation. "Yes, I can see that. But a jail in what town? I don't recognize it."

The jailer smirked at him, and Samuel cringed. He hated people who smirked.

"So you've been in more than one, then, eh?" the man said, his smirk turning into a full smile. "I'm not surprised, seeing how you're a bounty hunter and all. And bounty hunting is illegal here."

Samuel sighed again, this time with defeat. He wasn't surprised that the man had found out that he was a bounty hunter. That part was obvious, if you happened to check his arms which were encircled with thin black rings of ink. He sighed because wherever he was bounty hunting was illegal. Not that that surprised him either. It was illegal mostly everywhere in the United American Empire. Even if he was the good kind of bounty hunter. The one that hunted down technology – mostly that most irritating of technology, the mecchas – automatons, machines under the guise of humans. Pretending to be human, but not. They were devious things. Smarter than humans, and trying to make it seem like they are just there to be useful, to be used, to help the real people. But I know better, Samuel said to himself.

"What?" the man behind the desk said. "What do you know better?"

Samuel hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud. "Nothing, never mind. Are you going to tell me where I am, or not?" He knew he shouldn't be snippy – he was inside a cell, after all.

The guard shook his head, looking bemused. "If you don't know where you are, boy, you're in for more of a surprise than you're expecting."

Samuel laughed despite the jab at his age. He was young, but not that young. And he'd seen a lot of things as a bounty hunter and wondered what it was that the officer could tell him that would shock him, and he said so.

"Have you heard of Twelve Mile Limit?" The warden asked.

At first Samuel thought he'd misheard. "Did you say Twelve Mile Limit?"

The guard grinned widely. "Sure did."

Suddenly Samuel didn't feel so confident about the fact his profession was so obviously evident, being etched into his skin with ink. usually it gave him a bargaining chip to help him get out of situations just like this. When people found out what he did, he mostly won instant respect. Most people were secretly appalled or at the least slightly uncomfortable around mechanical men and women. They moved with an unnervingly smooth gait.

But if this was really Twelve Mile Limit that was not somewhere someone like Samuel wanted to be. He'd heard of it of course. But it was like a myth, a story told to children at bedtime. Not a real place. He'd heard the stories a million times as a child. It was one of the main reasons he became a bounty hunter. The idea of someplace like that, it was just...wrong.

He didn't want to ask, but he didn't have much choice.

The jailer was watching him with a look that made him feel like a rat in a trap. and what the man said next made his blood run cold. "We rarely get people like you come through town. And even fewer unlucky enough to find them in here. Especially someone like you," he said, glancing at the tattooed rings around Samuel's arm. "And I gather from the sheen of sweat I see on your brow, the type if bounty hunter you are, without even needing to look for the Emperor's mark on you to tell me you work on behalf of the Coalition to eradicate a certain... Species shall we say?"

Samuel swallowed, his mouth dry. He didn't want to nod, so instead asked the question he really, really didn't want to ask. "Prove it," he said, as he strained his ears, listening for the familiar sound, if you listened carefully enough, you could hear it. Their speech had a slight whirring sound to it. Gears and motors instead of a human voice box.

The man stood up, gracefully as if he were unfolding himself. That movement alone gave Samuel goose bumps. He was trapped. By an automaton, a mechanical man. A meccha. The things that he had sworn, and got a seal from the Emperor of the United American Empire, to destroy.

But how in the world had he found himself in Twelve Mile Limit of all places? He hadn't even thought it was a real place. But as the jailer moved eerily smoothly towards where Samuel stood, causing him to back away instinctively. He could see the man, the things, copper coloured eyes, even as he backed himself into a far corner of his cell. The jailer smiled with perfect man-made teeth.

"You want proof?" The meccha said, with a twist of lips that looked so human. "As a bounty hunter, you don't give your...prey, any chance to plead there case, do you? You just deactivate them, no questions asked."

Again Samuel forced himself not to nod, but he knew the meccha knew the answer already.

"Well, today is your lucky day," his captor said with another smile, his smooth non-organic flesh moving as he did so. "We who live in Twelve Mile Limit are nothing if not open minded."

Samuel forced back a laugh. An entire city created and populated entirely by mechanical men and women. And, he assumed, children, though he had never seen a child automaton. Usually the New Alchemists, the inventors who created the mecchas for sale to businesses, or as personal help around the home, only ever created adult looking mechanical people.

The jailer opened his cell and stepped forward, almost gliding. "Since you've never been to Twelve Mile Limit before, you are certainly in for a treat," he said, taking a pair of handcuffs and not un-forcefully pulling Samuel's arms behind his back. Samuel cringed as the metal ratcheted tightly around his wrists. "I've only ever had to use these handcuffs once before," he said. "Like I said, we rarely get people coming into Twelve Mile Limit. They're usually smart enough to realize what it is, and give us a wide berth. Which isn't really that hard. So it's always surprising when we do find people from outside."

Samuel shook his head. Twelve Mile Limit. Trust machines to come up with a name for a city as bizarre as that. But now that he'd thought about it, his curiosity was piqued. "Why do you call it Twelve Mile Limit?" he asked as he was steered through the doorway, and down a long empty hall, the heels of his boots smacking loudly against the concrete.

"It wasn't us," the jailer said. "It's..." he trailed off. "Well, you'll see in a moment when you get the official town welcome."

Welcome? That rang alarm bells in Samuel's head. But there wasn't much he could do about it, seeing how he was handcuffed. But he always had some trick up one sleeve or another.

A metal door in front of them opened as they approached. Samuel stopped, but was nudged forward out onto a metal walkway. He wished his hands weren't behind his back, that he could reach out and grab the railings on each side. His feet rang with each slow step. Far below the narrow metal path on which he inched his way forward was a stadium full of people looking upwards. He could hear the noise of chatter, like insects, as thousands of faces turned to watch his progress.

It seemed it took a lifetime to reach the end. Once they had reached the end, Samuel wished it was more than a lifetime. He stood at the edge of a platform, high above the audience. He looked down and wished he hadn't. The only thing that met his gaze was clouds.

He didn't need to ask how far the drop was. He already knew the answer.

MARS

I looked out the window at the familiar rust-red of the land, the valleys and rocks – those places that weren't taken over by the green patches of grass and trees and plants. I shook my head. "The moon?" I said in awe. "I can't imagine us landing on the moon. That's just crazy. It would be all grey. Grey and bland."

"And not to mention, not big enough for us to live on anyway," Sophie replied. "I can't believe they even considered landing on the moon. I'm just glad they changed their minds all those years ago and decided on Mars instead." She ran her hands across the wall of glass, the hallway we walked along connecting one pod to another.

"They? You mean us," I said. I liked to think of myself as an earthling, even though I'd never been there. I was first generation Martian. Our parents, they were the ones who came from earth in the late 70's. The first pioneers. I was born here, shortly after they arrived.

"No, I mean they. They're not like us. They are angry and bitter, the humans that are still on earth." Sophie said as she reached Zone F and with a swooshing of doors, stepped inside. The coolness of the walkway disappeared instantly, replaced by noticeably warmer room temperature of Zone F, the shopping district of our colony. My mother says it's what they called Malls back on Earth. I stood patiently as a bot scanned me for identification purposes. The silvery globe flashed green, and my name Kayla Edwins scrolled across it. "Welcome, to Zone F," it said. "Enjoy your shopping experience.

My sister, Sophie had already been scanned and was waiting for me a few steps away. The mall rose up vertically. Twelve floors stretched skyward. "I can't imagine us landing on the moon," I said again, ignoring Sophie's shake of her head when I said 'us'. "I mean, what's the point, we can't all fit on Mars as it is. But maybe if we had landed on the moon, maybe things would be different," I wondered out loud.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sophie said. "You just said so yourself. The moon is smaller than here, and that would just make things worse, not better!"

"But, it's closer!" I almost whined, causing Sophie to roll her eyes.

"What does that matter? You've never been there. I don't see why you'd even want to anyway..."

"Because we're from there!" I cried.

Sophie shook her head at me again, exasperated. "No we're not. We're from here. Mars. We're not Earthlings, we're Martian." She smiled at that. I knew every time she said the word, she thought back to what our mother told us about what the people on earth thought about Martians seventy or eighty years ago, that there were little green creatures with antennae, that travelled in things called flying saucers. I laughed at the ridiculous image too. We didn't have UFOs. We had space shuttles, normal looking things.

Sophie was still talking. "Besides, there's nothing on the moon anyway, that's why people who lived on earth bypassed it for here – and it's bigger too." She glanced upward at the towering floors. "Though not as big as earth, that's why we have everything going up, to save space." She talked to me as if I was a child who didn't know any of this.

"Yes, but-" my next complaint was cut off by a high pitched whine, followed by the ground shaking. I dropped to the ground, to save it throwing me down itself. People started screaming. A woman rushed past with a baby carriage, trying to push it and cover her head from falling debris. The ground shook again and a muffled boom tried to break its way into Zone F through the thick safety glass every compound was made from – to shelter and save us from the inhabitable outside atmosphere of our beautiful red planet.

Sophie grabbed my hand and dragged me back past the welcome bots into the hallway between Zone F and Zone E, one of the many Zones where people had their residences. Zones G and H was where the majority of schools were on this side of the planet.

Even as Sophie took charge, dragging me to relative safety, she asked with wide, frightened eyes, "What was that?!"

The ground shook again and Sophie fell down beside me, her eyes still wide as we watched the world outside being lit up like fireworks.

I had thought it was all a rumour, just scare mongering to stop people travelling back to earth. We were doing much better on Mars and Earth was just becoming worse and worse. Even though one third of Earth's population had migrated to Mars in the last fifty years, there was still too many people on our pale blue twin planet. That's why the first generation earthlings moved here in the first place, to give Earth a chance to survive, before they killed it entirely. But things were still going wrong. They were still damaging the environment, with too many people and not enough resources, man-made climate change effecting crops and food supply, and somehow still a population increase that meant sometimes only just enough food to feed everyone that lived there.

A large metal man filled their view, stomping heavily across the barren landscape outside the inhabited complexes.

"I get the other thing," I said, and now I repeated Sophie's question, and even though I was the younger of us, added a bit more colour, "but what the hell was that?"

The giant metal monster raised one of its arms and a blue jet of energy shot from it.

A calming female voice filtered through the hallway. We knew it was playing throughout the complex. It was the emergency warning system that they tested every so often. Except this time it wasn't a test. "This is an emergency. Please stay calm and follow these instructions."

"Do they have instructions for escaping giant metal men with energy guns?" I said as I climbed to my feet and pulled Sophie up with me. The emergency information system was advising everyone to go back to their residences and seal themselves inside their houses, locking their doors until told that the danger had passed.

Over the emergency system a male voice piped in. "Shuttle landing in operation, please stay clear of any landing pads."

Shuttle landing? There weren't any shuttles that were out right now. They usually returned from their resource gathering missions once a week, on a Sunday. It was Tuesday. So it wasn't one of ours, which could only mean one thing.

The Earthlings were attacking. I didn't blame them. I'd learned about them in school, seen pictures of what it looked like, the cities, dirty and crowded, smothered in pollution. If I was living there, I'd want to get away, too.

There were always the paranoid people ranting about an invasion from Earth, but no one believed it. Since their space program that originally got us here, and those that lived on Mars were able to make it a self-sufficient planet, we didn't need them anymore, and their funding for space travel had dried up almost as quickly as the majority of their drinkable water. So we never thought they would be a threat. Their space craft were old, not that much changed from what they were twenty years ago. They didn't have our same technology. We had become more advanced than them. The children had surpassed their parents.

But now it looked like we were at war. Real war. This wasn't a test. We had to fight back, and protect our home. There was nowhere else in our solar system that was habitable. It was just the two of us, Earth, and Mars.

But I'm pretty sure if I was one of the unlucky people still stuck on Earth that I'd want to come here too. And I'd do whatever it took, for the sake of survival. I knew I was one of the lucky ones. They had a birth limit here, because they didn't want Mars to become like Earth – overpopulated. So people were only allowed to have a certain number of children per year, to keep the number of people level, monitored.

A man ran past us screaming, ranting. "The aliens have landed! We're under attack!"

The ground shook again as another metal monstrosity clomped towards the shuttle landing area, and the shaking continued as a large armoured vehicle followed closely behind on rapidly turning wheels that crushed the red rocks underneath it to dust.

Even though we ran along one of the moving walkways to Zone E, moving quicker than just running somehow they had reached us quicker.

They wore large bulky suits and helmets that hid their faces behind dark screens. My pulse raced. A real Earthling! I thought with excitement, any fear being pushed to the back of my mind. I wondered if they really looked like us, or if we looked different to them. They were our ancestors, of sorts.

"Come on!" Sophie yelled at me, pulling my arm. But I was frozen. Curiosity rooted me to the spot. The one Earthling was joined by three others, all identical. I couldn't tell if they were men, or women, or how old they were. They formed a marching wall. I could hear a raspy muffled sound. Their breathing apparatus, I realized. They weren't used to our air, even inside. It had a different level of oxygen than what people on Earth were used to. I'd learned that much in History class.

Sophie had given up, and continued on without me, to the safety of the residential Zone. I wondered vaguely if this was how people on Earth felt centuries ago when they met new civilizations.

"Hi," I said lamely, raising my hand in greeting. Wow, what a great ambassador I am to our planet, I thought, cringing inside.

In answer the spacemen raised and pointed weapons at me. Me. Kayla. Just a normal girl who just happened to live somewhere that these people, these strangers, wanted to take.

"Take us to-" the middle one began. It was a male voice, strange and breathy through his helmet.

I laughed out loud. "Your leader?" I finished. I can't believe they used that. Even I had watched the old movies about Martians landing on Earth.

The gun shifted, pointing at my chest and I shut my mouth. I raised my hands in front of me, defensively. "Okay, okay." I went to move and then stopped. I needed to explain what I was going to do, I didn't want them to get any wrong ideas. "I'll take you to the people in charge here," I said slowly as clearly as I could. "Follow me." I turned and glanced at their reflections in the glass of the hallway.

I'd never been to Zone A before. It was where the people that ran the planet operated out of.

I stood in front of two large doors. On either side, sentry bots floated, patiently waiting. When I arrived, they moved in front of me. I waited while they scanned me.

"State your purpose," the bot on the left said in a female voice.

"I need to speak with the President," I said.

"Give us more information, Kayla Edwin," the bot on the right said, a male.

"We have...visitors from Earth who have asked to speak to our leaders."

The bots fell silent, and it looked like they seemed to glance at each other. Which is impossible.

"That is not possible," they said simultaneously.

I frowned. "Why not?"

Another long pause caused a spike of panic.

The sentinels moved back to their positions at the side of the door. "You will understand."

The Earthlings gestured for me to open the doors.

I stepped forward into a room covered in dust and occupied by skeletons. No one alive had been here for years.

### There Goes The Sun

It started off just like any other normal Thursday. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the fact I was carrying a folded cot with me. I don't usually bring that with me to work, but I today was unusual, right off the bat. Not just because I had to dig through my under the stairs storage to find the old musty cot for a co-worker who had the great idea to try 'glamping' in the middle of the Scottish summer, where it is more rain than anything else. Which would possibly explain why my cot was a bit musty. None the less, I was being a good co-worker and bringing said cot into work. Now people who know me would laugh if they saw me walk into work with a cot strapped to my back like some kind of over-enthusiastic hiker. Me, hiking? I'd be laughed out of the office! My scrawny pale and pasty chicken legs hadn't seen hide nor hair of sun or outdoor activity in a long time. Don't get me wrong, I'm an active guy, but I'm more of a gym rat...or mole, I guess you could say. I'm the guy who keeps to himself in the corner of the gym, hoping other people won't notice I'm there. In any case, going to the gym is good, because it meant I had brought a change of clothes with me that morning on the train, in a sack, folded neatly at the bottom of the old canvas sack of a backpack I used every day. Not very professional of me, I know.

Along with my usual items I always had with me: my SPF 15 lip balm that was permanently attached to my keychain that also handily doubled as a little mini-flashlight – helpful for those nights when you get home late, and can't see the keyhole to open the door; a worn and well used riddle book I used to pass the time on the commute to and from work, to save me from looking out on the dreary grey upon grey landscape that flew past. I had used that morning's Daily Herald I picked up to actually read on the train as a makeshift umbrella, as the heavens opened up. By the time I got on the train, the paper was a soggy mess, unreadable, the pages sticking together and tearing like tissue. It wasn't the end of the world, though, even though my disposable umbrella cost me almost 2 quid for ten minutes.

Because it was Thursday, and that meant sushi for lunch. But it wasn't even 9am and I was already starving. My single cup of coffee wasn't doing the trick. I took out the rectangle of pre-packaged sushi roll from my bag and grabbed the chop sticks I'd taken from where I put all spare chopsticks –next to the utensils in the drawer. Except...it wasn't chopsticks. I peeled back the paper wrapper to find a purple straw. A straw! You can't eat sushi with a single straw! I stabbed a piece of California roll with it, in the hopes of spearing it, but instead it just pushed all that imitation crab goodness out, and I was left with a ring of rice hanging on the straw.

But not being able to sample my sushi lunch on my transit in was the least of my worries. In fact, it was the last normal part of my normal Thursday. After that, things began to get weird. And I mean weirder than eating sushi skewered on a straw.

The sky had been dark and grey outside, and threatening to rain, again, which is nothing unusual in itself, of course. But then it got really dark. As in the sun has gone behind a cloud, and all the streetlights have gone out. Like everything went black. At first I thought it was the windows of the train that some curtain had been pulled down over them. But then I saw the faint outline of trees, still zooming past, dark amorphous blobs in the blackness. And that's when the screaming started, shortly after the squealing of train wheels on metal tracks. Suddenly the train had stopped, and a dull blaring alarm sounded. The doors of the train slid open and seconds later the lights went out.

That's when I was thankful for my trusty key-hole finder keychain flashlight. I twisted it and a small dot of light lead me out like a will-o-wisp onto...well, not a platform. I had to jump down out of the train onto the ground, and push my way through lost, confused and shocked passengers who were milling about aimlessly. I followed my dot of light, like a firefly leading me to...well, not safety, but at least out of the claustrophobic mass of people. Did I mention I'm not a huge people person?

I glanced up at the sky. It was as if someone had just turned off a giant light bulb, and you were left in pitch blackness. There was the stars and moon of course, but it felt different from night time. Because you knew it wasn't. It was 8:30 on Thursday morning, according to my watch. I shouldered my way through the confused crowd, thankful for the cot strapped to my back giving me more leverage.

Thank god for street lights. I made my way towards the comforting glow of civilization, leaving everyone else to fend for themselves. I never said I was a nice guy. My foot had just hit pavement when someone grabbed my arm. "What-?" I said instinctively, pulling away and suddenly wishing I had my chopsticks on me instead of a straw.

And then I stopped and relaxed. It was just a young boy. I thought he was going to ask for help, because we were quite far from the centre of the city, but thankfully on the outskirts. I glanced at my watch impatiently. I was going to definitely be late for work! And then I remembered the more immediate problem that probably meant that everyone in my office wouldn't be doing much work anyway – that's if they even noticed anything was wrong. People who worked in the IT world like me usually didn't give the outside world much thought. Another reason why I preferred to squirrel myself away in the gym instead of going outdoors for exercise.

I felt another urgent tug on my arm. "What?" I said irritably now, not having had my morning coffee yet.

"I know who you are," the boy said.

"What?" I repeated. It seemed like it was all I was all I could say. "I'm sorry, you're mistaken. I'm-". I was going to say no one, but what the boy said next froze the words in my mouth.

"I can tell from your eyes," he said.

What?! This time I thought the word, instead of spoke it. "What do you mean you can tell from my eyes?" I stared at the boy. "How do you know who I am?" I looked down at the front of my shirt. Was I wearing my work pass that had my name and job on it, with a badly lit portrait of yours truly? No.

"Well, I guess I mean, I know what you are," the boy clarified.

I continued to stare, mouth hanging open. "You can tell I work in IT by my eyes?" I was confused, and it must have shown on my face. No one else had ever guessed where I worked. I mean besides the unkempt clothes and super heroes from the 80's t-shirts. I didn't even wear glasses. "I'm sorry kid, I don't follow." I was suddenly very self-conscious about my eyes and then I realized it was pretty much dark as night and you could hardly see my eyes, let alone much else.

"I know you're a god," the boy replied.

I thought I could feel my mouth fall open further.

"I'm God?" What kind of drugs is this kid on? I echoed what was in my head.

The boy laughed. "No, not God. You're a god."

"A god?" I emphasized the singular like he had. "You mean a god of war, love, like the ancient Greeks had?"

The boy nodded.

That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Even though this Thursday started off weird, but this was just insane! I thought my brain would spill those thoughts out of my mouth, but instead it surprised me when I said, "How do you know?"

The boy smiled with a mouthful of slightly crooked teeth. "'Cuz I'm one too. That's how I know, and I can spot others like us."

My desire to continue to find an alternate way to work disappeared in light of this strange bit of news.

"You are a god?" I couldn't keep the incredulity out of my voice. "Of what? Video games?" A slightly hysterical laugh burst from me.

The boy smiled at me in a way that said he was humouring me "I'm the god of Pestilence. But I'm also who tracks down ones like you, who don't know who, or what, they are, and..." he punctuated this with a shrug, "tells them. Usually before anything like this happens." He shrugged again and had the decency to look sheepish.

If my mouth could've opened any wider, it would have. I looked him up and down. He couldn't weigh more than 90 pounds soaking wet, and he wore normal clothes that any teenage boy would – baggy jeans, and a t-shirt of what I assumed was some band I'd never heard of.

If you're the god of Pestilence then I'm the fucking Queen of England. Instead, I kept my manners and said, "Anything like what happens?"

