

Cult Classics for the Modern Cult, Creative Commons license protected under Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 Canada (CC BY-NC-ND 2.5 CA).

©2014 Copyright for each story is held, all rights reserved, by the individual authors.

### SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cult Classics for the Modern Cult. Art copyright Katie de Long 2014.

Internal formatting by CL Foster.

### Table of Contents

Forward

Attack of the Giant Abominable Gopher People by L.K. Hatchett

One Saturday, Almost 2000 Years A.D. by Ian Hutson

Save Our Oceans by Kirstin Stein Pulioff

Wickham the Roach by Rachel Savage

Whisker Bunnies from Hell by Steven Hammond

Eight Million Spec Scripts to Earth by Zig Zag Claybourne

Nexus: Octopied by Nic Wilson

The Newfoundland Medusa by Tina Power Traverse

Tomb Beasts Need Love Too by Michelle Browne

Eternal Lie by Katie de Long

About the Authors

### Forward

### Michelle Browne

This collection is a product of a specific moment in time in the indie publishing revolution: the uprising of crypto-erotica. In the wake of _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , the market for saucy stories boomed. And soon, because the limits of human creativity and depravity have no event horizon, unusual tales were flooding the market. BDSM, an entirely different kind of Monster Mash, and all sorts of freaky paramours became the flavor of the month.

I am proud to call some of these depraved, creative types my friends and collaborators. The collection that follows was inspired by crypto-erotica, but more, it's inspired by the B-movies (and C-movies, and Z-movies...) that lie at the heart of the trend.

Some of these stories contain sexuality and erotic