The boy pointed up.

I followed his finger. There was nothing up-... and then it dawned on me.

I could feel my eyes grow wide. "I'm the god of the Sun?" I realized I'd raised my voice when I saw a few shadowed figures turn in my direction. "Really?" I whispered. I looked down again at my clothes, that were similar to the kids, in fact, but just a bit bigger. I didn't look, or feel, very god-like.

"Yep," the boy confirmed, rather nonchalantly. "I should've told you before now, obviously, but I didn't think this," he waved his hand lazily around, taking in the darkness that was punctuated by street lights and stars, "would happen. But," he looked me up and down, "you look fairly old-"

"Hey!" I bristled. "I'm only thirty-four!" Where was that straw when you needed it?

The boy shrugged again. "That's thirty-four years that you haven't been doing your job. Thirty-four years the sun hasn't had any help..."

"Help? The sun needs help...being the sun?"

The boy nodded. "Uh huh. Otherwise..." he trailed off and I finished his sentence for him.

"Otherwise it goes out."

He pointed his finger at me. "Exactly."

"So this is all my fault?" I said. Suddenly my normal 9 to 5 job didn't seem all that important.

"Well, a bit of mine too. I should've tracked you down before this. But finding a single person on the whole planet is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Plus, my own job keeps me quite busy."

"Yeah, causing diseases all over the place." I instinctively took a step back, as if I would catch the plague from...the causer of plagues.

The god of Pestilence glanced at his watch. "C'mon, we better get this fixed. You can't have a planet to infect with disease for very long if there isn't the sun to keep everyone alive and happy." He turned and started to walk away.

I jogged to catch up. "So where are we going? Mount Olympus or something?"

The boy laughed. "That's just a myth. We're going down."

"Down?"

"Inside the earth. That's where we live."

I gripped the purple straw, a better weapon that nothing. This Thursday was just getting weirder and weirder.

### UP, UP AND AWAY

"You do realize Sherlock Holmes was not a superhero," he said to me as I adjusted the deer stalker hat on my head, as I looked at my reflection in the full length mirror in my hallway. I glanced at him in the mirror and caught his derisive look.

"Well, he kind of was..." I said, straightening my waistcoat. "I don't know why people don't wear vests anymore." I turned around to admire the purple silk back.

"Well, you look ridiculous in the hat," the man behind me in the mirror said. "And he didn't actually wear a stupid hat like that in the books, thankfully."

I sneered at him through the mirror, and reluctantly removed the hat and flung it on the bed. "And you don't look ridiculous?" I said, jabbing a finger in his direction at his purple and black skin-tight outfit. "But how are people going to recognize me as a detective!" I said with an exaggerated pout. "Someone needs to solve this mystery. Why not me?"

"Because you're not a trained detective, for one," said my companion. "

"This costume is a lot more comfortable than what we usually wear," I said, taking a deep breath inwards. "It's not as constricting."

"They aren't costumes, they're uniforms!" My colleague said. I could almost see him bristling with indignation.

"Well so is this," I said, turning back to the dashing figure in the mirror. "I need to do something. Don't you feel like you need to help?"

"I do enough helping every day and night," my friend said. "And so do you. That's our jobs. That's what we use our gifts for. To help the helpless citizens when they can't themselves. That's why we have these powers. As if to demonstrate, briefly I saw his purple-black outfit begin to vibrate and blur, and a high-pitched whine filled the air. Instinctively, I dove away from the mirror, taking shelter beside my bed just as the mirror shattered and exploded in a million pieces.

"Stop!" I yelled, as I watched the window of my bedroom begin to vibrate dangerously. "You don't need to do that here!" I jumped up from my hiding place and lifted my hands protectively. I felt the familiar sensation of heat and tingling run down my arms and out my palms. Then I saw Hedgehog fly backwards and slam into the chest of drawers on the far side of the room.

I ran to the rescue, and felt a button on my vest pop off as I did. "Sorry Hedge," I said, offering my hand to pull him up.

He glared at me. "You know I hate that nickname!" he said with a grimace as he took my hand and I helped him stand.

"Hey, it's not my fault," I shrugged, admiring the fresh damage to the antique wooden dresser. "I didn't come up with the name Sonic Boom. Hedgehog is much better," I flashed a smile but suppressed the laugh that threatened to follow it.

Sonic gave me another dirty look. "It's not my fault that's my gift," he said.

"Powers," I repeated. "They're called powers," I said distractedly as I examined where the button had fallen off my vest as it pulled across me when I ran. "I think I see why we wear what we do."

"Well, what is your big idea, Mr Holmes," Sonic said "How do you plan to stop the murders?"

That was the mystery I intended to solve. For the last week, one of us was being targeted, and killed. Well, the news was reporting all the deaths as suicides, but I knew that all of the superheroes had been framed and their deaths cleverly designed to look as if each person had killed themselves. But I knew that couldn't be. We loved what we did. We all loved our jobs, even though we were tired. After all, being a superhero doesn't really pay the bills. We all had day jobs too. But that's why we did our superheroing on rotation. We each did a week of helping the poor, unfortunate, taken advantage of citizens, and took a week off work so we wouldn't be running on empty fighting crime. Tonight was my first shift, and I was glad. Being a server at a restaurant was an exhausting job. I'd much rather be disposing of the darkness that plagued each and every city.

Even though I wasn't sure how my powers of a protective force field would help solve anything. And maybe disguised as Sherlock Holmes instead of wearing my usual uniform of navy blue, with tall knee-high navy boots and charcoal grey face mask, would help me find the answers. My Force outfit was simple and understated, just how I liked it, not overly flashy like a lot of us out there on the streets.

I switched on the TV and flicked to the news. Sonic came to stand beside me and we watched with horror and disgust as we saw Amber Flame's face appear on-screen. Her bright red hair was unmistakable. She was on duty last night. But she was found this morning in her bed, next to a bottle of pills. I guess her explosive ball of flame powers could only do so much...

"Who could be doing all of this?" Sonic asked as he turned away from the TV and looked out across the city. It seemed so different in the daytime with the sun shining and birds chirping. At night it became an entirely different beast, one that I felt more comfortable in. During the day we stood out, even as our regular-joe selves, you felt people were watching you. At night, you felt safe, protected.

Even us superheroes felt vulnerable sometimes but we had our powers to help give us courage and strength.

"I don't know, but I plan to find out. You with me?"

Hedge nodded.

I took a deep breath, grabbed the hat from the bed and tugged it on. "Let's go."

### The Valley of Death

I always thought those people who stood on street corners and smelled like ripe cheese that ranted about the end of the world were, y'know, totally bonkers. When I woke this morning to a knock at my door and Death on my doorstep I started to believe maybe they weren't so crazy after all...or that maybe I was. "Come with me," Death said as he led me by the hand to survey all that was left of everything that I, and everyone else, had ever known: nothing.

### THE Archive

Armistice Wells knew he was going to die today. He just had that feeling. His hand shook as he wrote the second, and final, note that he wrapped around the energy gun he always kept on him now, more for peace of mind than anything. His fingers shook as he tied the piece of string to secure the note onto his gun.

He sighed and strapped the gun securely into his harness, making sure not to accidentally hit any of the cables that kept his wings currently folded neatly on his back. He had always wanted to be a flier, and he was lucky, because his father had been one, and that's how it worked. It ran in your family. He didn't know of anyone who was a flier who didn't love it. Armistice knew he would be unhappy in any other job. Flying was the one thing that made sense when you were on the top of the world – or at least the top of your world, where you lived, the only one that mattered. From the top, on a clear day you could see for miles in all directions across the United American Empire. When he was younger, he used to love to sit within the barriers, right up against the guard rail that protected you from the sheer drop, six tall levels, with the seventh hidden underground, and watch the airships glide by in the distance like swollen cocoons. He loved to watch them dock at the piers, one on each of the four sides of the city, and watch them unload their goods, like the sailors he read about. From the top of the city, he could just see a sliver of silver on the horizon that indicated the ocean.

But now, fifty years later, the airships had lost their appeal; they were nothing special, just an everyday occurrence. But flying never had. He loved the adrenaline rush of taking a running leap off the edge into nothingness, and letting the wings open up and out lifting you, with steam powered assistance if necessary, and then drifting downwards, to deliver your messages to the people below, in the Middle.

Armistice had loved his life, and his job, until he was snatched away from it all, like a butterfly caught in a net. He had believed once you were a flier, you were one forever. But the Elders at the ArcHive had different ideas. They said there were too many messengers, and that keeping the ArcHive going was more important, that it was above all else.

Armistice had seen the ArcHive buildings, of course. They dominated the middle of the topmost level of the city, where he lived. They were just like their name sake – a cluster of domes, like the hive of an insect, but inside was housed the history of the Empire. Not just the general histories – the wars, the Emperors, the Coalition, but the histories of every single living, breathing person, as they lived, their lives were recorded. Years ago it had been noted down in books by automatons, who would never tire, never cramp, never complain, and could download the information that was streamed from the tiny chips embedded in every person, the moment they were born, that recorded their lives, their experiences, as they lived. But the ArcHive quickly began to fill up with large, paper volumes. But then the Computing Machines were invented and information was transferred almost magically onto them, and whole volumes were saved onto paper thin discs that were shelved next to the ancient leather bound books.

Armistice had just about begun his run towards the edge of the building that didn't have a barrier, the jumping off point for winged messengers, when a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned and looked into the hooded face of a robed Elder. He recognized him as being from the ArcHive. "We need your help," the man said sombrely, managing somehow to turn Armistice away from his running path.

"Why me?" Armistice said, confusion creasing his features. His wings were still lowered across his back. He only had to press a single button to eject them outwards.

"The Fate of the Empire lies in our hands, and we need help to keep it going. If we do not have a history, we do not have a nation, we do not have anything."

"But-" Armistice's wings rustled in a slight breeze.

The robed figured interrupted him. "The Master Elder has instructed me to bring you to us. You need to help us maintain the records. Maintain the scribe-bots, and keep them functioning, ensure records are filed correctly."

"But I'm not a New Alchemist! I don't know how to fix anything!" He lied. He did know how to fix one thing – his wings. But he was taught how to do that by his Father, as he was by his. His wings were literally and figuratively his life. He had to make sure they were in perfect condition. To neglect them meant death.

"We will show you how to fix the bots when they break, how to file the records in their places. We will show you everything you need to know." The man in the white Monk's robe said. "Look," the Elder said, pointing to one of Armistice's colleagues who had positioned himself at the end of the launch lane, and started pumping his legs like pistons, and at the last moment, loosed his wings which arced upwards gracefully just as his feet left the edge of the top. "You see? There are too many of you." Beyond the man that had just become airborne, Armistice could see other winged men in white flying, floating and fluttering in the sky – and this was just on the one side of the city – there were three others.

Shoulders slumped, and head drooping, looking everything like an Angel being ejected from Heaven, Armistice Wells was forced into serving the ArcHive.

He shook his head, as he walked along the barrier fence, his fingers rising and falling up and down the wrought iron spikes that topped each post. He looked longingly out over the edge of his world, at his old life, as he did every morning on his way to the ArcHive. He couldn't believe it had been five years. Five long years. Five years of trying to escape. Doing little things, controversial things, to show the Elders he was unnecessary, that he could be released from their net back into his old life. He could feel their eyes on him as he walked up and down the rows of shelves that filled the honeycomb rooms, and when he called a scribe bot over to him, to inspect it, after observing its behaviour or its work. He could hear the whispers of the Elders behind his back, and could see them shaking their hooded heads out of the corner of his eyes as they pointed at the wings he still wore every day despite not being able to fly to deliver necessities to the lower levels of the city.

Armistice had just reached the last post before the flying gap when a hand fell heavy on his shoulder. He didn't turn to see who it was. He already knew.

"You disobey us," the soft, unthreatening voice said. "In small ways, you shirk your duties; you flaunt your supposed superiority. You still do not understand the importance of what you do, of what we are all doing. Without it-"

"Without it we are nothing." Armistice finished the sentence. "Yes, I know, so you keep saying." He could see how important they thought they were, with the whitewashed honeycomb building taking up a huge piece of real-estate in the finite space that the enclosed tower city had.

There was silence. It dragged on so long that Armistice turned to look at the Elder who had been speaking with him, a question on his lips.

Suddenly he was flying again, but not of his own volition. The wind whipped past him, cold and biting. The surprise of this change of circumstance delayed his reaction. He hadn't prepared himself. His hands fumbled for the button to release his wings. The rush of the wind past him as he fell brought tears to his eyes. He smiled widely. Armistice had had a feeling in his bones.

#

He had seen his fair share of dead bodies, living in The Roots it was inevitable, but Martin Knightsbridge had never seen one that had fallen from the sky with wings sprouting from its back. To be honest, he hadn't seen this one. Fall that is; but he saw it after, because it took his entire audience's hard earned attention away in an instant and the crowd that had gathered around him suddenly moved en masse to crowd around the crumpled body that lay outside one of the arched entrances to their part of The Tree.

He heard hushed voices "It's from the Branches," he heard someone whisper. "Look at how it's dressed," said another, prodding the clean white trousers of the unfortunate soul with a grubby shoe. The man was wearing entirely white from head to toe – white short cut jacket, over a shiny white waist coat overtop of a white button-down shirt that was tucked into white trousers, now with a dark smudge on one of his shoes from the intrusion of a dirty Roots shoe.

"Those Upper people are ridiculous with their fads," said a third, a man, Martin noticed, who was covered in brightly coloured tattoos. A middling, he thought, shaking his head and smiling at the hypocrisy of the stranger's statement. He had heard rumours that people from The Trunk liked bright, garish things, supposedly as a way to distance themselves from people like him; people that lived underneath. Those in the middle levels were unlike everyone below in the Roots who favoured more subdued...everything – clothes, personalities, jobs. Martin briefly wondered what someone from The Trunk was doing down here in the below, but then noticed the bag slung sideways across his chest and hanging at his side. Of course, that explained it. He was a messenger. As a messenger, the man with the jumble of tattoos on his arms underneath a vivid yellow top and bright red trousers and matching canary and crimson shoes was one of the only people allowed to travel between the layers of The Tree.

Martin sighed and began packing up his stall, removing the banner that hung above him proclaiming that he was the one and only Marius the Magician. There was no way to get people interested in his magic now, not now with this new visitor to their part of the city. People would be talking about now for at least a few days. Through gaps in the crowd, Martin could see people inspecting the person's wings, tugging and pulling, and Martin was sure, the poor man would be lightened of any jewellery or valuables he may have had.

He rolled up the banner, folded up the small table down into a portable size, pocketed the kerchief that contained a paltry amount of coins, and was all set to ignore all the and walk right by the man who had elicited such interest, when something glinted, catching his eye.

Martin had never cared about the other levels. He was born in the Roots, and he knew that was where he had to stay. There was no way around it. That's just how it was. The Golems were a pretty definitive answer to those who questioned their status. People like him were born into the Roots, the lowest level of Tree, and other people were luckier, those that were born in the Middle levels, affectionately called the Trunk. And if you were especially blessed, you'd be born in the top levels, what everyone down here often in bitter tones called the Branches. Sure, it would be nice to have a bit more money, but Martin couldn't complain, not too much. He had already managed to move into a new abode in the Second Level. He was literally moving up in the world. It was far better than the lower level, the very bottom, where there was nothing much, including hope. At least in the second level, they had windows that let in actual daylight from the outside world, and not the sickly watery glow from fireflies trapped in glass. The top level of the Roots also had entrance gates to Outside of Tree altogether, which is where this sudden visitor had appeared and stolen his dinner money. And the money Martin earned here as a Magician would buy him more than watery stew and a stale, often mouldy, chunk of bread. He was as happy as he'd ever remembered. Even though the law stated he could never move further than the second level; could never become a Middling, just as a Middling could never become one of the people who live in the top Branches, he was content.

People around the body had begun to thin as the curiosity and novelty began to wear off. In the distance Martin could hear the loud piercing whistles of the police, above the rattle of carriage wheels. Martin jumped at the noise as the sound of hooves became louder. He still hadn't gotten used to the fact that people at this level travelled by carriage. Below, he'd spent his life walking everywhere, just like everyone else. It seemed each level had its perks and privileges.

Martin casually inched forward toward the victim, as if he was just taking a curious, morbid interest like the rest. It was an older man with a shock of white hair surrounding a bald spot, his head bent unnaturally to one side, underneath a jumble of polished brass and large thin feathers made of some kind of stiff material. He leaned down peering at the man's clothes which had a strange shimmering quality. He'd never seen anything like it. Even on the second level, people wore earthy colours – browns, beiges, greys, greens.

He saw out of the corner of his eye the messenger was still hanging around, his red trousers and bright images inked on his skin were almost like a beacon. He stood out as a foreigner.

Another long whistle pierced the chatter of pedestrians on the street, and Martin knew he had to act fast. He leaned down as if admiring the sleeve of the man's shirt, and quickly slipped the object he'd seen as people milled about the winged man up his sleeve. Being an illusionist came in handy sometimes, and glancing over his shoulder, Martin was confident no one had seen him take the thing that glittered at him like it was calling him.

"What's happened here?" a gruff voice shouted loudly from above.

"Oh!" Martin jumped and almost head butted the officer's horse. "You startled me, Sir, Officer."

The man peered down at him with small, dark eyes. "So I see," he said. "Now," he leaned to look around his horse, and lifted the visor of his hat slightly, "what do we have here? It looks like we have someone from above." The officer turned to one of his companions. "Oooeee, look at those nice threads! Do you see that?"

The second officer nodded and then shook his head, clucking his tongue. "Look at those wings. Those Uppers and their crazy inventions. Obviously this one didn't work too well."

Martin nodded vigorously, feeling like an ant under a spyglass. "Well, sirs, I'll get out of your way, I was just packing up my things," he lifted the folded table draped with the purple banner up by way of explanation. "All my customers were distracted by this...gentleman paying us a visit." Martin didn't know if the man was actually a gentleman or not, but seeing how he was from above meant that he was rich, and that automatically made him a gentleman in Martin's books.

The officer barely gave Martin a second glance, "yes, yes, go on," he said, waving a dismissive hand in Martin's general direction.

"Wait!" the second officer shouted, raising his energy gun and point it squarely at Martin. "He looks familiar."

The officer in charge looked over his shoulder. "Does he?" his eyes barely registered Martin and took in his things. "Oh he's just one of those street mages," he said, turning away again and looking instead at the victim.

Street mage! Martin bristled at the insult. He was more than just a common street mage, he was a full-fledged illusionist! But the second policeman's energy gun popped and crackled with flickers of blue electricity, and Martin decided he valued his life more than his dignity.

Martin took the cue without another word and slipped away through the scattered crowd of on lookers. He realized he was holding his breath only when he stumbled upon one of the Golem guards, and tried to let out a startled scream, but his breath came out in a whoosh instead. He hated the Golems, even though they had never done anything to him. They gave him shivers each time, so he avoided looking at them if he could, especially in the dark holes of their eyes. They just looked so...unalive that he felt like he was looking at the dead encased in metal.

The metal Golem turned to stare at him, holding its large energy gun across its chest. It stood stoically in front of one of the lifts that lead to the Middle two levels of the Tree. "How are y-," he started, but swallowed the greeting. When he got nervous, he started to ramble. And emotionless automatons holding weapons made him nervous. He was never sure if the person trapped inside was man or woman, not that it mattered. It would have been horrible for anyone to be voluntarily stuck inside a hunk of man-shaped metal, and moving around with the help of steam and levers. He also knew they rarely spoke through the perpetual grimace that the mouth grille gave them, so even if he spoke to them, they would just stare back at him through a tinted window where the person inside could look out clearly, but anyone looking back just saw unnerving darkness.

"Excuse me!" a voice piped up behind him. Martin jumped, his heart pounding in his chest. It was the delivery man, with his bright clothes and satchel across his body. Martin smiled at him nervously and stepped out of the way as the Messenger showed the Golem his credentials. Only then did the guard move out of the way of the lift door, the metal ratcheting noisily and the accordion gate closing with a rattle and clang behind him. The messenger flashed a smile, straight white teeth under a neatly trimmed moustache and waved his pass tauntingly in front of Martin before the lift took him up into the unknown and Martin was suddenly self-conscious of his own smile and closed his mouth over yellowed teeth.

Martin had never seen a real tree, having been born underground, and none of the people in the Roots were allowed to leave without penalty, but he'd seen pictures of trees in books, and he was pretty sure that the seven level city, that everyone called the Tree, did not resemble anything of the sort.

He shook his head, and continued on his way through the dim cobble stoned streets that were only slightly brighter punctuated by the odd street lamp than the bottom-most level. Only when he'd closed the door behind him did he open his palm to reveal the item he had hidden in his sleeve.

He fumbled for the dial on the gas lamp on the small table in the foyer to examine the thing that filled his palm. A scrap of paper was wrapped around it and tied with a piece of string. Martin tugged the string free and was about to throw the paper aside when he noticed black marks on the underside – writing – just three words. "It wasn't me," Martin read aloud. He shrugged and tossed the paper to the table, his attention drawn by the silver thing that glittered with a cold light. It was a gun with an energy coil spiralled around the muzzle. He flinched and almost dropped it. He'd never even held, let alone used, an energy gun. They were forbidden. Only certain people were allowed to carry them, mainly those in the military, but you rarely saw them down in the Roots, the Armies were all from the Upper Branches, or Golem guards. You had to be important to be protected by people with energy guns. Or if you weren't important, you were more likely to be on the receiving end of a gun if you were caught disobeying the law or trying to leave your level.

"Get a hold of yourself," he whispered under his breath. "You're Marius the Magician for Emperor's-sake!" Marius. It was who he became when he didn't want to be plain, boring Martin. He was still wearing his outfit, after all, and the half mask he wore over his face so children wouldn't pester him in the streets to do illusions when all he wanted to do was look for a new brooch to secure his cloak or get up early to get the best pick of vegetables at the daily market.

He held the gun away from him, willing his hands to stop shaking. He moved his finger over the button on the side of the handle, the trigger, and with a steadying breath, pressed it. He'd expected the buzz and flares of blue of live electricity to jump from the coils on the outside that charged the muzzle and allowed the gun to shoot streams of electricity, but there was nothing. He pressed the button again, harder this time. Still nothing.

As he cautiously shook the gun, he noticed the outline of a rectangle in the handle. He ran a thumb around and came across a raised tab that flicked open. He was expecting to get some idea of why the gun wasn't functioning. Instead something fell out and clattered to the stone floor.

It was something else wrapped tightly within a piece of paper. This time he unfolded it carefully revealing a small silver key, and a larger message written on paper torn from a notebook.

The writing was small and cramped and messy.

My name is Armistice-

"Armistice! What kind of ridiculous name is that?" Martin wondered aloud shaking his head. It seemed the higher up in Tree you went, the stranger people became.

My name is Armistice Wells, and if you've found this then you must use this key to expose the lies and secrets that the government has kept from all of us. Kept all of us in the dark, in order to protect us they say. But in reality, they are hurting us, and soon we will start dying. They are stopping all airships, turning them away and not allowing them to dock, even to deliver supplies from other areas of the Empire. They say we need to become self-sufficient.

That we need to make our own food. I have a feeling they are trying to get rid of us, to shut down the top levels. We are unnecessary; we are wasting space, being too frivolous. It's the middle and lower levels that run the city, not any of us in our nice clothes and our past times. We don't need to do anything; we live off the rest of the Tree. We are disposable in their eyes. You will know this if you have found my first note. It is how they protect the ArcHive. At all costs, it must be protected, they say. It is the heart of everything. But they can't see that how they are doing the opposite of protecting, and instead harming people. If they see that people are doing the wrong things, what they," this word was under lined darkly, "perceive to be the wrong thing, they interfere."

Martin's eyes skimmed the words hurriedly trying to absorb this strange message. The ArcHive?

He scanned the page again. Did he really just read what he thought he had? His eye fell on the word he was looking for. He hadn't imagined it. "Airships?" he said with awe. "Airships are real?"

Martin had never really had any real ambition. Besides getting money to put food in his belly, that was. He had seen death too much and didn't want to be one of the many that were literally swept off the street by street cleaners like so much rubbish. That was a goal enough for him.

But holding the silver key in his left hand, and Armistice Wells' letter in the other, he realized there was something more than just doing illusions in the street for kids with nothing better to do than try and steal what few coins audience members felt charitable enough to throw into the ragged hat he placed on the ground in front of his makeshift stall.

I need to go to the Branches. On autopilot he made his way to the kitchen, turning on gas lamps here and there as he went. "But first thing's first," he said grabbing the kettle from the stove top and filling it, "a nice cup of tea." He sat at the small square table that took up most of the space in the small kitchen while he waited for the kettle's familiar, comforting whistle. "I need to find what this key belongs to." Really, what he wanted to do was to see an airship. He'd read about them, just like he had of real trees, but had never been outside of the walled towering city. Curiosity burned inside him. He re-read the letter again, and twisted the key through his fingers like a baton. He had to find a way to get to the top. "I need to find out about this secret Armistice wrote about," Martin said to his tea, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the side of the mug. "Whatever it is, he died because of it."

He gulped down his tea when it was a drinkable temperature, changed out of his Illusionist outfit and into something less remarkable and left in a rush for the one place he didn't really want to go. The lift to the Middle. He nervously and awkwardly made an attempt to wave at the Golem staring at him, he assumed, and holding the energy by its side like it was simply a cane to support oneself, and not a highly charged weapon.

He didn't have to wait long. Soon the lift descended, and in it was exactly what he was looking for: a Messenger.

The gate opened and the man, the same one as before, stepped out without acknowledging Martin's existence.

The man strode past Martin without so much as a glance, and Martin lunged at him, grabbing a tattooed arm. "Excuse me," he said, apologetically as the man threw a scowl at him. "I'm sorry, I was just curious, could I take a look at your...um, pass, uh, thing? I want to become a Messenger, and I'm just curious what sort of things they ask for on your credentials." He tried to peek at the small booklet that the messenger showed the Golem, but the man snapped it shut hastily, as he took in Martin's drab beige pants and brown tunic with a look of contempt. "You can't," he said simply. He gave Martin that look: the one that said we know you're not from here, we know you're not one of us. Martin remembered the stories his parents, and he was sure countless other parents told their children to scare them away from finding a way up to the Middle where they didn't belong – it was a bad place, an alien place. And Martin was just fine where he was. He'd had no reason to want to leave the Roots. But the words of Armistice's letter burned in his brain and under his skin.

"Why not?"

"Because," the man said. Martin thought he would continue, but instead he continued walking, his delivery bag swinging slightly with each step.

"Dammit," Martin muttered under his breath. Being normal Martin Knightsbridge wasn't getting him anywhere. He needed to become Marius the Magician. He needed some magic. Or, if not strictly magic, a little something that would get him what he wanted.

He ran up to the man and tapped him twice on the shoulder, and then leaned down quickly towards the dark, often slippery cobbles. He popped back up quickly like a spring, causing the colourful man to jump. Martin held out a piece of paper, folded into a neat, tight square. "I think you dropped this," he said, the square resting in his palm. He flexed his hand slightly and the square grew, and puffed out, until it was a small balloon, that hovered an inch or two above Martin's hand.

This did the trick. The man leaned forward, dumbstruck. "That's not-" he began, but then stopped, taking a step forward and leaning in to peer at the little paper balloon that bobbed gently. "How in the Empire-?" the man stated, reaching a hand out. Martin had worked his magic, and then worked some more. As the man was admiring his simple trick, Martin slipped his hand into the man's trousers and withdrew his credentials, and silently placed it in his own pocket. "Oh, you mean this isn't yours? Sorry, I thought I saw you drop it. Here, you can have it anyway." Martin wrapped his fingers gently around the paper-balloon and gave it to the man. The man stared at the tight square of paper the balloon had become once more, and looked glum. "What happened?" The man looked like a pouting child.

Martin shrugged. "No idea. Sorry to bother you," he gave a curt nod and resisted the urge to run. Only when the man had begun to walk away, still glancing distractedly at the paper, did Martin walk quickly in the opposite direction. He turned down a narrow alley and up an even narrower one, before stopping under a street lamp to look at his pilfered prize. It had a photo of the man's face, his name, where he was from, and as a watermark behind it all, the Emperor of the United American Empire's Seal – a purple lion rearing up on hind legs. Martin rubbed the paper between his fingers. "It shouldn't be too hard to forge," he said. "As long as you know the right people." And being an illusionist, you got to meet a lot of different people, some right people, some wrong people, and most of the time people who you could ask for favours because they had asked him to perform at their child's birthday, or at the grand opening of some shoe maker's shop. Martin did these with aplomb and grace, never asking for anything in return, at the time, as he knew that he could then ask favours of them when he really needed help. Like now. He took out his pocket watch as he slipped the passport away. You never knew what the time was down here; there was no sun to mark the hours.

The shop was closing in ten minutes. He ran. When he reached the door he was so out of breath he could barely open it. Being a magician didn't require being physically fit.

"I'm sorry, we're just closing," said a muffled voice floating up from behind a counter. A man with hair that seemed determined to leave his head popped into view. "Oh, Martin, it's just you."

Just me. Martin thought glumly. Of course, when I'm just regular Martin, I'm not important. He pushed the negative thoughts aside and plastered on a smile. "Yes, Jeffrey, it's just me. I'm wondering if you'd be able to do me a favour. Since I've done your three kid's parties this year, at no extra charge."

"Oh yes, of course!" Jeffrey said, slapping a stack of paper down on the counter and lifting up an ink roller. "How can I help?"

Martin handed over the messenger's identification. "Would you be able to replicate this?"

Jeffrey looked at it, punctuating his examination with hmmms and grunts and vigorous nods. "Yes, I think it's doable. We definitely have the paper stock, and I can match the inks, and the colour of the Emperor's seal, most definitely. You'd need to get your photograph taken, of course."

"Of course." He knew a photographer that owed him a favour after entertaining her overbearing mother-in-law to give the woman and her husband some well needed time away. "How long will it take?"

"I can get started on it right now," Jeffrey said, coming up beside Martin to flip the open sign on the door to closed. "If you come by tomorrow morning, just as we open it'll be ready then."

Martin shook Jeffrey's hands heartily. "Thank you! You don't know what this means."

Jeffrey smiled with a twinkle in his eye. "No, I'm sure I don't. You'll behave yourself though, won't you Martin?"

Martin didn't like to lie, so instead just gave the printer a smile before taking his leave.

#

If the sun had been visible in the Roots, it would have barely skimmed the roofs of the houses and shops, but as it was, Martin left the shop with an identical Messenger's pass in hand, minus the photograph, even before the Open sign was turned over to welcome the day's customers, and he wended his way through early morning shoppers and made his way to the photographer's shop just as the shop keeper was propping the door open with a tinkling of a small bell above the door.

The woman smiled. "Martin, how nice to see you! Are you here for a photograph?"

Besides the Lifts, this was the second place that Martin disliked coming, and he'd only been once before. The photo-bots unnerved him, so he avoided photography shops at all costs. "Yes," he said, handing over his forged booklet, and the messenger's original so they would know how to take the picture.

"Okay," she nodded, pointing further into the room. "You know the drill."

Martin indeed knew the drill. He had to stay stock still and look straight ahead, a deadpan expression on his face – no smiling allowed. There was a single stool in the middle of the room, and Martin perched uncomfortably on the edge. The bot appeared silently out of nowhere, like a giant metallic insect – a perfectly spherical insect that hummed and buzzed as it floated up to Martin and stared at him with one large lens-eye. He always felt like it was scrutinizing him, like the camera could look into his soul, and if he stared at it too long, that it would steal his soul. He opened his mouth to speak but the camera-bot flashed an angry red light at him, and something clicked and snapped inside its sleek silver body.

Martin thought he'd feel better about it if it had wings, like the dead man that had disrupted a perfectly normal Thursday. Even if the wings were just for show. It was eerie, the way it just hovered and floated, like a metal soap bubble. Martin tried to un-focus his eyes and look through the camera, as it looked at him. And then it blinked, and blinked a green light at him. The photo was done and Martin almost leapt off the chair. The camera floated away following the woman into the back of the shop. "I'll be back in a flash!" she said with a giggle, disappearing into the gloom.

Martin admired a collection of photographs that hung on the wall, all of different areas of the Roots. He paused to look at his favourite of the large ornate fountains in some of the squares – the octopus with water spouting from the ends of its twisted tentacles. The picture was vivid and seemed as if it was jumping out of the frame towards him. He moved on to admire a second photo of another landmark in the Roots: this one of an area of the lower level – the firefly farm, where they bred fireflies for all the lamps and lighting in the lower area – they weren't worthy of actual gas lamps, or so whoever ran Tree thought. The photo captured the eerie green glow of the lightning bugs, as they flew underneath the large glass dome that housed them. It was like an iridescent bubble. Martin moved to look at a third picture on the wall, but was suddenly surrounded by a swarm of cameras.

"Shoo!" the woman shouted, waving her hand about as if they were pesky house flies. They scattered with angry buzzing, seeming to glare, Martin thought, at the shop owner with their single lens-eyes.

"Sorry about that," she apologized. "They have a mind of their own sometimes it seems, they're curious. I think the New Alchemist who made them, made them a bit too intelligent for their own good, sometimes," she said with a light laugh and a shake of her head.

Martin wasn't sure he'd be able to laugh off the ministrations of one of the inventors that belonged to the Society of New Alchemy – they did strange, bizarre things with steam and gears and metal. They worked a sort of magic he didn't understand, and didn't trust. Like the cameras that were now clustered together at the other end of the room, he was sure were watching him, as he watched them, warily.

He was so busy glaring at the little things that he didn't notice the booklets the woman held out for him. "Oh, I'm sorry! I was just distracted by..." he gave a curt nod in their direction.

The woman laughed again. "I understand. They do take some getting used to."

He made his way through the streets that had burst to life from the peace and quiet they had been moments before. He flipped open his copy of the messenger ID and smiled. It looked identical to real one. He would be able to get to the top of the Tree!

He was so preoccupied with looking at his photo and the watermark of the Emperor that only after the loud shout from the carriage driver followed by the crack of whip caused him to look up and jump back out of the way of the carriage that was heading straight for him.

"Watch where you're walking!" the driver, perched high on his bench at the front of the vehicle released one hand from the reins and made a vulgar gesture.

He arrived at the lift, his heart in his throat as he flashed the pass. Seconds stretched into an eternity before the golem stepped aside with an almost imperceptible nod and he was on the platform and moving up even before he could release his breath. Clutching the key tightly in his right hand with visions of airships floating through his head, Martin was startled when the lift stopped and deposited him in what was obviously the Middle – he'd never seen so much light, and brightness!

The lift door slid open. "Uh, excuse me," he said to a golem guard identical to the last in an unnerving way. "But I need to continue to the top of the city."

The Golem swivelled its metal head on large metal shoulders and, Martin assumed, looked at the pass he held out. The mouth grate opened, and a single word floated from the gap. "No."

Martin's jaw fell and disappointment hit him like a punch to the gut. "No? What do you mean no? I'm a messenger! See?" he waved the paper emphatically in front of those empty eyes.

"That is only for Messengers between the Middle and Roots," the metal thing said matter-of-factly.

"But, but-" Martin stuttered, at a loss. This was unexpected. "But I need to deliver something to the top! How do I get there?"

"There is no lift to the top," the golem explained. Whoever was inside this metal suit at least had some patience. "To make deliveries between here and the top, you have to fly." It seemed like the automaton was looking him up and down. "And you are not a pilot."

"Fly?" Martin's heart seemed to have found a new home in his throat.

A large metal arm lifted and pointed. Martin followed it to large arches that opened to the sky at regular intervals.

He made his way to the hole in the wall on feet that felt made of concrete. He gripped the edge of one of the holes with white knuckles and peered out, squinting against the brightness. In the sky he saw men who looked just like Armistice Wells, with large wings made of a white material, and strapped to their backs with a harness, struts made of brass and copper glinting blindingly when the sun hit them. Most flew gracefully with long, smooth strokes of their man made wings, catching updrafts that swirled close to the walls of the city.

Martin tried to look up, to see how far up the Branches actually were, but vertigo caused a wave of nausea to roll up from the bottom of his stomach and he quickly squeezed his eyes shut.

He moved back to the Golem, the concrete grip on his feet crumbling the further he went from the gaping hole to the outside.

"So if I want to get to the top?"

The golem shook its head again. "That's impossible. You can't. You aren't a flier."

"How do you become one?"

"You're born."

Born? Martin had a vision of being hatched out of some strange human sized egg, like a strange bird and bit back a laugh.

Even though the Golem had no expression on its blank metal face, it seemed to take offence. Its mouth grille opened again. "By that I mean, you are born into it, it's in your family. It's passed down, father to son. Inherited."

"Oh," said Martin, deflated. He squeezed the key in his hand so that it bit painfully into his palm. He had his mission. To find out what Armistice Wells had been talking about, this ArcHive.

"Well, I need to get to the Branches. Is there any way for me to do that?"

In the distance there was shouting and Martin and the Golem looked in the direction of the disturbance. The Golem raised its energy gun. Martin looked and at first couldn't see what the guard was pointing at, he wasn't used to the brightness of white-washed buildings instead of the familiar dark, sooty gloom of the Roots, but finally the white robed figures came into view and once he could see them, racing towards him, that's all he noticed.

"Uh oh," the Golem with a note of worry in its voice as the hum of his energy gun built up and Martin saw the pop and fizz of electricity dance across its muzzle.

Uh oh? Martin had never heard a Golem say uh oh before. "What do you mean uh oh? Who are those people, and why are they heading towards us?"

"They aren't heading to us, they are heading to you."

"Me?" Martin's voice came out in a high pitched squeak as if it were too frightened to even leave his throat. He felt suddenly vulnerable without any form of protection. He didn't even have any of his magic props on him that he could use for defence. Like the box of matches he used to light the toy air ship on fire.

"I know I haven't done anything wrong in my life. You must be doing something they don't like if they're looking for you."

"Who are they," Martin said, moving behind the imposing bulk of the guard.

"You don't know?" the guard said, sounding amazed and at the same time irritated. "Let me out of here, and follow me and I'll explain. I'm not allowed to use my gun on them, anyway, so I can't really protect you."

From his hiding place behind the Golem, Martin was positioned right in front of the large latches that ran down the back of the suit of armour. He worked the latches quickly, only half wondering if undoing a corset would be as easy as this. The last one undone he flung open the two sides, and came face to face with a slender girl in her mid-twenties with large blue eyes and long dark hair tied back from her head to save it getting caught in any of the moving mechanisms. She wore skin tight bright blue trousers and a slim fitting sleeveless canary yellow top, her exposed arms dotted and scarred with steam burns.

She stared at him. "Well, what are you waiting for? Help me down from here!" She sat on padded chair and reached her arms toward him.

He grabbed her hands and pulled her out and down, her legs stretching to reach the ground. As soon as she was out, she grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the corpse of the automaton that she had been providing the life for. It stood listless and dead still holding the energy gun in front of it, still poised ready to fire, but with nothing, or no one, to fire it.

They ran. Martin risked looking around as they ran through the streets. It wasn't all that different from the Roots, he realized, taking in the cobblestone streets, and the buildings all squished tightly together to house as many as possible within the confines of a tower that was twenty five square miles. Everything was just brighter, as if someone had decided to throw buckets of white wash on every surface instead of living with the dark and gloom that people in the Roots did. And the people here were brighter, more colourful, and seemed more full of life. Everyone wore a multitude of colours – and not just drab neutral browns and greens and blues but bright, vivid colours like the yellow and blue of the girl that was dragging him onwards.

"Where are we going?" Martin hazarded asking as they ran down a particularly narrow street that had the brilliant idea of filling with a fountain half way down it.

"Somewhere safe," she said, and before she finished the words, she was opening a door and pulling him inside.

Martin looked around. They were in a house, one that looked almost identical to his, except the walls were white, not a dark eggplant like his. "Is this your place?" he asked turning to her.

"Yes. The Elders don't know where I live. I've never been in trouble with them. See?" she said, lifting her arm. Martin didn't know what he was looking for at first, and then he saw it, a faint green light pulsing at her wrist.

He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. "Is your arm glowing?"

The girl looked at him, her eyes growing wide. "Where are you from?" she said, and then looked him up and down. "I see. Do they not teach you anything at all in the Roots?"

Martin shrugged, embarrassed. "Yes, they do, of course!" he said defensively. He needed to stand up for his people. "But-"

"They obviously don't teach you the important things if you don't know what this is," she gestured to the light, "or who the Elders are. Have you even heard of the ArcHive?"

Martin broke into a smile. "Yes! Well, actually no. But I just read about them today." He fished the letter out of his pocket and held it out.

"It's not a them, it's an it. Well, I guess the Elders are a them." She took the letter and read it silently.

The sudden silence made Martin uneasy, standing in this strange girl's house. "I don't even know your name. I'm Martin," he said, holding his hand out to her.

"I'm Louise," she replied, still reading the note and making no move to complete the handshake.

"Well, what does this ArcHive do?" Martin asked, still trying to fill the silence.

"They record all of us. With these implants." She pointed to her wrist again without raising her eyes from Armistice Wells' note. "The ArcHive is just the place where we are recorded and stored."

"And the Elders?"

"The Elders are like the worker bees. They keep the ArcHive running smoothly."

"So that's what Armistice was talking about."

"Where's the key?" Louise asked.

"What?"

"Armistice mentioned a key. Where is it?"

Martin took it from his pocket and handed it over.

"The Government and the ArcHive are one and same. If they are doing this, altering people's life lines..." Louise trailed off shaking her head, dark hair falling into her face. She brushed it away impatiently. "It's dangerous for all of us."

"How did they know where I was?"

"The implants, like I said. We're all given them when we're born. That's how they record our lives – all our moments, all our life changing decisions. And when something comes up that they don't think is right – like this Armistice person, trying to challenge them, and you, you're obviously trying to find out what they're doing, they found out about it and are coming to stop you."

"So the implants, they're like homing beacons?" Martin said.

Louise nodded, stray bits of hair finding their way into her face again. "Exact-"

Her words were cut off by a loud knock on the door.

Martin pulled Louise further into her house, into a spacious kitchen. "So you said the ArcHivists don't know where you live because you've never done anything in your life to bring attention to yourself. But I'm here now."

Louise eyes widened and she looked at the door which shook with another violent knock. "We need to run!" She lowered her voice to a whisper.

Martin looked about helplessly. "Where?"

Louise grabbed his hand. "Come with me." She pulled him through the kitchen into a sparse living room, dominated by a collection of large reclining chairs and a bookshelf that filled one wall. As she pulled him through another doorway, he noticed a camera-bot floating forlornly in the corner of the room. He shuddered.

She flung open a door and they were out on the street again, this time in a narrow lane barely wide enough for the both of them, and cluttered with garbage and rubbish bins.

"Now where are we going?" Martin said, his voice still a whisper despite the only things around that could hear them were a couple cats and a drunkard, asleep against a doorway.

"To a friend of mine," Louise said.

Martin waited for more information but none was forthcoming. "A friend that can help us get rid of the Elders?"

Louise shook her head. "A friend that will take us off their radar." She stopped suddenly in front of a door that Martin didn't even see until he looked closely at the vague rectangular outline. She didn't knock and instead just pushed a nearly invisible button at the side of the rectangle. The door swung inwards with a squeal of rusted metal.

"Amalfus?" She said quietly at first, tip toeing into the room, and then again much louder. "Are you in? It's Louise. We need a favour. Urgently."

There was a clatter of metal hitting the floor and a loud curse, followed by a another clash of things banging together. "Just a moment!" a lightly accented voice said from deep within, behind shelves filled with partly assembled machines, and loose gears and cogs, coils of wire and telescopes.

A man appeared wearing a plum waistcoat and lime green trousers with leather boots the colour of black cherries that rose to his knees. He wore large goggles over his eyes, the lenses mirrored, reflecting Martin and Louise in miniature. The man hastily pushed the goggles up into dark hair speckled with white, not from age, but some sort of powder.

"Louise my dear!" he said, removing long leather gloves that ran up his arms, the colour of cocoa. He leaned over and embraced Louise. "How are you? How's your mother?"

Louise waved a hand impatiently. "I'm fine, we're all fine. Well, sort of. Martin here needs his implant removed. The Elders are after him."

Amalfus' dark brows shot up away from emerald eyes. "Are they now?" he said, at the same time reaching out for Martin's arm and exposing his wrist. There was no glowing light. For a moment Amalfus looked puzzled, and then took in Martin's clothes and understanding dawned. "Oh I see," he said, nodding. "Turn around boy," Amalfus instructed.

Martin bristled at that. He wasn't a boy, but he obeyed. "What are you doing?"

"You're from the Roots, are you not?"

Martin nodded. "Yes but-"

"People from the Roots usually have their implants behind their ears."

Martin felt Amalfus touch his right ear, pushing it forward, and then move to the left. "Ah yes, here it is. Yes, this won't take any time at all. Let me just get my things."

Martin turned around and saw Louise looking at him. "Who is this guy? Is he a doctor?"

"No, he's my Uncle. He's a New Alchemist."

Martin could feel the colour drain from his face. "Has he done this before?"

Louise shrugged. "I think once or twice. It doesn't take long to cut it out. And he's stitched me up plenty of times when I've cut myself on my Golem."

Before Martin could protest Amalfus was back with a cloth, some thread and a small knife.

Amalfus smiled at him. "This won't take a second. Turn around again please." Martin did, and a moment later felt a poke and brief sharp pain, and then felt strange tugging. A minute later he heard the snap of thread.

"Done," Amalfus said proudly, handing Martin the cloth. Hold this to the area for a minute or two, for any blood. "Now for the hard part," he said with a grin. He dropped the small square to the floor, and crushed the chip with the heel of his boot, twisting his foot, and grinding it hard. "There!"

"Now we're safe," Louise said. "They don't know where you are."

"So that means I can find what this key belongs to and destroy whatever is locked up, like Armistice said."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Louise asked, concern creasing her face.

"You've read the letter. And you've said yourself, they alter your life if they're not happy with where it's going."

Louise nodded. "You're right. We need to stop it."

Amalfus had been quietly observing, but now interjected. "Are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you planning on infiltrating and shutting down the ArcHive?"

Martin looked to Louise, and Louise looked back at him for confirmation. "Yes," they said simultaneously.

"That's suicide!" Amalfus shouted, causing a precarious piece of equipment on a shelf to roll off and hit the floor with a thud, a pause and then, "is there anything I can do to help?"

"Can you fly? We need to get to the ArcHive."

"The Branches! I haven't been there since I used to be a delivery boy on an airship when I was a young one." Amalfus said, excitedly.

Louise's jaw dropped. "You've been to the top?"

"Of course! I was born there."

Again puzzlement screwed up her features. "But then how-"

"How am I down here in the Middle? Why would I choose to be down here when I could live up there among the clouds and sun and sky?" Amalfus finished her thoughts, pointing to the ceiling.

Louise nodded, as did Martin. He couldn't fathom why anyone would trade a life at the top with a sheltered, restricted one down here trapped within the walls of the city.

"Love," Amalfus said simply. "Love clipped my wings and made me abandon a life of sailing the skies. That, and well, the ArcHive were starting to become controlling. Well, I guess they've been controlling the whole time, with their implants, always monitoring, always tracking, they say for our own good. For posterity. For the Empire." He snorted derisively.

"We have a chance to stop it, and we should."

"Do you recognize this?" Martin said, holding out the silver key.

Amalfus took it, holding it by the end, a stylized A in delicate filigreed scrolls.

He held it by the other end, examining the A. His eyes widened suddenly. "It's the heart key!" he nearly shouted, thrusting the key in their faces. "Look!" he pointed to the A, and indeed, it was nestled inside the shape of a heart.

"What's the heart key?" Louise and Martin asked as one.

"It leads to the computing machine that powers the entire ArcHive. It can be disabled, shut down."

"Do you know where it is?"

Amalfus nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "I think so. There were a few times I had to deliver things to the ArcHive. There was a locked door, right in the very centre of the building.

Martin nodded with understanding. "The heart."

Amalfus nodded. "Come, we should get changed."

"Changed?"

"We'd stand out like plums on a banana tree dressed like we are. I still have some old clothes from my delivery days."

Half an hour later and they were all dressed in white, and Amalfus had managed to borrow wings from three delivery messengers from the Branches, and bribed one into a tutorial on how to use them.

"Ready?" he said, standing where the messenger had told them to, before their running jump into the sky.

Martin shook his head. No, he was most definitely not ready, and would never be. But this had been his idea in the first place. Grudgingly he nodded, swallowing all fear and pushing it deep down.

One minute he was standing comfortably, surrounded by strange yet familiar cityscape, and the next he was surrounded by blue sky and nothing beneath him except the ground extremely far below.

Eventually his heart left his throat and settled again where it belonged, as he flapped awkwardly upwards like some strange Icarus.

And then he was there. Finding his land legs again on the smooth white marbled ground of the very top of Tree.

Louise and Amalfus had already pulled their wings in and were waiting for him, as he ungraciously tried to make his wings behave. After minutes of trying to rein the wings in, Martin gave up and just unbuckled the harness that held the wings on, letting them fall to the hard ground with a clatter. He'd apologize for any damage later.

And then the showman, Marius, appeared replacing the nervous Martin. "What are we waiting for?" he said, striding confidently toward the ArcHive.

Martin walked in as if he owned the place and headed straight for the large square vault at the centre. He was almost there. His skin tingled with excitement and nervousness. He ignored the wary gazes of men in robes, and stuck the key in the lock. He turned it, wincing at the loud click that seemed to echo through the rooms.

He yanked the door open and was met by nothing. The room was empty.

A voice spoke behind him that sent chills down his spine "Did you really think it would be so easy to stop us?"

He recognized the voice, but turned, anyway. It was Amalfus, with Louise standing beside him. She shrugged, apologetically.

As Martin fell through the air, he briefly wondered if this was how Armistice felt. But he didn't smile.

### THE SECRETS OF FIREFLIES

Oh no, she thought. This can't be good.

A sharp laugh echoed around her and she snapped her head up. "Thankfully you're not a detective!" The voice floated toward her through the gloom. Anise didn't think she'd spoken aloud. She could barely see in the dim light of the underground city, despite the watery green-ish glow from the firefly light, high above them. She lifted the dark lantern higher, bringing her companion's features to life, melting away the sickly light from the fireflies. He looked healthy, and alive, unlike the person on the ground between them. His kind blue eyes with the crows-feet at the corners made her feel suddenly stronger than she felt a moment ago.

She shook her head, at a loss for words. Not a good start for an investigative journalist!

When Benedict had first invited her, asking if she would help write an exposé on the living conditions for the citizens of the underground cities of New London, New Cardiff, and New Edinburgh, she jumped at the chance. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, especially for the United American Empire's first, as far as she was aware, female newspaper reporter.

She'd grown up hearing stories about the underground cities of the British Isles – how they were a network of tunnels and caverns, reached by massive iron airlocks, and guarded by chosen slaves of the Romans who had taken over the cities above after Napoleon's victory over the Kingdom.

New London had sounded romantic and whimsical, like some magical lost city made of gold and marble with towering statues, ornate fountains, bustling town squares and colourful marketplaces. So when Benedict asked, she said yes even before he had finished his proposal. And they would be taking an airship. It would be only the second time she had ever travelled by dirigible, and her first outside of the Empire.

Benedict Aldershot had given the guard at one of the four main up-side entrances the piece of paper that he had managed to get signed back home by the Emperor and co-signed by the Roman Emperor. It granted them entrance to the underground. The man at the gate glanced at the paper and gave them both a strange look, followed by a shrug.

Anise meant to ask Benedict how he had managed to get permission from such important people, but for now she focused on being on her best behaviour. She smiled widely at the guard with his bright red trousers, golden long-tailed coat, and trailing beard. The man didn't acknowledge her as he moved to middle of the hatch and began turning the wheel. The screech of rusted metal pierced the air, and before Anise knew it, she was following Benedict down the rungs of one of four ladders that led down into the darkness. Benedict held the lantern in his mouth as he descended, causing its light to careen wildly against the circular walls. Anise could make out, here and there, tiles with symbols she had never seen before. A loud noise reverberated as the airlock door closed above them. The finality of it made Anise shudder.

It felt like she had been climbing down, and down, and down for an eternity.

Anise Buttersby was thankful for her sturdy boots that rose to her knee, and was glad she wasn't wearing the silly heeled shoes that other women of society did. She had no time for that kind of thing. Not if she wanted to be a serious journalist!

"Abe, come on!" Benedict's voice rang out from below her. She smiled at the use of her nickname and clambered the last few rusted rungs, finally reaching solid ground. She allowed only a small number of people, those she trusted most, to call her Abe – a play on her initials, A and B, so that people wouldn't call her Miss Buttersby, which she detested with a passion.

Glancing around in the retreating glow of Benedict's lamp, she could just make out that there were four tunnels branching off in different directions. Above the one filled with the quickly retreating amber light from Benedict, she read the words 'North West'. Over her shoulder, above a patch of tunnel-shaped darkness, she saw 'South East'.

"Abe!"

Thankful she wasn't wearing a long cumbersome skirt and bustle, she tore off in the direction of the lantern's comforting glow.

She caught up to Benedict, and stopped to catch her breath. "Would you mind?" she asked turning her back to him, gesturing to the laces at the back of the corset she wore over her favourite purple blouse. "Just loosen them a little," she panted, and then breathed a proper sigh of relief as the restriction lessened. "Thank you."

As they walked down the corridor, Abe became aware of writing and pictures scrawled on the grimy tiles of the tunnel. She passed a circle with 'Romans' written in it, and a line diagonally through it. The romanticism of the underground city wore away with each step, as they moved deeper. There was a dank, damp smell, like a house that had never been aired out in the spring. She shook her head in disbelief.

"How can people live like this?" she said as she side stepped what looked like a broken statuette. Is that a wolf? She peered at the broken shards. That's odd, they look to be of gears and metal, instead of stone. Still staring at the broken bits of the statue, she bumped heavily into Benedict, who had stopped and was holding the lantern aloft. The corridor ended and opened into a giant, cavernous room.

Abe craned her head up and looked at the stone arches of the ceiling, holding up the earth above their heads. She saw the tubes filled with fireflies and their luminescent glow that ran around the room in sections. Some, she noticed, were broken, and there were small clusters of fireflies flying freely near the ceiling, highlighting the curves and dips of the sculpted arches.

"Abe." The slightly perturbed tone from Benedict snapped her out of her thoughts. He was standing next to a large fountain shaped like a giant octopus. Normally, Abe noticed, its tentacles would have water streaming from the ends, but now the fountain was dry, and there was a layer of scum on the bottom. Abe berated herself for forgetting a pair of gloves. She shuddered at the thought of touching anything in this grimy, disgusting place.

"Abe!" Benedict shouted again, and the urgency in his voice made her jump.

She made her way to his side and looked down into the puddle of light the lantern, with all of its slides up, made on the stone floor in front of them.

She stared down at a somewhat human-shape, except it was bent and broken, and parts sat at unnatural angles. Abe turned her head away and fought to stop bile rising in her throat.

Oh no, she thought. This can't be good.

Benedict's sharp laugh echoed around her and she snapped her head up. "Thankfully you're not a detective!"

"I thought we were supposed to be talking to the citizens? About what it's like living here after their homes above were stolen by the Romans, when they invaded, after Napoleon won," she choked out as she swallowed loudly.

Benedict shook his head. "Look around. Do you see people?"

Abe was shocked to find that he was right. She hadn't noticed until now because she too overwhelmed by the grandeur and melancholy of the place.

She saw doors to houses that were built within alcoves in the walls, with a small number of windows. The doors were closed and the windows were all tightly shuttered. Except one. A few houses down from the fountain, a window was open, just a sliver. Abe thought she saw movement, a flicker of a shadow.

"Hey!" Abe shouted, sprinting towards the house. Her booted feet rang hollowly, echoing off the walls and ceiling.

She heard Benedict behind her, the light of the lantern bouncing wildly. "Abe! You can't just run off like that, at least not without light!"

Abe patted the satchel she had strapped across her chest that hung reassuringly at her side. The thought of her grandfather's energy-coil gun within its folds made her feel safer, light or no light. As she reached the open window, she pulled the gun from her bag and held it down by her hip. This is the one time I wish I wore those ridiculous skirts every other girl wears! A skirt would be a lot easier to hide the fact you're holding a gun. It was shocking enough that she was wearing trousers in the first place, but the fact they were just a bit too snug didn't help matters. One too many toffees!

"Hello?" she called out cautiously. "Is anyone there?" Her heart beat loudly in her chest and filled her ears. She felt sweat trace a path down her back, and she shivered involuntarily. She reached her hand out, about to pull the shutter wider when a hand landed on her shoulder.

"Be careful," Benedict whispered from behind.

"Well, I would be if you didn't frighten me!" she hissed back over her shoulder. She heard him chuckle under his breath.

"Sorry," he breathed. Abe moved again towards the window. Her fingers wrapped tightly around her energy gun, and she pulled the shutter wide.

The window framed a small kitchen. On the dining table, in the middle of the room, was a large glass jar, full of fireflies. It lit the room with a strange, almost intoxicating light. Abe found it hard to look away from the insects trapped in their prison. She sensed Benedict move to stand next to her. They stood, staring into the kitchen that seemed untouched.

Benedict raised the lantern, flooding the small room with warm, inviting light.

"Is anyone there?" he asked, more confidently than Abe felt. "We just want to talk to someone, ask some questions. We're from..."

"Above," Abe jumped in. "We're actually visiting, from across the ocean. We just want to talk to people here. Find out what it's like to live here."

The shadow that Abe had seen earlier materialized from behind a long, dusty curtain that separated the kitchen from another area of the house.

Thin and pale, the small girl looked more ghost than real, not helped by the greying white dress she wore. Bare feet poked out from under the hem of her skirts. The years of living down here in the underground had not been kind to her. Dark, lank hair was plastered to her head.

The girl stared at them with dark, wide eyes.

"Is your mother or father home, Miss?" It was Benedict who spoke.

The girl shook her head and remained silent.

Abe removed her finger from over the button on her energy gun, and slid it back into her bag. "Would it be okay if we came inside? We won't hurt you. We just write for a newspaper."

The girl stared at them.

"Can you speak?" Abe coaxed.

The girl nodded.

"I'm Abe," she introduced herself, and pointed to Benedict. "And this is my friend, Benedict."

"You can call me Ben," he added.

Abe glared at him. Ben? He'd never told her to call him Ben! Why? Why had he never told her she could call him Ben? She shook her head. This wasn't the time to debate about what to call who. "What's your name?" she asked softly, as if talking any louder would scare the girl away, like a flock of nervous birds.

"Abigail," the girl mumbled so quietly Abe wasn't sure at first that she had actually said anything.

"Abigail, that's a pretty name." Again it was Benedict. Abe was never good around children. She never knew exactly how to act. Especially when they were of a certain age, like Abigail, who seemed to be about eleven, maybe twelve.

"Where are your parents, Abigail?" Benedict had lowered his voice as well.

Abigail shrugged.

What little patience Abe had with others, children especially, was waning quickly. She sighed loudly and gave a huff of annoyance. Benedict put a hand on her arm, and glanced at her with a look that said 'patience'. She glared back at him, hoping he could read her expression that said 'I'm running out'. She was starting to really not to like it down here. The darkness and the damp were making her nervous, uncomfortable, and irritable. A shiver raced down her spine, and she wished she had brought a shawl to cover her arms that were starting to grow an army of goose bumps.

"You don't know where they are?" Benedict was sounding concerned.

Abigail dropped her head and stared at her feet. "No."

"Where is everyone?" Abe asked, trying to keep her voice soft and comforting, not allowing irritation to creep in.

"They left."

"Left?" Abe and Benedict repeated, incredulously.

Abigail nodded.

Abe fought the urge to take out her reporter's notebook. "But why? When?"

Abigail shook her head, causing hair to fall into her eyes. She brushed it away. "I don't know. Something...happened. Something went wrong down here." Abigail then disappeared from the window. A few moments later the door opened.

Abe and Benedict looked at each other, eyes full of questions. They entered the house. It was cold and damp, like the rest of the underground city. Abigail moved to a worn armchair, that Abe thought might have been red, but now was a dusky pink. Abe and Benedict moved to sit on the couch that sat next to the chair. There was a small coffee table in front of both chair and sofa, and two other jars full of fireflies sat on either end. Benedict put the lantern in the middle of the table, before turning to Abigail. "Why are you still here?"

Abigail kicked her feet absentmindedly against the chair, her feet dangling above the floor. "Dunno," she mumbled. "When I woke up, there was no one here."

"When?"

Abigail gave her trademark shrug. "A couple days ago, I think? I'm not sure. Sometimes time seems weird down here. There's no sun."

Abe wanted to ask if the girl had ever even seen the sun before, but another question burned in her more strongly. "No one?" she asked, "just you?"

"Well..." Abigail avoided their gaze, and bit her lip. Her feet beat out a nervous rhythm against the chair.

"You can tell us, Abigail," Benedict said calmly. "We want to help you, if you're by yourself."

"There's him," she whispered, inclining her head ever so slightly in the direction of the door.

Abe and Benedict exchanged another look, and Abe felt the life drain from her face.

"Him?" she whispered, afraid of the answer, but knowing it all too well.

Abigail nodded. "The man outside. By the fountain."

"Do you know him?" It was Benedict.

"No. I've never seen him before. But there were lots of people here, I didn't know too many people. And there were always people coming down from above. People with big guns, that spoke funny and I couldn't understand them."

"Romans," Benedict said under his breath before Abe could ask what she meant.

"Did you see what happened?" Abe asked.

Abigail shook her head once more. "I woke up, and my parents were gone. And I went outside and there was no one except him, out there." Abe was thinking Abigail wasn't going to speak again when she said, "I talked to him, that man out there. He said a few things, before..." she bit her lip again. "Before..."

Benedict tried to change the subject. "What did he say?"

"I don't know what he meant. He just said two words. The key." She looked at Abe and Benedict. "And he sounded like you. He wasn't from here."

Benedict jumped up so swiftly from the couch that he hit the corner of the low coffee table with his knee. One of the light-jars shook and then tumbled, almost slow-motion, off the table. It shattered instantly, freeing its prisoner fireflies that floated like a luminescent cloud towards the dim ceiling, winking on and off. Abe thought they looked magical, like little fairies. Much better free than caged. And then she had another, more disquieting thought. Much like the people of these New cities.

"What on earth—?" Abe called out as Benedict rushed out of the house.

Abe shook her head, causing a few of her neatly pinned curls to fall. "Stay here," she ordered Abigail sternly with a finger before following Benedict, careful not to bump into the coffee table. Abe grabbed the lamp that Benedict had forgotten in his haste and found him crouching next to the body by the fountain. Hanging the lamp on one of its tentacles she knelt beside him. "What are you doing?" She didn't whisper now, knowing there was no one to overhear.

Abe focused her gaze on what Benedict was doing, to avoid looking at the man's head, whose neck was twisted and bent at a horrible angle. Underneath Abe was trying not to notice the large dark stain, darker than the surrounding cold stone of the floor. Something was wrong with his face, but she didn't look too closely. Benedict was lifting up the man's sleeve. Around the body's left forearm were a couple dark rings. "Tattoos?" Abe wondered aloud, peering at his arm.

"Just as I thought," Benedict said, moving to lift up the hem of the man's shirt, exposing his stomach, and then chest. Marked like a dark stain on the left side of the chest was a large ornate key.

"The key!" Abe gasped. "So you knew what Abigail was talking about?"

Benedict shrugged. "I had an idea, once she said he sounded like us, that he was from the United American Empire."

Abe felt compelled to reach out and trace her fingers over the key etched into the man's skin, but pulled her hand back at the last moment, realizing she would be touching a corpse.

Abe knew she looked puzzled. "I take it you know what all this means?"

Benedict nodded. "He is, or was, a member of the criminal underworld back home. See those black rings on his arm?"

Abe nodded, "Like a tree."

"They symbolize people they have killed."

Abe blanched, feeling sick. She moved her eyes from the gruesome symbols to the gothically beautiful key instead. "And that?"

"You get the key tattoo when you take on the role of the leader of the underworld."

Abe stared at the key, and then looked to Benedict. "So if he was the leader, he was very important."

Benedict nodded again, his mouth a thin, grim line. "And also very bad. And the fact that he is dead..." He shook his head and rose unsteadily. Abe offered her arm for support. After all, Benedict was older than her by ten years or so. And it was what society expected. She looked around the dark, abandoned city, punctuated with the flickering green of fireflies. Though I'm not sure what this society would expect. She watched a cloud of fireflies lazily circling around a joining of arches. "The secrets of fireflies," she muttered under her breath.

"What did you say?" Benedict lifted the lantern from the octopus' grasp. Abe raised a hand to block the light. "I said, those fireflies," she gestured to the free ones, flying around the alcoves in the ceiling, along with the ones still trapped in their lighting tubes. "They will have seen what happened here. They hold the secrets, and will never tell."

Benedict's hand fell on her shoulder, and she turned at it, and followed his gaze to where Abigail stood, a few feet away.

Abe and Benedict moved to stand in front of the dead man, concealing him from the young girl.

Abigail shuffled forward slowly, and again Abe was reminded of a ghost.

"It's okay," Abigail said quietly. "I've seen dead people before. People die a lot down here. I think it's because we're not up there." She pointed to the stone arches high above them. "I think because there's no sun, no sky. Just stone, and darkness. People get sick a lot."

"Aren't people allowed to leave? For fresh air, if only for a little while?" Abe asked, a note of pity creeping into her voice.

Abigail shook her head, dark hair falling over her small shoulders.

"People who didn't want to be recruited as slaves above moved down here, into the catacombs below," Benedict explained sadly. "If they wanted to keep their freedom."

"Freedom?" Abe nearly yelled. "What sort of freedom is this, being trapped in darkness? Never allowed to leave. This is the opposite of freedom!"

Benedict shrugged. "It's all perspective. At least they're safe, and can live how they want, without threat of harm."

"But, Abigail said she saw men with energy guns," Abe protested.

"Just for show, most likely. To keep people in line, let them know who is in control. People don't argue very much with energy guns. Especially not if they're the newer ones. When I was part of the New Alchemists Society, I actually worked on some new changes to the energy conductors in the latest models of energy guns. It was quite fascinating, putting in a series of safety mechanisms." Abe watched Benedict's expression change as he shifted into his inventor mode, looking more like an excitable child than a forty-something founder of a Newspaper. "You push the trigger button once, and the energy builds up, glowing blue, just like normal. A second press didn't automatically release the energy stream, but allows you a turning back point. If you still wanted to use the weapon, you'd press it a third time. If not, you'd pull another lever and it would power it down."

"My father was like you," Abigail said softly. Benedict and Abe turned toward her once more.

"What do you mean?" Abe thought the words, but Benedict spoke them aloud.

"He built things. Machines. He used to be well known when he lived up above. The bad people that took our homes away from us, they destroyed most of his things. I think because they were scared of them."

"Scared? Why would soldiers be scared of machines?" Abe asked, incredulously. "All they are is metal and gears. They can't hurt—" And she stopped herself, suddenly realizing how ridiculous what she was saying sounded. Of course machines could hurt, could kill. After all, they had just been talking about energy guns...

Abigail pointed to the dead man on the ground. "I saw him talking to father, a few days ago. He was in our house. Father told me to go to my room, because he was to have an important talk with him. I did, but I wanted to know what they were talking about, so I snuck out and hid behind the curtain. The man said he came all the way here just to talk to father. I thought that was funny. What was so important to come here? And then father brought something out of his shop to show him." Her eyes grew wide at the memory.

Abe was about to ask what kind of shop, when Benedict jabbed her sharply in the side.

"Father never let me into his shop. He said what was in there wasn't for little girls to see and he always kept it locked, even when he wasn't working inside."

"What did he show the man?" Benedict asked. Abe noticed he was using his reporter's voice, the one he used when attempting to wheedle the real story from a reticent victim.

Abigail pursued her lips, as if debating whether to let the secret free. After a moment, she whispered in awe, "A wolf!"

"A wolf?" Abe couldn't control the shock in her voice. Her skin prickled, and suddenly she really didn't want to be down here underground. Especially if there were wolves.

Abigail nodded vigorously and gave a wide smile. "Not a live one. Well, not really. They are father's machines. He makes them from metal."

The small statue of the metal wolf Abe passed in the tunnel, on the way here, reared suddenly larger than life in her mind.

"So the man wanted your father's wolf?" Benedict retained his composure.

Abigail nodded, wide eyed. "Not wolf. Wolves. He was making lots. I'll show you." Abigail turned and padded away to a wooden structure, leaning haphazardly against the wall, next to her house. Benedict followed and Abe trailed cautiously behind.

The girl pushed open the door, which was barely hanging on by its hinges. It was more shards of wood than whole door.

A gasp escaped Abe as she reached the doorway. Benedict held the lamp, which glinted brightly off brass, copper, and iron. The malicious mouths of giant metal wolves grinned back at them. There was one that was complete, which had partially been covered in a fur-like substance, but there was a least a dozen others in various states of construction. Spare limbs, individual teeth, and other body parts cluttered the tables and countertops.

Abigail moved confidently to the one that seemed to be most complete. "This is like the one father showed that man."

Benedict seemed to forget his manners and rushed to the specimen, examining it with an inventor's eye. "This is brilliant!" he crowed excitedly.

"Benedict," Abe berated. "Keep your head. Remember why we're here. To find out what happened to everyone. To Abigail's parents."

"Yes, yes," Benedict waved a hand at her dismissively. She bristled. She hated being ignored. She wasn't going to put up with it, not like every other demure-society woman would. "Ben!" She hissed, stamping a booted foot loudly on the floor.

His head shot up, and he looked almost sheepish.

"Sorry," he raised his hands in front of him defensively, "you're right. A professional journalist doesn't let him—, herself," he gave an apologetic half-smile, "get swayed off track away from the real story."

Abigail was running a small hand along the wolf's fur. "It's funny, it feels kind of hard, and spiky."

Benedict moved back into reporter mode. "So your father showed the man a wolf like this?"

"Yes. He had a big metal chain around its neck. I remember father showing the man how to turn it on." She moved a hand to the wolf's neck, in between the ears. "There's a thing here that wakes it—"

"No!" Abe and Benedict yelled in unison.

Benedict pulled Abigail's hand away from the neck. "Don't touch it! It could be dangerous!"

Abigail's lower lip began to quiver. She bit it, and nodded, blinking back the beginnings of tears.

Abe crouched down, so she was eye level with Abigail. "We just want to keep you safe." And us, she added silently.

"What happened after your father showed that man the wolf?" Benedict asked in an attempt to change the subject.

"The man said he wanted to buy all the ones that were finished and working." Abigail's eyes grew far away as she remembered. "And Father laughed at him. He said he couldn't sell all of his wolves, what with there being almost a dozen, it would have taken a long time to get them all out of the city to the above city."

"And then what did they say?" Abe asked, curious.

"They started arguing. Over money, I think." Abigail's large, dark eyes widened again as a memory came to her. "And I remember father turning on the wolf then, to make the man be quiet..." she shuddered. "It was awful! The sound its teeth made, snapping together. Metal against metal." Abigail shivered again, and Abe stopped herself cringing at the mental image. Like the sound of nails down a chalkboard. Worse, probably. Chalk isn't sharp and can't kill you.

"I don't remember anything else," Abigail was saying. "I ran back to my room. The wolf scared me. I remember putting my pillow over my ears, but I could still hear it. It was like a monster!" This time tears began to roll down her pale cheeks. "The last thing I remember before I fell asleep was its howl. It sounded like metal that was being torn apart. It sounded so angry. Angry and sad. Like it was being hurt." She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to block the image from her mind. Abe couldn't blame her. She felt like doing the same.

And then Benedict said something that made her blood run cold. Suddenly, she felt like running, but her body was frozen, rooted to the spot by the terror his words held.

He spoke slowly, as if testing the validity of the words in his mouth. "You just said your father told the man there were a dozen wolves."

Abigail nodded, her eyes still shut, her small arms wrapped tightly around her tiny waist. "Yes," she whispered, the word barely audible.

There was a long pause. The silence was deafening. Abe thought her heart had stopped beating, except she could hear it in her ears. She realized she was holding her breath. It went dark. Abe realized she had closed her eyes as well, as if doing so would stop Benedict's next words from being uttered. It didn't. Of course not.

"Where are the others?" The words hung in the air, as if entities of their own, growing and filling the room with the dread that they held.

The silence that had filled the room a moment before fled, and was replaced by the sounds of screaming metal.

Suddenly everything became terrifyingly crystal clear: the reason for everyone's disappearance. The tattooed man's face loomed in front of her. She realized what it was she had tried not to see. Claw marks. Something had happened. Something bad.

A single word filtered into Abe's brain. A lifeline, in the form of Benedict's voice.

"Run!"

And she did.

### THE ENEMY RULE

Kalisa looked at her watch. Eight fifty-five, it read. "Shit!" she whispered, annoyed with herself. She should've known it was late, the sun was setting after all. She had five minutes to get back, before curfew, and before the guards would be out and doing bad things to anyone who wasn't indoors by nine.

She ran, her heavy soled shoes smacking loudly on the stone paved streets. She dodged a steam powdered vehicle that looked more like a caterpillar than anything anyone should be riding in. Its many legs pistoned up and down, steam issuing from the joints. It moved quickly; whoever it was was also rushing to get home lest they get thrown in prison for disobeying the laws.

Kalisa reached her door, and thrust her key in the lock, twisting it so hard, she heard a devastating crack, as the metal shaft broke off in her hand. She jigged the handle. The door was still locked, and now a piece of the key was jammed in the lock. "Dammit!" she said, as loudly as she dared. From the faint glow of a street lamp that barely illuminated the front of her house, she peered at her watch again. Nine-oh-one. She was late, and she wasn't inside. She was stuck.

She heard a whistle pierce the growing silence of the night. She move to her neighbours and banged on their door. Their curtains were drawn, and no one answered. "It's Kalisa!" she said, just above a whisper. "I'm locked out. Let me in! The guards are coming!"

Silence. Not even a curtain twitched.

She kicked the door angrily. The whistle sounded again, this time much closer.

She started to run, and then stopped. "Why should I run? I tried to get in my house, but I couldn't. I would have been inside for the curfew." She went back and sat down on the steps in front of her house, and waited. She didn't have to wait long.

A guard appeared from around the corner. Barely visible in their dark eggplant uniform, a hood pulled up over the head they seemed more like moving shadows. Kalisa wasn't trying to hide so the guard spotted her instantly and shouted as he ran towards her. "What are you doing outside. It's past curfew." As he got closer, Kalisa could make out his blue eyes and sharp thin nose exposed from the hood.

"I know," she said, holding up the broken key as explanation. "I couldn't get in."

"You know the rules," the man said, his face expressionless.

She stood. She knew you got in trouble if you were out past curfew, but she didn't know why.

There was a noise in the growing darkness and the man jumped, swinging a large blade tipped pole towards the sound. "Hurry, they're coming!" he said, fear evident in his voice.

"They? But....you're already here?" Kalisa said, confused.

"We're not the problem." The royally appointed man said.

A loud hiss came from the end of the street, to their right. The patrolman grabbed Kalisa's arm. "Come on! We have to run!"

Kalisa tried to look behind her, into the darkness where the hiss was coming from. She followed his instructions and ran, just as a figure stepped into the glow from the street lamp.

It wore all black, and looked normal, except its eyes flashed, reflecting the light and glowing like a wild animal.

"Hurry!" the man picked up pace. "Don't worry, the others should get it."

"Others? What is it? What's happening?"

The man glanced over his shoulder at Kalisa. "You don't know about the vampires?" He looked shocked.

"Vampires?" Kalisa risked another look behind her. The human-like thing was following them, moving strangely, as if barely touching the ground. Its eyes flashed.

Her legs were burning but she willed herself to keep going. In the distance gunshots sounded. Kalisa wished they were closer. They ran past a drunken man, slouched in a doorway. Kalisa leapt over him and kept going. Moments later screams filled the air and Kalisa shuddered and forced herself not to look back.

"In here," the man shouted over dying screams, pulling her through a metal doorway. He slammed a heavy metal bar down across the door with a heavy comforting thud, and turned to turn up a small gas lamp on a table.

"We'll be safe in here. Metals don't agree with them. It repels them for some reason," the man pushed back the hood of his cloak and sat down wearily on a rickety wooden chair. Kalisa warily lowered herself into the other on the opposite end of a small table.

"So I always thought that you were the enemy, that the Emperor imposed the curfew so he could punish and tax those of us that disobeyed. Throw us in prison in order to get money from the public for our release." Kalisa said, aware that she was glaring at the man opposite, who seemed a lot younger than she first thought. Probably in his mid-thirties, like herself.

The man laughed, not bothering to soften it.

"We're not the enemy." He pointed to windows covered with heavy black curtains. "They are."

"But I thought vampires were just legend?"

"They were. But someone made a mistake."

"Someone? You mean they're man made?"

The man nodded. "In a way. It was a virus, a mutation. And someone at the hospital didn't catch it. It started with one person. A little girl who got sick. But their bite can turn you into one, if you don't die, and it spreads like wildfire. But we could use as much help as we can. Otherwise the enemy will take us over, and rule the entire Empire in a matter of months, if we don't hunt them."

Kalisa stared at her saviour. A vampire hunter? She shrugged. It beat being a nanny. "Sign me up," she said with a nervous smile.

He smiled back and offered his hand. "Welcome to the club."

### A Beautiful Disaster

She stared at me blankly, with glassy eyes that made her look more like a mannequin. The bleach-blonde hair didn't help matters. Neither did the false lashes surrounding her blue eyes that made her look like one of those creepy dolls that closed their eyes when you lay them down. I shuddered

After a moment, she looked away. She hadn't seen me but had looked right through me, lost in thought.

Just as well. Most people didn't see me. Or those that did, chose not to believe what they were seeing, and brushed me off as some kind of figment of their imagination. They just couldn't accept that I was real, so they did whatever they could to convince themselves I wasn't. But most people were too wrapped up in themselves, in their own little lives, to even really notice me in the first place.

I didn't look all that different from everyone else, mind you, just that I wasn't 100% there. At certain angles, in certain lights, I often disappeared completely. Which was disconcerting if you happened to see me one second, and then I was gone the next. Except I wasn't really. Like a reflection in a window. You could see me, but nothing substantial.

That's what happens when you're dead. You still exist, sort of, but on the outskirts of the living world.

I didn't choose to die. It was an accident. Are all accidents freak accidents? I wonder about these things sometimes. You have lots of time to think when you're dead. And when you're not moving on to anywhere else. I'm stuck here. I have to stay, because I have a job to do. I'm a grim reaper. Don't ask me why I signed up to do it. I wasn't thinking. I had just died, for fucks sake, and some strange woman shoved some papers at me. I was pretty dazed and confused. One minute I was alive, walking down the street, listening to my music and sending a text message with my phone. The next minute, all I feel is a big black ball of pain, and then I'm standing in this waiting room that looks like a doctor's office from the 70's and asked to fill out these forms. Here's some advice. Read the fine print. Always. Otherwise you'll probably be signing your life away. Ha, no pun intended.

So that's how I became a grim reaper. Or simply a reaper as we call ourselves. It's grim enough without actually adding the word. I wander around, looking for people who are imminently going to shuffle off their mortal coil, so I can help them when the get to the waiting room. Give them some advice so they know what the heck they're doing there and what happened. It requires a bit of an adjustment period, you know. Going from the living world, to the dead. Not to mention the fact that the after life is like stepping back in time. They really could do with updating their décor. It would take a bit of the shock out of the whole experience, if I can give my two cents.

But I guess no one is really paying much attention to the chairs they're sitting in when they're trying to decide where they want to go. They have a couple choices. They can choose to be reincarnated and start life over again, as someone else. One caveat, they won't remember that they lived before. Kind of pointless, if you ask me, to not be able to learn from their previous lives. Or they can choose to become a reaper like me. Like a glorified guidance counsellor for the recently departed. And there's a lot of legalese. Snore. A third option is to become an angel. But that's a lot of work. Trying to solve the world's problems, and the problems of humanity. I wouldn't recommend it. The job doesn't even come with wings. Angels don't fly. Sorry if I've burst your bubble. They're still normal people, like me. Well, more like you. Imagine a giant cosmic call centre. Angels are the help line, answering people's prayers. And it's a 24/7 gig, because there's 7 billion people on the planet and most of them are praying about something at some point. Imagine listening to people asking for help, constantly. It's never ending. People complaining about their lives - wanting to be some one else, somewhere else, to get out of their lives, and be living someone else's life. You living people just don't realize how good you have it, even when you might think you want something different. Ever heard the phrase the grass is greener? Yeah, well, it's definitely not. Remember call centre. That's never a good job, even if you are an angel. Us who have jobs in the after life don't even get paid. But you don't need money here anyways. I shouldn't mention this but...we just take what we want from the other side. The living world. I guess you could call it stealing. Ever wonder where your socks disappear to from the wash? That could be me. Or an angel. We still need to wear clothes. There's modesty in the afterlife. We don't just wander around naked. Especially us reapers, who the living can see if they really pay attention. If they don't look straight through us like Ms Blonde Mannequin opposite me on the bus.

The blonde pulled the cord and the bus rolled to a stop. She rose on impossibly high heels and tottered off. I followed, shaking my head as she looked down at her phone, neglecting her surroundings. My chest tightened. This was far too close to home. I walked behind her, like a shadow. I watched as the car came around the corner, the one she didn't see. Just as I hadn't. Tires squealed, and I looked away as blonde hair flew past me. And then we were standing in the waiting room, and I was patting her neatly manicured hand reassuringly. She was a beautiful disaster. Just another day at work.

### Amethyst Auburn & World's End

Amethyst hated her name. Why on earth would her parents name her Amethyst when their last name was Auburn? Of course, her parents had normal names. As normal as you could get: Mary and John.

But that wasn't why Amethyst was sitting in The World's End, a well known pub on an ancient cobblestoned street in Edinburgh, Scotland. Though thinking about her name did make her order a second beer. But then she changed her mind and opted for a tea. She needed to be clear headed for this. She laughed quietly to herself, but as she sat at the bar, even that garnered her a few sideways glances. She shook her dark hair (glad it wasn't actually auburn, or even worse, fire-red, standing out would be dangerous), and took a sip of the scalding hot tea that landed in front of her.

She smiled wistfully. This is probably the last time I'll ever have tea, she thought sadly before pushing back the stool she sat on and standing up. She turned around toward the large windows that showed the busy High Street, even though it was on the verge of night.

She patted her clothes, taking comfort when she felt the long knives that were hidden underneath, or stuffed into her boots.

She needed to do this. If she didn't...she shook her head again, causing a chunk of dark hair to swing forward over her face. She brushed it back impatiently. She didn't want to think about that. Her gaze focused on the people walking back and forth outside the window, minding their own business, chatting, laughing. If she wasn't successful, she worried that those people enjoying themselves on the town wouldn't be enjoying themselves for much longer. But of course they didn't know that. No one did. Or hardly anyone. Just people like her, and there wasn't too many of them. But there was even less of what would be causing the end of the world if Amethyst didn't stop it. She watched the last streak of light drain from the sky behind the tall buildings on the opposite side of the street. She stepped outside, breathing in the coolness of the air as the sun departed.

Amethyst muffled another laugh thinking about how, if people knew what she was, they would find nothing funny about it. She was a vampire, and she was leaving the safety of indoors at night. People naively thought that vampires couldn't come out in day time. How ridiculous! But thanks to human misperceptions, it's what caused her prey to come out at this time, to look for people like her.

She sighed. She wasn't a night person. Just because you were a vampire, there was no need to sleep your day away, and be up all night. How could you buy things when all the stores were closed? Vampires liked their comforts too, after all.

She walked with purpose down the high street and suddenly burst out laughing. She just realized what she was doing. She was hunting the vampire hunter!

But she had no choice. They were being reckless. They had been playing with magic in hopes of defeating Amethyst and the few other vampires that still existed in today's world. But they just didn't know what they were doing. And humans that don't know what they're doing....well, it will eventually be the cause of the end of the world.

At least they were easy to destroy. Easier than it was to destroy her, and the rest of her kind. Amethyst looked to be in her thirties, but in reality was almost five hundred and eighty seven. Her cell phone rang in the pocket of her cropped spring jacket. She withdrew it and fumbled with it a moment before turning it on. Despite living for so long, this new technology was hard to get the hang of. She knew most other vampires felt the same way. Thousands of years of relative technologically simple times... and then smartphones.

"What?" she snapped irritably into the phone. "Yes, I'm on my way." She mumbled. "Uh huh." She paused a moment, listening, and then looked up at the sky in the distance above the extinct volcano that looked down over the city, Arthur's Seat. The sun hadn't fully set, but there was no reason that the sky should be the frightening blood red colour that it currently was.

"Shit!" Amethyst shouted. She started to run, and almost forgot about her phone until she heard the voice on the other end asking if she was still there.

"Yes, I'm still here!" she said, annoyed, but not out of breath. This was one reason she liked being a vampire. They didn't tire. "Where are you?"

She listened and then turned sharply down an alley, cutting across the city and heading towards the Roman ruins perched on top of the mountain that was shrouded in a sky smeared red.

Amethyst's hands started to tingle, and the feeling slithered up her arms. This wasn't a good thing. This was a very bad thing. It was the vampire's warning system that...well, everything was going to hell in a hand basket.

Her feet pounded against the ground, her hands slicing through the air moving her faster, farther.

She reached the crumbling columns to find a small blond woman surrounded by three vampires, two holding her arms and the third who had a long, slim sword pointed at her chest.

"What happened,' Amethyst asked, though looking around she could gather what had gone on. There was an alter and some odd items, including the ubiquitous wooden stake.

Three pairs of eyes slid in her direction.

"You're late," the one holding the sword said with a voice like marble, cold and smooth.

"I know, I'm sorry."

The vampire shook his head, and a scowl turned his lips.

"I mean you're too late. It's over."

Amethyst's dark eyes widened. "It's the end?"

The three vampires nodded but only the sword man spoke. "Again."

### Places, Camera, Action!

"Action!" The disembodied voice yelled, hidden from view behind the large camera. I ran down the street, my legs pumping hard, coming closer to the cluster of abandoned cars that were arranged haphazardly on the long empty street that was cleared with barricades to stop any people from walking onto set.

I launched myself onto the trunk of one of the cars, using the bumper as a step, and jumped up onto the roof, and slid down the windshield onto the hood, and then jumped onto the car next to it. I heard a loud crack of gun shot. It made me jump, but I knew it wasn't real. I rolled off the hood of the car and landed on the ground in a crouch just as something swooshed past me at high velocity.

Was that a real bullet? I stood and tried to look over the group of cars, wondering what was going on. "Hey!" I shouted. "What's-" but before I could finish my wondering aloud, another bullet zoomed past me, just grazing my shoulder and causing it to sting like a sonofabitch. "What?" I said, confused. Another crack and I jumped like a jack rabbit, and did what any frightened creature would do. I ran.

This time I ran with intent. This wasn't for the show. This was real. I was running down the middle of the empty street again, heading towards the barricades a few blocks further down. And then I realized how stupid it was. I was right out in the open. Another shot and another bullet flew past dangerously close. I ducked as I continued to run, swerving off the street and ran in between trees that lined a park on one side. I leapt over a park bench, stumbled and fell. I stood, disoriented. This wasn't part of the script! There was supposed to be a fight scene that I was to get into when I got to the end of the street.

But suddenly, somehow the fight was here. In the middle of a children's playground. Two men dressed entirely in black, with balaclavas pulled down over their faces, despite it being a warm June day, vaulted from somewhere on the outskirts of the play park and over little rocking horses, and what looked like a rocking octopus. They landed silently, stealthily, like ninjas.

And then hands were slicing through the air, legs were kicking and fists were flying. I pulled out all of my best stunt-man moves, ducking, swerving, tumbling, sliding to avoid the mass of body parts that were intent, for some reason, on me alone.

I was out of breath, but managed a weak, "what's going on?" when I found myself on the opposite side of a jungle gym, the three masked men on the other of the honey comb of climbing bars.

From somewhere to the left of the park, gun shots rang out again. I didn't wait for an answer. I turned and continued sprinting across the small park, the size of a city block. After a few seconds I chanced a glance over my shoulder, and breathed a sigh of relief when I didn't see the ninja men following me.

I left the tree-lined protection of the park and found myself back on the street. I ran half a block and then stopped, waiting, watching, listening. Everything was quiet. Somewhere behind me was the movie set I had just been forced to flee. I was wondering what to do next when a small black car screeched to a halt beside me on the road and the passenger door swung open. "Get inside!" a voice demanded from the driver's side. It was a girl, dressed in jeans and a plain white t-shirt, blond hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She seemed harmless enough. I shrugged and climbed in. Being in a car was a lot safer with people shooting at you.

As soon as I closed the door, the girl slammed her foot down on the gas and the car tires squealed, trying to get a grip, and then we were flying down the street at almost 100 miles an hour. Thankfully, it was still early and the streets were still relatively quiet.

I gripped the handle of the passenger door with one hand, and my seat with the other. My knuckles turned white.

"What's going on?" I said at the exact same time as the girl that was causing us to hurtle at break neck speeds down the streets of Portland – a dangerous enough feat normally, with the one-way road system.

The girl looked at me, shocked. "You don't know?"

"No, don't you?" My knuckles turned whiter.

"Well, a bit, but not all of it. I'm on the resistance. I thought you were too, that's why those blaggards were after you, and the Coalition were shooting at you."

Blaggards? Coalition? Resistance? I spoke my wondered questions aloud.

"Why else would you be running away from the guards?" she asked again.

"Running from them? They attacked me! They have the wrong guy. You have the wrong guy. I'm not part of any resistance. I have no idea what you're talking about or who was shooting at me, and who those ninja guys are."

The girl turned the corner sharply onto NW Everett Street, toward the parkway and across the bridge towards the Eastbank.

"Where are we going?" I asked, but I had an idea.

"The train station. We need to get out of here."

"But, the movie-" I said lamely.

"Movie?" my rescuer said, confused.

"I'm...just an actor. That's what I was doing when people started shooting at me."

"An actor? How can you help me if you're just an actor?" She screeched, suddenly stopping the car, reaching across me and throwing my door open. "Get out!" she yelled, anger barely contained.

"But-"

"Get out!" she repeated.

I had barely unbuckled my belt when I was left standing alone on the side of the street, wondering if it was all a dream.

### 500 Words

Do you know what it feels like to think you are about to die? Everything slows down and then stops. All the life, all the colours drain out of everything. It's like you're trying to conserve every last bit of energy into just keeping yourself alive, to keep your heart pumping and your mind thinking. You go into survival mode: sounds disappear until all you hear is your heart and your breath as loud as a hurricane in your ears.

Trust me, I know. I've been almost dead more times than I have fingers and toes. And I don't recommend it. It's not as if I try to get into situations that get me almost dead, it's just... I guess you could say it's my hobb-.

I hear a familiar click right next to my left ear; the small sound that has such a huge meaning - the sound of a gun's safety being pulled back. Slowly, calmly, I put down my pen. Without turning my head, I begin to stand from the Adirondack chair where I'd been enjoying a rare peaceful morning on my deck devoid of any life – I do not have a green thumb – above the Pacific.

"Don't move," the voice says quiet but firm. At first I'm surprised. It's not any voice I was expecting, going through my mental rolodex of the long list of people who want me dead.

I try not to sound like I'm on the verge of a laugh. I swallow once, hoping to quash the offending sound, and try to sound serious and even as I stop in a squat, half sitting, half standing.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, plainly, removing all traces of amusement from my voice.

The voice behind me makes an exasperated noise. "Okay, you can move, but only do what I say."

I try to suppress a smile, grateful my face is turned away from my captor. She sounds unsure, nervous. I don't recognize her voice – I'm usually good with recognizing who it is that wants to hurt me.

"Okay," I say agreeably. "Can I at least stand up?"

There is a pause. I can almost sense eyes being rolled. "Yes."

I straighten slowly. "Now what?"

Another pause, longer this time. "Take us to the library."

Us? A shiver races down my spine. I mentally shake my head. I hadn't been on alert. I'd been too busy writing.

"The library?" I repeat, confused.

"Your library," the woman says, irritation and impatience tingeing her words.

"Why?"

"That's not important. All you need to know is you have a gun to your head."

I laugh, short and sharp. "That's nothing new to me."

I hear the another small click that causes the hair on my arms to rise involuntarily and I raise my hands defensively. "Okay, okay," I say, leading the way into the kitchen and down the hall.

The double doors to the library already stand open. I stop and gesture inside. "Ladies first."
A Stranger Calls

It was only after I opened the door at seven fifteen that I remembered Mum's catchphrase sounding all my life: "Don't open the door to anyone after seven." She didn't say it that night, before she went to work her night shift. But that's no excuse.

I'd asked the obvious question when I was much younger, "If it's so dangerous to let anyone in then why is it okay for you to go out at night?"

The answer was as bizarre as the instruction itself. "Because Tamara, the Grim Reaper comes to get you, not the other way around." Then, whispering a prayer, she left for her night's excursions.

The stranger standing on the doorstep looked as wild and woolly as the night itself. His thick, curly, black hair stood in wet spikes, so I didn't notice the peaks at each side of his forehead. Not then. The light coming from the hallway behind me was too pale to see his face clearly.

The wind was whooshing like a drunken ghost, and there was so much rain that I could hardly see the other side of the road. None of our street lights have worked for as long as I can remember. I know this 'cause I do look out the windows, like a prisoner behind bars.

Although the unknown quantity didn't look much older than me, I felt the need to protect Tonkin. He's only sixteen. I didn't want the guy to think I was afraid or that we were alone at home. Obviously I couldn't shut the door in his face, so I barred the entrance and started to angle the door slowly shut.

"Play with them," Dad used to joke. "Then hit them with it when they're least expecting it." Of course he was halfway across the world, doing exactly what he preached.

"Sorry, we're going out," I mumbled, keeping my voice as low as possible so I sounded older.

"I just want directions," he said in a teenage twang I recognised. "My GPS says I'm on the corner of Blackthorn and Wildling Streets. But if I go either way I hit a dead end."

"Then go back the way you came." I stated the obvious.

"That's the funny thing. Every way I go from the intersection hits a blind alley." He was sounder higher pitched.

Then what I had been dreading. "Who's at the door?" Tonkin called out.

I wouldn't have minded so much if Tonkin's voice was deeper, more like Dad's.

"He's just leaving," I called back, trying to remember what Mum did when she opened the door at night.

Then I turned to the guy. "Turn your GPS off. GPS signals go kaput in this part of town. Then drive back the way you came. If you come to a kerb, do a U turn. Try this on all the streets until you find a way out. Who are you?"

I was surprised to see the Grim Reaper looking frightened.

###

"But, but," the young man said, his scythe, I now noticed, slung across his back, the long curved blade glinting over his right shoulder in the watery light from the moon that peeked through the clouds at intervals. I almost expected his lip to start quivering. "But I've tried to go everywhere, I can't get away and," he paused and averted his gaze, almost embarrassed.

I couldn't help myself. I was curious, and the words came tumbling out before I could think. "And what?"

The Reaper raised his eyes, dark even in the lamp that hung above the front door, brightening the front steps and around which a large moth was noisily bumping into the lantern.

The Reaper mumbled something under his breath that I couldn't hear. "What?" I repeated again, almost impatiently.

"I have an appointment that I'm supposed to make," he glanced anxiously at his watch underneath the sleeve of his dark top that blended with the rest of his black clothes.

"You mean," I started to say, lowering my voice, but was cut off when Tonkin appeared at my shoulder. "Who's there?" he said, curious but in a bored tone. I knew this has interrupted his video game playing.

"No one," I said sharply. "Just someone who's lost and looking to find his way out of here," I explained, quickly.

"Oh," Tonkin replied with barely a glance at the grim reaper standing on our doorstep. "Did you tell him that GPS doesn't work here?" he said, trying to be helpful.

I sighed in annoyance. "Yes, I did."

Tonkin was already turning away to head back into the living room. "Okay," he said over his shoulder.

"Sorry," I said hurriedly. "You were saying you have an appointment...do you mean an "appointment" I bent my fingers into air quotes for emphasis.

The Reaper looked shocked. "Wh-," he stuttered. "What do you mean?" he took a step back and down a step.

I gestured to his scythe. "I know you're a reaper. I can see your scythe. My mum always said..." I trailed off.

The Reaper's dark eyebrows rose to almost meet his dark spiked hair. "Your mum said what?"

"Oh nevermind," I shook my head. "It's just superstition." My mouth twisted at the corner into a smile.

"So," I said bluntly. "You're going to kill someone?"

The boy, for that's all that he was, looked shocked. "No! I don't kill people. I take their souls, there's a big difference."

I shrugged, not wanting to debate the point. "Well where are you looking for?"

He took a small scrap of paper from the pocket of his black jeans and thrust it at me. I took it, read the address written there and dropped the paper. I gasped. "You're wanting 1832 Hummingbird Lane?" My voice was quiet with fear.

"Yes?" he replied. "What's the problem?"

I shook my head, stunned. Tonight was getting weirder and weirder. First a grim reaper shows up at the door, then it turns out he's looking for a haunted house.

### A Long Way Down

When I awoke, it seemed like it would be just like any other day. But by one in the afternoon, I found myself deep underground chasing down the supposed existence of an ancient manuscript that had been lost for centuries. As an archaeologist, I felt at home working in the ground, but not deep inside the earth. My claustrophobia reared its ugly head as we shuffled into the small metal cage, the door ratcheting closed behind us with a loud final clank. After what seemed like an eternity, the door rattled open and we were deposited unceremoniously out into the dark, with one large lamp swinging disconcertingly high above, it's light barely strong enough to reach us on the ground. I lifted the covers of my dark lantern and twisted the knob, light flaring to life. I lifted my lantern and the darkness slid away somewhat, revealing gears and pendulums swaying and moving hypnotically above my head, the drone of machinery an ever present background noise. The rock walls of the cavern arched above us gracefully, shaped and molded by man. I shook my head though I didn't think any could see. No, not by man, I thought, correcting myself. By mecchas; machines made in the shape of man.

A voice next to me made me jump and I swung my lantern in front of me as a barrier.

"Sorry to startle you," the man in said in a smooth, flawless voice that made him instantly recognizable as a meccha. That, and the fact that my light made his eyes glow like new copper pennies. I gathered my wits as best I could. The dark made me jumpy. "It's fine," I said, trying to get my voice under control that was being hijacked by my nerves.

The mechanical man patted me sympathetically on the shoulder. I flinched and then winced at my instinctive reaction: repulsion. I hoped he hadn't noticed, and his impassive, smooth features gave nothing away. He smiled brightly. "We are a long way down," he explained. "Further than anyone has reached before. But it is necessary, since we are running out of space above ground. There is only so much of the surface left, but down here, inside, it is an untapped resource!" He flung his arms wide, gesturing to the empty cavern that, by the sounds of machines far in the distance, went on for a long way.

I nodded, anxious. "I can understand that but, I'm just here for a manuscript. I heard that one of the machines had accidentally exposed it when digging?"

"Ah, you must be the esteemed archaeologist Mr Wagstaff," the meccha said, shaking my hand heartily.

I resisted the temptation to pull my hand from his. "Doctor Wagstaff."

The copper of his eyes seemed to dim slightly, but that might have been my nerves again, playing tricks on me so far down below the earth. It was unnatural to be underground. Only corpses were destined for a life in the earth, not the living! And I made my feelings known to the meccha.

"Simon," the automaton said. "Simon Clarendon."

My eyebrows rose at the name. "Clarendon? As in –"

The machine interrupted me, a scowl curling my mouth. "Doctor Joseph Clarendon, the famed inventor, yes. He is my father."

"You mean creator," I said without thinking, forgetting my manners. But did un-real people need to be treated so? Unlike us living, breathing men? The thought raced through my mind.

Mr. Clarendon shrugged, brushing away my comment with a wave of his hand.

"Come," he said, leading the way through the dark without any light to guide him. He must be able to see like a cat, or other creature of the night, I thought as I lifted my lamp to keep him in my own sight.

I had taken roughly five hundred paces when the ground and walls around us began to shake. Massive stones bigger than any carriage began to fall.

I moved to run towards where I thought Simon Clarendon had gone, and an arm blocked my way, pushing me back. "Careful," he said calmly, pointing with his free hand downwards. We stood at the edge of a chasm, my toes, almost brushing empty air.

"What should we do?" I said, my voice rising with panic.

"Take my hand," he said, unscrewing it and placing it in mine. I stared at him, dumbfounded. "But, it's your hand!" I whispered horrified. "Don't you need it?"

He answered by opening the pouch at his waist and bringing out another hand which he promptly stuck back on with a few quick turns. He flexed his new fingers, wiggling them in my face. "Good as new!" he smiled. He gestured to the hand he'd just given me. "Besides, you never know when another might..." he paused, struggling to hold in laughter, "come in handy." The last word flew out on a burst of a laugh that he had failed to reign in.

"What-?" I was confused. "We need to get out of here!" I said, as a large chunk of the ceiling fell past us down into the hole so close I could feel the wind of it as it fell.

"Yes," Simon said. "Follow me. Use my hand. Like this," he pressed at a point on to top of his hand right at the start of his wrist, and his hand moved out on a stalk, like a metal rope.

I looked at him, then looked at his hand, and then the hand he had given me, in disbelief. "You mean to say we're going down there?"

Simon nodded, gold eyes glinting. "Trust me."

The earth beneath my feet moved more violently. What choice did I have?

"Hook my hand onto the edge, like this," he said, demonstrating.

I did as instructed and watched Simon press his wrist and lower himself over the edge. I followed suit, praying his hand would hold.

Utter darkness enveloped me. It was a long way down.

### Ripe For the Picking

Oliver stood at the edge of the world the cold wind pulled and tugged at his hair and he wrapped his coat tighter around himself, as if the thin material would be a barrier to the biting chill that mother nature gloried at here. He stared down at the dark, stormy water; his toes instinctively curled in his shoes, as if trying to grip the edge of the cliff on which he stood, through the tough soles.

He scanned to the left, and then right, and the world was only water. Behind, down the hill he had climbed to reach the cliff, that the residents of Pendu Plat called the end of the world, sat the sleepy town that clung to the cliff edge – at a somewhat healthy distance.

The sky was darkening, turning the same grey-bruised colour as the water far below. Oliver stood still and rigid against the buffeting wind awaiting the call. Before he even heard the voice call out his name he had turned and started to move back down the narrow winding path that lead to the cliff edge.

He strode past Margil without so much as a glance. "I know, I know," he said, irritated, waving a hand behind him in Margil's direction.

He heard Margil's foot steps follow closely behind him. The dirt path transformed into stones as the buildings sprouted up on either side – squat, stocky buildings, huddling together as if sheltering from the wind that tortured anything foolish enough to live along the cliffs of the coast of the Empire.

"What were you doing?" Margil's words were dragged away with the wind, so Oliver had a hard time hearing him.

A pocket watch was thrust into Oliver's face from behind him.

"You're almost late!" Margil said, anxious.

Oliver whirled around, causing Margil to take a step back, quickly, tripping on one of the large unevenly spaced cobble stones. "I said, I know!" he shouted over the groan of the wind which had increased.

"But-" Margil started. Oliver ignored him and picked up his pace.

He pulled his pocket watch out from the small pocket his vest. "I know I'm late for court," he said to himself, the wind hiding his words from anyone nearby.

He pounded up the hard, wide steps of the building. The marble above, supported by rows of columns stated the obvious in deeply carved letters: Court Pendu Plat.

His feet slapped loudly against the smooth shining marble and then pushed the large wooden doors open with a bang. A roomful of faces looked sharply in his direction.

A man, raised above them all from a chair on a dais, stared down, glaring at Oliver over thin-rimmed narrow glasses.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr Cargill?" Judge Superior Martingale said, his voice clipped with barely contained anger.

Oliver had no excuse, and said so. The edge of the world called to him, and he lost track of time when looking out at the water stretching to the horizon and beyond.

"You do realize what day it is, Cargill?" Martingale said.

Oliver nodded. He did indeed. Everyone in town knew what today was. Today was the day that Pendu Plat disappeared. It was being wiped from all maps in the Empire. People believed it was cursed. Probably because a large number of people died, or disappeared from Pendu Plat. Most, Oliver thought, flung themselves from the cliffs in the dark of night. After all, it wasn't the town's fault where it was situated, was it?

The founder, someone by the name of Plat of course, though Oliver couldn't remember who exactly, he had little interest in history had his reasons for placing a town in such an isolated part of the country.

People disappeared, it was true, but how was erasing the town's existence on everything from maps, to pamphlets, to road signs that lead carriage here going to stop that? Oliver wondered as he took his seat at the table on the right hand side of the court room. It wasn't just visitors to the town that seemed to disappear, but residents as well. People who claimed to hear voices, calling to them on the wind, from the waters below. Sometimes, people whispered in hushed tones in taverns, they heard singing. Singing or wailing, it was hard to differentiate.

That's what Oliver heard, anyway. The singing. He glanced to the table situated a few feet away from the one at which he sat, and looked at the large man sitting in the chair too small for him. The man he was fighting against. It was a cool day, but the man, a representative for one of the founding family members of Pendu Plat, was sweating profusely. He stood and cleared his throat. "The reputation of our town has been tarnished. We need to erase it from people's memories. Doing that will save lives."

Oliver smiled widely and bit back a laugh. "No, it won't." The court room faces turned to stare at him as one. "We shouldn't hide. We should be proud. We should encourage visitors!"

A voice piped up from somewhere in the back of the room. "But people are dying."

Oliver raised a finger, halting the person from saying more. "No. People are disappearing. There's a difference. Pendu Plat has been chosen."

"Chosen?" Judge Martingale and the Plat family representative said at the same time, confusion etched on their faces.

"Yes," Oliver said confidently. "Come, let me show you," he said moving toward the tall double doors before anyone had a chance to respond. Margil hovered anxiously at the door and followed Oliver, taking the place of his shadow.

"Where are you going?" Margil said as Oliver strode swiftly up the narrow, winding path towards the end of the world.

"I'm going to prove a point," he said, clearly, fighting the tremor in his voice. He reached the edge, his toes instinctively curling in his shoes. A pebble fell.

He turned and faced the assembled faces of the court staring back at him.

He waited, listening, until he heard it. A high keening sound.

"Listen." He cupped a hand to his ear. "They're singing," he said, as he faced them all, and then leaned backwards, letting the wind catch him in its arms.

### What Is Normal?

Jonah sat on the rocky outcrop over looking the ocean. He liked to come up here as much as possible. It was a not so subtle reminder of...everything. He felt an affinity with the water, with the rock he sat on. They reminded him of how it used to be. The water, the rocks, the few trees that hadn't been infected and were still alive, were natural, normal, untainted. Like him.

"Jonah!" A voice shouted up from the bottom of the path that led to his sanctuary. Jonah turned, and had to shield his eyes as he watched the man walk toward him, the sun glinted eye-achingly bright off the metal of the mans prosthetic leg, arm, and the majority of his face, save his left eye, cheekbone and one natural ear that made his face look strangely off kilter. The virus had taken the other one, and he hadn't bothered with a false one, when he could hear just as well through the mesh that covered his ear canal.

"Come on! You're going to miss it if you just sit around up here." The man towered over him as he reached his side. "What do you like about this anyway? There's nothing up here."

Jonah looked up at Stephen. He had been his first real friend. And he still was. Even if, technically, he wasn't entirely real anymore. No one was, anymore. No one except Jonah.

Jonah stood. "You know I don't like it," he said, almost whining.

"Only because you're the outsider!" Stephen said grinning. What was left of his real skin drew up in a smile. The mechanized side of his face did the same, but it didn't have the same effect and instead turned Stephen into a grotesque thing that Jonah had to turn away from.

"Precisely," Jonah said. "I am the outsider. And I just don't think everyone should be celebrating something like this."

Stephen narrowed his one good eye at Jonah. His left was synthetic and made of a smooth polished substance. "Celebrating how the world is now?"

Jonah shook his head. "No, you're celebrating what a virus, a disease, has done. You're celebrating something that has taken over the world and destroyed humanity, destroyed civilization as we know it!"

"Get over yourself, Jonah," Stephen spat, turning abruptly and heading back down the hill, not waiting for Jonah to follow. "We're still human, and we're still here, still civilized. It hasn't won. We have won over it. That's why we have the parade. Because we're proud. Because we're still alive," he said over his shoulder.

"But-" Jonah began.

Stephen whirled, the pistons in his leg moving smoothly. "No buts, Jonah. We are still here. We are still people. Just because you may see us like freaks, just because you are the only one left untouched by the disease, doesn't make you superior. You're the minority now. You're the odd one out, you're the freak because you aren't altered. You might think you're somehow special, or more important than us, because for whatever reason, you didn't catch the virus that ate the rest of us up from the inside out, and made us replace ourselves with metal and plastic and synthetics, but you're not!" He shouted the last words over his shoulder again as he continued to stomp angrily down the hill.

From his vantage point Jonah could see the town arranging in the square for the yearly Survivors parade. They looked like small troops of ants, being corralled in a line by spectators on either side of the parade route which wound throughout the city, beginning and starting in the town square by the large, ornate fountain. It used to be a man, a normal man of flesh and blood, riding a horse and carrying a large flag in support of the country's victory. But since the virus that had taken so many and utterly changed so many people forever, into something other than totally human, the soldier on his horse had been replaced by someone that was now the norm in the world – someone part flesh and blood and bone, and part undead, unfeeling machine. The horse had disappeared as well, since the disease had first decimated their population, and then, in a few short years, lead to their extinction, along with so many other animals around the world.

But now that the world had evolved, and, thanks to the virus, people had evolved as well, they had less need of domesticated mammals to help live their lives efficiently. People had become the work horses themselves. Most people had mechanical legs, since the virus started in the extremities, and mostly started in the legs, so that they were the first parts damaged, destroyed, replaced.

From Jonah's position on the hilltop, he watched the sun glinting off the statue of the Changed Man in the square, and lighting up the ant-sized people below, where the rays hit their mechanized parts that many refused to cover up with clothes. They lived with their new selves exposed to the world, as a badge of honour, pride.

It had been a full three years since the disease had struck and spread across the planet like wildfire. Yet still to this day Jonah was convinced that he would still somehow contract it and become like them. Involuntarily his lips turned down in a grimace.

His watched beeped on his unassuming arm of flesh, bone, blood and he sighed. It was a reminder of his appointment with the researchers. They wanted more blood, more scans, more pokes and prods with needles and electrodes. He was the human guinea pig. Everyone wanted to understand why he was the virgin human – unmarred.

He moved down the hill. Stephen had long since disappeared and joined the masses of his brothers and sisters, where he belonged. An air horn cut loudly through the still air, signalling the start of the National Anthem, entirely rewritten after the outbreak, and the parade.

It wasn't easy being an outcast.

Dusk and Dawn

The houses glowed like embers, their windows lit up like little sparks of flame by the rising sun. They looked so peaceful, so safe on the mountainside. As if mother nature herself was protecting them. But Jemima knew better. She knew that most likely, those little flames, their windows reflecting the sunlight, would be empty, abandoned, or if not abandoned, that the occupants would be dead. Sometimes she imagined where the dead might be, would they be asleep, all tucked up in their beds? or would they be stretched out on the couch, or curled up in a chair, the TV still glowing, the characters and people on the screen moving forever, or until the power went out, without anyone to turn it off.

She stood, looking out the windows of the top floor of the office building, towards those little flames on the mountain. Out of habit she glanced at her watch, but it had stopped working a while ago. That was okay. You didn't really need your watch to tell the time. And time wasn't really all that important anymore, anyway. The only time that mattered was day or night., but even more importantly, the time in between the two – dusk and dawn. That was when they were most active. Like ferrets, or hamsters.

Jemima had been one of the lucky ones. If she hadn't, she'd be dead too, just like pretty much everyone else she knew. But she wasn't just lucky, she was smart. That's why when her and all the other students in her class, along with their teacher, had come back from their camping trip to the lake out east to the sound of emergency sirens wailing, and plumes of thick smoke rising and swirling into the sky from so many areas, that the words that her father had told her came into her head, without her even really thinking about it. "Get to higher ground," he'd told her. "No matter what happens, that's the first thing to do. Get to higher ground. Go up. And from there you'll have a vantage point, you'll be able to assess the problem."

Jemima remembered the one question that popped into her head. "What kind of problem?" Her father had shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Any problem. Fire, tsunami, earthquake, riots, anything that's a danger. Rise above it."

So when their class had driven back into the city, amid the smoke and chaos, at the first opportunity, Jemima grabbed her backpack that was full of survival supplies from the trip – two left over water bottles, a handful of energy bars, a sleeping bag and pillow, a first aid kit (she was always prepared), and a small Swiss Army knife in a pink camo pattern – and jumped out the van when it stopped at a set of blinking traffic lights at an intersection. She ran, sprinting, for the one place she could think of. Not home, that wasn't high enough, with only its two storeys. She headed for the place where her father worked. It was the weekend though, the survival camping field trip being overnight on Saturday. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement, people moving – some running, most walking with a strange, disconcerting shuffling gait. She heard screams, and crying, but she ignored them, and ignored the uncomfortableness of her bag as it swayed from side to side on her back. She reached the large glass doors without barely being out of breath, and for the first time, Jemima was glad that she was on the track team at school. She yanked the doors open and ran to the wall of elevators in the shiny floored lobby, her sneakers squeaking ear piercingly on the tiles. She jabbed the button with a finger. Nothing happened. She jabbed it again. Out of the corner of her eye she could see shapes, people moving outside. And then she noticed the thin slot next to the button. A card slot.

"Dammit," she cursed. The elevator required a key card to operate. She moved past the elevators to a stairwell and turned the round silver knob. It moved and she pulled the door open with a sigh of relief. She started up – at first taking the stairs two at a time, but by the time she reached the seventh floor she was struggling. She went stair by stair now, but still moved quickly. Six more floors, and then she'd be at the top. Lucky 13.

She pushed open the door at the top and walked into an open plan office – desks and computers sat in groups of four. She headed for the balcony she knew skirted the outside. She tried the door leading out to the balcony that wrapped around the entire outside but it didn't open. She walked along the bank of windows until she saw one that was ajar. Not many buildings had windows that still opened, but she knew this one did. It was one of the older buildings in the city. She pushed up the window from below, the old wood frame protesting out of lack of use and climbed through. A wall, like a protective barrier, that came to her chest met her. There wasn't much room on the narrow strip of balcony, but enough. She stood on her tip toes to get a better look over the edge and down into the streets below, though she could see the main streets stretching away ahead of her without doing so. They looked like clogged arteries. Cars were stopped in clusters, and backed up as far as the eye could see. Most looked abandoned, their doors wide open like jaws of creatures waiting silently for prey to walk past. She saw movement. People moving like ants, like ants through treacle, slowly, aimlessly. She knew instantly these people-shaped things were no longer really people. She could see a couple people, and could tell they were like her. They moved fast, frantic. Darting from one building to the next, or between bumpers and hoods of cars that blocked the roads. They were doing what she was – trying to survive.

The others, the ones moving like molasses, like old blood, she knew what they were. She didn't kid herself. People had been joking about them for years, coming up with theories of what would cause it, or how or where it would start. But that didn't matter really, when it boiled down to it. There was only one thing that mattered in the zombie apocalypse: survival.

Jemima opened her bag and took a small bite of one of the chocolate chip protein bars she'd packed and thought about her new life.

### New World Order

Jameson had walked, and sometimes even run, these trails and paths for years. He was pretty sure he could do them in his sleep. In fact, he often dreamed that he was walking along the trails carved out between colourful trees that took him up the mountainside and then down towards the calm water of the lake on the other side.

And so it was that at first he thought he must be dreaming. It was so strange, so out of context that at first he ignored it and kept on going. But something made him stop. He looked back over his shoulder. At first he thought it wouldn't be there. That he had imagined it.

A dog wasn't unusual on the forest trails, but this one seemed different. It was a small, wiry thing with blond fur the colour of corn silk sticking up every which way as if it had been electrocuted. It was digging madly through a pile of leaves that were soggy and discoloured on the side of the trail, a mass of red and orange and yellow and brown. Jameson watched it for a moment and then realized what was so strange about it. The dog was alone. There was no one around. He hadn't seen anyone on the trails for quite a few minutes, and it was early in the morning. Where was its owner?

Jameson hunkered down into a crouch and lowered his voice. "Hey boy," he said softly so he didn't frighten it. "Where is your owner?" The dog just glanced at him with large brown eyes and then continued its frantic mission.

Jameson inched closer. "What is it?" he asked, not expecting an answer. "What have you found little guy?"

And the dog had indeed found something. Something shiny poked out from within the dull leaves.

The dog pawed at the object, dragging it out onto the path. It was a necklace, large and round like a medal.

Jameson leaned down to pick it up, and the small dog bared its teeth at him and growled low.

"Easy," Jameson said soothingly. "It's okay." The necklace was circular and fit almost exactly in his palm. It was silver. Or silver plated anyway, and a large gem sat in the centre, glowing the same vivid red as the leaves that surrounded it, glinting in the September sun, catching the light and sparkling.

Jameson glanced first down the trail and then up, into the thickening trees. Whose was this? Was the owner nearby? Had someone lost it? There wasn't anyone else in the vicinity, that Jameson could see.

He felt like he was stealing. But there was something about the silver disc that tugged at him. His fingers curled protectively around it. It seemed strangely warm in his hand, despite a cool mist hanging around from the morning. He stuffed the necklace in the pocket of his coat and continued on his way but stopped when he heard a soft tinkling noise from behind him. The dog was following him. "Go," Jameson said, flicking a hand at the creature. "Go on, your owner is probably looking for you."

The dog stopped and stared at him mournfully with its large eyes, its tail moving slowly, hopefully back and forth.

Jameson continued down the path that had started to slope downward. The tinkling resumed. He glanced over his shoulder. The dog was only a few feet behind him.

Jameson sighed. "Are you lost?" He knelt down and carefully reached out to the dog's neck and found the tag on his collar. Oliver, it said, but that was all.

Jameson had always wanted a dog. And his apartment was one of the few that did allow pets. "Well, Oliver, what do you say about coming home with me?"

Oliver continued to stare at him with his large eyes, his tail slowly swishing back and forth.

~*~

A handful of hours had passed, and Jameson had found himself under the heat lamp of a café, nursing a warm drink, after his wandering through the trails and around the lake, Oliver curled up at his feet.

Darkness had descended by the time he got home. Jameson had stopped off at a pet store and bought a small bag of dog food. He had intended to feed Oliver right when they got home but then he did what he always did, and threw his coat onto the back of the couch. The necklace tumbled out of the pocket and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop under the small dining room table in his cramped apartment.

"Oh!" he exclaimed out loud to no one but Oliver. He had entirely forgot about the necklace since he'd put it in his pocket. Crawling on hands and knees, he recovered it from under the table. The disc was pleasantly heavy in his hand.

He sat down heavily in his armchair and turned on the light next to him, Oliver finding an immediate home on the worn green couch opposite. When Jameson picked up the talisman again Oliver raised his head and growled.

"It's okay buddy," Jameson assured him.

He brought the necklace close, to inspect it. Around the edge there seems to be some kind of writing, that looked little more than scratches, but they were scratches that seemed to be positioned with a purpose. The red diamond shaped crystal at the centre was darker than what it had been in the woods, the colour of old blood.

It didn't seem like any kind of normal necklace. It had a sort of presence. Jameson pulled his laptop toward him and typed into the search bar his best description of the necklace.

He pressed the little magnifying glass beside the search bar. Seconds later, words popped up that made his jaw drop. Magic, amulet, talisman, ancient, rare. Jameson clicked on 'images' and drawings, sketches, renderings of the thing that now sat in a tangled mess on the side table next to him came up.

He clicked on the first link, an article from a university. A scholar was talking about it in reverential tones. The same words appeared in the article as did the other links: rare, special, magical, talisman. Its age was unknown but specialists reckoned it was a couple thousand years old.

Jameson glanced at it. It didn't look all that old.

He scanned the article, trying to get as much information about it as quickly as he could. The last paragraph caused a spike of fear to shoot all the way up his spine.

Dead? Death. Resurrection. The words popped out as if it had slapped him in the face.

He went to reach for the amulet, talisman, whatever it was, but then pulled his hand back just before his fingers brushed it. A growl erupted from Oliver once more. "Calm down," Jameson admonished. "It's just a..." what? A magic talisman. Something to do with the dead, with resurrection. That didn't sound like anything that was 'just a...' something.

Was it safe? Well he had been holding it earlier today, and it had been in his pocket most of the afternoon, and he'd just picked it up from under the table, and nothing bad had happened to him.

Hesitantly Jameson picked up the disc and held it in his hand, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. "Look, it doesn't even do anything," he said with an inward sigh of relief.

It seemed like Oliver was glaring at him.

Jameson glanced at the digital clock on the stove. It was already ten o'clock. Late for a work night. He turned the light off and went to bed, Oliver following and making a spot for himself, as inconspicuous as possible, curled at the end of the bed.

A scream rent the air. Jameson shot bolt upright in bed. His heart was pounding. Was it really a scream he'd just heard? He glanced at the alarm clock. 3:35am.

Then he heard it again. It was most definitely a scream, long and piercing. And it sounded like it was coming from the apartment next door.

Jameson slid out of bed and grabbed the large heavy flashlight he kept in the living room for emergency power outages. He opened the door and stuck his head out. "Mrs. Wallstein?" he called, hesitantly, his voice unsure.

From the window at the end of the hall, just past the Wallstein's apartment, Jameson heard the shrill sound of emergency sirens – whether police, ambulance or fire he couldn't tell.

He raised a hand to knock on the Wallstein's door when it was flung open from the inside and the frantic harried face of Mrs Wallstein appeared.

"Help!" she screamed reaching toward Jameson with clutching fingers. Dark red stained the front of her pale pink pyjamas. Jameson could see long red scratches on her chest, arcing toward her neck, the front of her clothes torn.

Instinctively, Jameson stepped backwards further into the hall. "What's wrong?" he said, his voice high and frightened.

"Dale! It's Dale! He...he died!" Her eyes were wide, it seemed mostly the whites, glowing in the dimness.

Jameson didn't know what to say, but Mrs Wallstein continued. "He died, in the night. He made a sound, a loud noise. And then he didn't wake up!" the words were flying quickly from her. "But then about fifteen minutes later, when I was on the phone to 911, in the kitchen, there was Dale. He was alive. He was moving, walking..." she trailed off.

And then she was pulled backward by a hand across her shoulder, dragging her back into the room.

She screamed and Jameson saw Dale, or something that looked Dale-esque. The man was a strange greyish colour, with a waxy sheen. He most definitely didn't look alive.

The necklace. The thought flashed through his mind just before a pair of grey hands pulled him forcefully into the room.

The last thing Jameson remembered was the sound of the door slamming behind him.

### As you mean to go on

No one was sure what actually happened, even after it happening for so many years; decades, centuries even. What everyone really wondered was the why.

Even though it was a regular occurrence, as predictable as clockwork, it still surprised people. It surprised Jimmy O'Donnaugh anyway.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it," he said as he took a bite of his over done toast gone black at the edges, and looked over at Larissa.

Larissa shrugged and dipped her toast in a soft boiled egg. "I don't think we're meant to get used to it. I think that's the point."

You'd think you'd get used to something that happened every year. Every year of his life, as regular as the sun rising, and he was used to that. Jimmy sat up straighter and stared at his girlfriend. "You think the point of it is just to keep us all on edge? What's the purpose of that?"

Larissa shook her head and shrugged again. "I don't know."

"And it happens all over, not just here, you know," Jimmy went on, going into lecture mode.

Larissa frowned at him over her eggs. "Yes, I know. We were in San Francisco last new years, remember? We saw it. So did everyone else." She shuddered. "I hate how they show it on TV, make a spectacle of it. It's a horrible thing, a private thing."

"A private thing?" Jimmy asked, his brows knitting together, his expression perplexed. "How is it private when so many people are there? It's not private. It affects everyone, all of us. The whole town." He thought of San Francisco with the thousands, crowded and clustered together like atoms in a cell. So many bodies pressed together in the circle. There were a few people nervously pacing on the outside, glancing upwards to the sky, looking at the stars that were beginning to poke through the increasing darkness of night. Those unfortunate ones that couldn't fit in to the space that was painted on the ground. And there were many. He'd never been anywhere on that day where there were so many people, where it was such a big circle and there were still people that were outside of it. "Or city, or village or wherever you live."

"It's private for the families. It shouldn't be shared with all of us," Larissa said lowering her eyes and pushing her eggs away. They were only half eaten.

Some people tried to beat the system. Every year people camped out in the circle, even a few days early, staking a good spot, if not at the centre then close to it, with no risk of being stuck outside the edge, where the white paint clearly marked the inside from the outside. Jimmy couldn't really blame them. It was life or death. Though being inside the circle didn't really guarantee your safety. That was an illusion, something that the World Government had thought up, Jimmy was fairly certain. As a way to keep people in line.

Larissa thought the circle was more for the spectacle of the thing. To have everyone, or mostly everyone, in one place. For the TV cameras.

Larissa had got up from the table as Jimmy had been thinking about it all.

"Do you ever wonder why?" he asked her suddenly. She was at the sink, rinsing her plate.

She laughed, short and sharp but didn't look at him. "All the time. Every year. Especially today."

Today. The fateful day. He wondered if he should follow his neighbours lead and go underground, in one of the old shelters in the back yard. Most people had them after all. For what reason exactly, Jimmy wasn't sure. They were old, old and crumbling, the metal cracking and rusting and falling apart. They could've been from wars, or to protect in natural disasters.

Now people used them to hide in on New Years Eve. A false sense of security, Jimmy thought. It didn't matter if you hid, or if you were outside or inside the circle.

The sky was already growing dark outside. Larissa always liked to eat breakfast at dinner on new years. It was her little tradition, to make the day seem longer. So that the time when the clock struck twelve would seem further away than it actually was, she explained.

"Come on, we better get going," Jimmy said. "Or else there might not be any more space left in the circle."

Larissa nodded solemnly, even as she said, "We've never not been able to get in the circle before."

Jimmy agreed. Every year he, and the rest of his family, had always managed to get in the circle. One year it was just barely, and Jimmy had squished himself up next to his father so that his feet were just a few inches away from the painted barrier. But he felt safer.

He remembered his father and mother's arms around him and his sister holding them tight. "You've been good this year, haven't you?" his father had asked and Jimmy nodded confidently. His father nodded reassuringly. "Well then you'll be safe, won't you?"

Jimmy had nodded then, and as he squeezed him and Larissa into the now packed circle that encircled a number of city blocks, seeming to grow larger each year as more and more people moved to Seattle.

The sky above had darkened now, the brilliant points of the stars standing out like snowflakes. But then the cauldrons around the outside of the circle were lit and the light from the flames ate up some of the stars.

Larissa slipped her hand into his, and Jimmy watched the clock on the tall stone tower warily. Would this year be the year? His mind flickered over the last year, as if leafing through pages of a book, trying to remember everything he had done. He'd been good, he thought. But had he been good enough? He wondered. He had always wondered that. What was classed as good? What was classed being bad? Bad enough to disappear.

The arms of the clock inched ever closer to midnight. Jimmy could feel the thousands of bodies that were clustered around him in the circle, and even those who were so called 'unlucky' enough to be outside the circle, collectively hold their breath as the second hand travelled unerringly around the clock face.

Larissa squeezed his hand reassuringly. He tried to smile but felt his stomach twist in knots. Every year he felt like this. He was sure others did too. It was the uncertainty. Would this year be the year? That one minute you were standing in the circle, or in your house, or in your shelter, or perhaps filling a church to bursting, and the next minute, as the bells of the new year rang out its last, that you would suddenly be gone?

He had never got used to the screams that followed the final ring of the New Year's Eve bell, as the clock struck midnight. The screams and crying that filled the circle, and the streets. It seemed to Jimmy that the whole town was crying. But in reality, it wasn't. It really was just a few hundred people, sometimes less, sometimes more. But that was in Seattle alone.

But it was always more than zero, and never just one, either. Jimmy tried not to think about how many people disappeared at the start of each year, around the world. Thousands? Millions?

Each year, as he left the circle with the scores of others, plodding back to their houses, in stunned silence, grateful that he had been spared yet again, he always felt a bit guilty. Because always his first thought was that the new year would be that much better, that much safer, now that the people who should be gone, were. He thought as he woke up the next morning and looked out his bedroom window, that the world looked bright and shiny and new again in the fresh, cold light of day.

He felt a bit sorry for the families and friends of the...victims? That a person that they knew and loved were...taken. But that was how it was. And really, it was their own fault, in the end, Jimmy thought, rationalizing. They had chosen to do something bad, something wrong, something evil enough to warrant them being deleted from the earth.

The clock continued its uninterrupted march towards midnight, and people began to count down with thirty seconds to go. The roar of voices was almost deafening, as if perhaps people wouldn't be taken this year if people drowned it out with noise.

Ten, nine, eight... Jimmy gripped Larissa's hand tighter. Seven, six, five...he noticed his voice had joined in with the others. Four, three, two...Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see what happened. He still remembered seeing what had happened to a young man who stood just a foot away from him, outside the circle, the year he was only a few inches inside what he used to think was a protective barrier, like being in an invisible snow globe, his mother had said.

The man had been standing there, twisting his hands together nervously, and then with an almost inaudible pop, the man collapsed in on himself, shrinking impossibly fast to the tiniest point and then disappearing into nothingness. But Jimmy had seen the silent scream on his face before he had dissolved. He wondered what the man had done. Something horribly awful, he thought.

One. The shouts of the crowd yelling the final number merged into the familiar screams and cries as people disappeared. He opened his eyes to Larissa kissing him. He hadn't been taken. Not this time, anyway. There were never any fireworks. It wasn't a celebration, after all. Except for those who were the lucky ones.

As he stumbled out of the circle, he tried not to look around, not to see if he'd notice who had been there that was there no longer.

He shuffled along the clogged streets with all the other citizens, in the familiar silence where everyone was too afraid, too stunned to say anything and no one really knew what to say anyway.

The PA system speakers positioned throughout the city came to life with a burst of static. "Thank you," the voice of the mayor was saying. He found his words, Jimmy thought numbly. "Thank you everyone. We understand how difficult this is, each year. But it is something that must be done. It is for the best, as I know you are all aware. The culling rids the world of those who should no longer populate it."

Jimmy held Larissa's hand as they made their way slowly up the street like fish fighting up stream. It was a slow process.

As he opened the front door, he heard the mayor's voice add something he had never heard before. "Starting this year," the mayor's voice was hesitant, unsure, and shaky. "It seems that the rules have changed somewhat. It seems that whatever causes the culling is no longer ridding our world of those who do not belong, those with evil in their hearts, but it seems to be..." there was a long paused and then the mayor's voice continued, "decreasing the surplus population." The mayor sounded as stunned as Jimmy felt by the annual NYD – new year disappearances.

Panic and fear gripped Jimmy and he burst through the front door and ran through the hall to the living room where the phone sat. His hands shook so much he could barely dial the number.

"Mom? Dad?" he said as no one but the answering machine clicked to life. "Are you okay?"

He held his breath, waiting for one of his parents to pick up the phone.

There was only a staticky silence. And then he heard screams and cries afresh from the neighbouring houses, mingling with his own.

This year, the rules had changed.

### A Voice In the Darkness

The last train had pulled into the station long ago and now sat, a silent, menacing hulk of dark iron, dull copper and tarnished brass.

The station itself had long emptied of the passengers that moved in and out of it smoothly and quickly like sand falling through an hourglass. Now it, too, was silent. A chill wind blew through, barely impeded by the pillars dotted throughout the station that were more for show than actual function.

A lone figure sat on one of the long worn wooden benches positioned along either side of the station, facing outward, looking onto the railway tracks through graceful stone arches. The girl seemed small in the emptiness of the building, hunched in her long forest green pea coat in an effort to stay warm.

She glanced at the large clock that dominated the lintel over the main entrance, frowned, and then removed her own timepiece from the pocket of her coat. She flicked the lid of the pocket watch open and her frown deepened when she realized the time was correct. She snapped the case shut, and the sound, though quiet, seemed loud in the tomb-like silence, bouncing off the cold stone of the walls and pillars. She pulled her coat tighter around her and blew into her hands, even though she was wearing gloves.

"Where could he be?" she said aloud, more to herself, for comfort than anything. Panic surged through her from the base of her skull down and down her spine, like cold fire. She opened up her satchel that was sitting beside her on the bench and took out her diary, flipping through the pages. Yes, it was the correct date and time. She stood and looked around, not sure what she was looking for exactly, but unsure what to do.

A sudden hiss of steam and the creak of settling metal caused her to jump. "Hello?" she said quietly. She moved cautiously out onto the abandoned platform. "Is anyone there?" She looked at the train, crouched like an animal in the darkness waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting prey. It looked different, somehow, at night. Most things did, she thought suddenly, reaching out impulsively to touch the smooth metal that shone where the moon hit it.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice cautioned from behind her. She whirled, snatching her hand back and stifled a scream.

A man detached himself from the heavy shadows that cloaked most of the platform, the moonlight unable to penetrate under the awnings.

The man tipped his head forward in a nod, tipping a grey bowler hat that caught the moonlight in greeting. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said with a smile that turned his mouth up at one side.

The woman clutched her satchel to her protectively. "Well, you may not have meant to, but you did," she said brusquely, out of embarrassment. "And why shouldn't I?" she added, replying to his statement.

"Because it may still be hot. Steam trains retain a lot of heat, especially around the engine room. Metal conducts heat and it takes a while to cool," the man explained matter-of-factly.

"Oh." She didn't know what else to say.

"What is a young lady such as yourself doing all by yourself in a train station?" He glanced at the pocket watch in the small front pocket of his vest made specifically for that purpose. "And at this ungodly hour?" the man asked as he stepped just to the edge of the shadows. Moonlight glinted on the toes of his polished black shoes, and highlighted the tip of his nose and mouth, but the rest of him remained in the safety of the dark.

"I'm waiting for someone," she replied. She paused, hesitating. "I mean, I was supposed to meet someone here."

"Oh?"

The woman could hear the surprise in the man's voice, and even though she couldn't see, she knew the man's eyebrows would have risen towards the brim of his hat at her reply. It was none of his business, she thought, irritated, so remained silent.

The man continued, ignoring her stoicism. "Well, if you want someone to help pass the time until your friend shows up..." he trailed off.

She shook her head briskly. "No!" she said loudly and more forcefully that she meant, an edge of fear creeping into her voice. "No," she repeated, more calmly. "I'll be fine." She glanced at her watch again. It was now almost half past midnight. Thirty minutes late. She looked up as the light from the moon suddenly disappeared, she thought at first it was just temporarily by one of the night-time delivery airships, but it was more unpredictably obscured by cloud.

The man was silent a long, unnerving moment, and she took a step backwards, in a futile effort to put space between them. She almost bumped up against the train.

"Who were you supposed to be meeting?" the man asked softly from the comfort of the shadows.

She had the sudden urge to reach into her bag for the small energy pistol hidden inside.

"No one that is of any interest to you," she replied, trying unsuccessfully to keep the rising fear out of her voice.

"And how would you know that?"

She crabbed sideways, along the length of the train, towards the first of the passenger doors.

She didn't know that. She didn't even really know who it was she was meeting. She had received the note three days before. It had been waiting for her, propped against the front door, the corner of the envelope crushed and bent by an unsuccessful attempt to shove it under the door. A small bicycle leaned against the railings of the steps that lead up to the door.

She broke the seal on the envelope with shaking hands. A few words in dark, shaky script were scrawled across the single page. "If you want to see your child again, take the last train north to the last station on the line. Wait until midnight."

She had run to the closest train station, careful not to twist an ankle on the uneven cobbles, and bought a ticket, but not before digging out the small energy gun she kept hidden in a shoe box under the bed. _Better to be safe_ , she thought, tucking it away, underneath a spare shawl and the one photograph of her son that she had. She handed over almost all the money she had on her for the ticket and ignored the ticket booth clerks' quizzical look at why someone like her, dressed in her least worn and tattered dress, would want to go to the last stop on the line. It was the middle of nowhere, surrounded by windswept and barren land that was home to almost perpetual fog year round.

She had been so filled with worry that she barely remembered getting on the train. She had managed to find a seat in the crowded cars, and sat by the window, oblivious of the chill through the glass. Her fingers drummed nervously against the polished mahogany of the arm rests, and the panelling along the windows and sills. She was vaguely aware of the train emptying, more and more people getting off at each stop. Her head jerked up as a voice crackled loudly over the speakers, alerting passengers that they had reached the terminus station and to kindly please watch their step getting off.

She glanced around, slightly bewildered at the fact that she seemed to be the only person left. The car had lost its coziness, despite the velvet upholstered seats and rich wine coloured embroidered curtains that were draped across each window, when it had lost its inhabitants. She had stepped out of the train slowly, taking in the new, unfamiliar surroundings. She'd been on a train before. If she was honest, she preferred them to airship travel, but she had never been _here_ and she didn't know anyone who had ever had any reason to.

Her feet hit the platform, and she caught a glimpse of the conductor and one of the stewards in their wine coloured jackets disappear through a gate and up a set of metal stairs to some unknown destination. Almost immediately she found herself alone.

But she wasn't anymore. She edged her way closer to one of the carriage doors, clutching her bag tighter against her, as if it were a shield.

Movement caught her eye and she looked up at a flickering shadow. A moth fluttered erratically around one of the gaslight lanterns that cast a pale, feeble glow every couple meters or so down the length of the platform.

She turned her attention back to the man in the shadows and was surprised to see he was no longer there.

"What do you want?" Now the panic was evident in her voice.

The voice in the darkness came once more. This time, from further down the platform, in the direction she was heading. It sounded apologetic. "I'm sorry I'm late," it said. "Something..." it paused before continuing. "Held me up."

She tried to peer into the darkness to find his shape, black against black. She wished the moon would come out of hiding.

She reached the carriage door and still standing with her back to it; put a shaking hand on the handle.

She repeated her question.

"You know what I want," the voice in the darkness said smoothly.

She shook her head vehemently. "No, I don't. I don't understand. Why have you taken my son?" Her free hand went to her bag and slid under the flap, fingers searching for the comfort of the gun in its depths.

She almost stumbled backwards and through the door as her hand moved on the handle when the man suddenly stepped from the dark into the strip of light created by the lanterns, though the light still didn't seem to touch him in his all black outfit. He wore a long black coat, collar turned up to the brim of his hat, and a dark scarf tucked neatly into dark waistcoat which flowed into black trousers. The one thing the light did touch was his black shoes which glittered.

She saw him open his mouth and then close it again. He was studying her, looking her up and down, from the tips of her scuffed teal boots, over her matching dress, to the tip of the piece of peacock feather that adorned the small hat she wore so that she didn't have to put much effort into styling her hair.

She saw his eyebrows rise this time before he spoke. "You mean, you really don't know?"

This caught her off guard and confusion engulfed her, increasing her panic that rose up her spine and down her arms into her hands. Her fingers tingled, a strange icy-hot sensation.

"No?" The word came out as a question, unsure. "What are you talking about?"

The man laughed. It was an odd, sharp sound, like he didn't believe her.

"Are you sure?" he said, pointing to her one hand that was still visible, wrapped tightly around the handle of the train car door.

"What?" Still confused she glanced, irritated, to where he indicated.

A scream escaped her. Her hand, which was still tingling and burning cold, was glowing blue. The colour surrounded her hand like a glove and was dancing, flickering and sparking like the new-fangled electricity that was being demonstrated at fairs around the country by Messrs. Tesla and Edison.

She snatched her hand away from the door, and pulled her other one free from her purse and away from its quest for her gun. That one was surrounded by blue as well. She held them in front of her, mesmerized.

"What-," she stuttered. "What's happening?"

"I'm surprised you don't know," the man said, taking another step closer, further into the light. She could see his eyes now, and they shone the same blue as her hands. "It's why I've taken your son. He's like you, but he needs guidance." He watched her again. "And so do you, it seems. But I can't help you with that. I'm assigned to your son."

She tore her gaze from her hands as her head snapped up. "Assigned?"

"Your son can do magic," the man explained. "And he needs teaching. I've been assigned as his teacher."

"Magic? That's preposterous!" She scoffed, shaking her head.

The man laughed again and inclined his head towards her hands. "Is it?"

She looked at her hands again. The blue was still there, but fading. She had no reply to that.

"What are you going to do with him? My Jeremy?" she asked.

"Not to worry, he is safe, and in good hands," the man said with a smile that now seemed less frightening than before.

"Can I see him?" she asked quietly.

"I'm afraid he isn't here." The reply was almost sad.

Dread settled in a heavy ball in her stomach once more. "Where is he?" Her voice was a whisper.

"Where he belongs," the man said touching the brim of his hat once more before turning away and heading back into the station, between the columns that supported the platform roof.

It was then she noticed that what she thought had been a long, black coat were a pair of large black wings, folded tightly against the man's back, trailing down to his heels. Before she could say anything, he had disappeared back into the shadows and was gone.

### The Dark & Shadowy Places

My name-, well, that doesn't matter right now. That's the least important part of this story. The important part is that the world has always been back and white for me. And I'm not just talking about life and death, like most would assume these days, though it is pretty black and white in that regard as well. But I mean literally. I only see in black and white. Or shades of grey if you want to get technical about it. I can't see colours. No need to pity me though. I was born like this, which helps, somewhat. Some genetic abnormality or something they said, though no one in my family has had this condition, I've checked. In fact, hardly anyone has it. And most of them that do, or did, aren't around anymore. For reasons I'm sure you can guess.

I've looked for a cure but it doesn't seem like there is one. At least not yet. And not seeing colour puts me at a slight disadvantage. Okay, if I'm being honest, quite a big disadvantage. Especially at night. I try to avoid dark, shadowy places, which is just plain common sense nowadays. I mean, it used to be common sense back then too, but for a totally different reason. Before, the only thin you'd be avoiding by keeping away from the dark and shadows were unsavoury people – muggers, drug dealers, prostitutes, burglars and the like, that would cause you harm. And I'm not putting anything against them, I'm sure it wouldn't have been very nice to find yourself in some dark alley with those types of people around, but at least your chances of coming out the other side, alive, were more likely.

But now, unless you're totally insane, the dark and shadowy places are abandoned, by even the muggers and drug dealers and psychopaths. And all the unsavouries, if they value their lives, have found safe places indoors to ply their trades.

The dark and shadowy places are now the domain of the reanimated deceased. That's the PC way of saying the living dead. Zombies, if you want to be downright crude.

They seem to favour the dark. Maybe, like me, bright lights bother them.

Though the lights of a big city will do nothing to scare away those who are hunting, who are hungry.

There is nothing that will stop a hungry walking deceased person besides the standard of targeting the brain – but not just the brain but the brain stem. The movies got that part all wrong. You have to sever or damage the brain stem. That shuts them down, turns off whatever internal battery that has somehow been flicked back on again after death. And doing that is harder than you think.

A gun works well to give you a bit of a reprieve, give you a few extra seconds. Shooting them usually knocks them down, as if they're a leaf being blown about by a breeze, but they immediately start getting up again so you have to be fast with your sword when they're down. It takes a lot of strength. And most swords aren't feathers, that's for darn sure.

But they're by far the most popular weapon. There's been an increase in sword fighting classes and a drop in self defence since this whole thing started. Hand to hand combat isn't all that effective fighting something that is dead and that will continue to try to attack and eat you, no matter how many punches or roundhouse kicks you throw. Swords give you a little bit of distance, which is why the longer the sword, the better, but if you don't already have one, you probably won't have much luck finding any in stock at your local Walmart.

I was lucky. Mine were handed down to me. Ceremonial Japanese fighting swords that my father had above the fireplace mantle, just as decoration, can you believe that? People had swords as decorations in their hoses before the dead started coming back to life and instead of peacefully shambling around, came back craving anything that had a heart beat and fresh blood pumping through their veins. Dad's swords were in perfect condition, but didn't remain that way for very long.

I had conditioned myself for the past two years, since all this started, to not go out at night and be safe at home by dusk, just in case. But tonight I had broken my self imposed rule. My swords were strapped diagonally across my back in their harness, their handles within easy reach. I wore skin tight thick leather motorcycle pants, which were almost a universal fashion these days, it was only sensible, and a snug long sleeved shirt with an equally form fitting motorcycle jacket on top, though I didn't own a motorcycle. Thick leather gave you that little bit of extra protection. And it helped that I was slim, too. It helped to be in good shape. I'd lost a bit of weight and toned up over the last few years. Being at all out of shape meant your chances of living very long in this brave new world weren't very good. The dead weren't all that fast, but it did help if you could run, and put some space between you and them, at least until you decided what you wanted to do – either run and hide, or maybe get help, or if you decided to face them yourself. Before the world changed, before all this started people used to make jokes about it. People who ran used to say to those who didn't, "I'll be able to survive the zombie apocalypse!"

Yes, running is good. It helps you to stay alive. But you can't be like Forrest Gump and keep running your entire life, because there will always be more dead people, slowly but surely following you. You'll run out of steam at some point. They won't. And that's the crux of it. Which is where weapons become useful.

I never leave the house without my swords. And I try not to leave the house at all, if I can help it. I order food online and get it delivered to the house; I have a fenced yard if I want to get some fresh air or some vitamin D. But a little sunshine is over-rated I think when there are legion of human-esque things wandering around out there with you as the only thing on their menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

There's only one thing that will get me to leave the safety of my self-sufficient stronghold, a.k.a. townhouse (but one that's reinforced with steel doors and barred windows). The one thing that would make everyone with an ounce of brain cells leave the safety of their houses, apartments, condos, homeless shelter.

The alarms. It meant evacuation. It meant there had been a breach of the walls that surrounded the city, and that the tall fence surrounding my back yard and the steel doors were no longer the comforting safety that they pretended to offer.

So it was that that had me striding across the city with my Japanese ceremonial swords at my back. I wasn't thinking, not really, not clearly. The only thing I was thinking of was getting to the muster area. The safety zone, the meeting place where everyone was supposed to meet when a failure happened. Like when a fire happens in a building, there's always the place marked out on the map where everyone needs to meet, on the grass, outside. I was on autopilot, moving swiftly in the general direction but not fully paying attention to the encroaching dark and shadowy places that grew larger every night, as if the dark, not just the undead was taking over the world.

The alarm was like a beacon. A long, continuous blaring noise, that roused people from their beds and their couches, attracting them like the dead to a beating heart.

One thing I should've learned by now, something I did know, but for some reason, with the alarm blaring I had forgot for an instant, and that is all that it takes, is that you always need to be on your guard when you are outside. Whether it is first thing in the morning, or high noon, or as the sun is setting. In the before times, people were constantly distracted by technology, staring more at their cell phones and laptops and handheld computers than being aware of their surroundings. There was even the odd story of people walking into moving buses because they weren't paying attention to where they were going!

You couldn't be like that anymore. Not if you wanted to live, anyway. You had to pay attention at all times. You had to look. You had to listen. And for me, I had to look harder than most other people because I couldn't differentiate things as clearly as those who could see the full spectrum.

My foot drifted across the subtle demarcation between the living world, and the dark, shadowy part of the world. Their domain.

I felt it first like a shiver of electricity, running up my spine and tugging on the small hairs on the back of my neck. I felt it before I heard it. Before I heard the shuffling noise of them moving, before I heard their deep, ragged breathing, like the growl of a wild animal, which drove a spike of fear into my chest.

Instinctively I turned my head in the direction of the sound, just in time to see fingers the colour of the pavement, cold and grey reach out and grab my arm, tugging at me. I yanked my arm free, thankful I wasn't wearing something loose that they could pull towards them. As I pulled my arm free my hand moved behind me to the hilt of my sword and I slid it free with a whoosh that had a slight ring to it. I swung without much thought. The sword came down on the creature's arm severing it through it's form arm, the grasping hand falling to the ground, and for a few moments, it still moved and spidered its way across the ground toward me. I stomped on it, grinding the heel of my steel toed boots into the appendage, squishing it into the pavement as if it were a cigarette butt.

The man didn't blink, didn't stop, didn't even seem to notice it was now missing a large chunk of an arm. It just kept moving forward.

I stepped backwards, stumbling slightly in my haste and raised my sword again, at the same time pulling its twin free of its sheath. I was already panting and out of breath. I hadn't come across one of them for awhile. And never like this, never this close.

I was dimly aware that the alarm had stopped ringing. There was a strange quietness that hit my ears, a quietness brought on by a sudden lack of a sound you had been hearing for awhile.

That wasn't a good thing. If the alarm had stopped, that meant the muster area had been sealed off already. If you weren't behind the walls by the time the alarm had been turned off, you were on your own.

The thought slammed its way through my mind, nearly distracting me from what I was trying to do. I was on my own. I squinted, trying to focus on the man-thing that was just a slightly different shade of grey from the dark shadow that surrounded him. I swung again. One of my swords sliced into the skin of his torso and lodged itself between ribs. The other sword, the one in my dominant hand, hit the thing in his neck, shoving it sideways slightly, pushing it further away from me. I released my grip on the one that was tightly stuck between the ribs and gripped the other with both hands, pulling it away from its neck and swinging again. This time it did its job, the blade slicing cleaning through, dislodging the groaning head with its gnashing teeth from the rest of its body. It tumbled in almost-slow motion and rolled back into the dark. I didn't even wait for the body to follow its lead, I turned and ran.

I ran until my lungs burned and I revelled in the feeling. Any discomfort meant I was still alive and that was something to be happy about.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, then twenty. I didn't realize the safe zone was so far away. And then the grey steel loomed in front of me, almost indistinguishable from the rest of what I saw as my environment. As suspected, the doors were closed, sealed shut with pneumatics.

I debated banging on it, asking them to open the doors but I knew it was futile. I was out, and everyone else was in. That was the protocol.

I turned and surveyed the abandoned city streets, cast in a strange pale whitish light from the street lamps, that people could have told me were purple for all I knew, whatever purple looked like.

It was me, Shar Flanagan, the girl who can't see anything but shades of dark and shadow against them, and all that entailed.

###

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to

leave me a review at your favourite retailer?

Thanks!

Caitlin

Discover other titles by Caitlin McColl

Under A Starlit Sky

Little Gods

Cogs & Corsets: A Steampunk Collection vol 1

Of Adventure & Antiquity: A Steampunk Collection vol 2

Ex Cineribus Resurge

And other books not through Smashwords

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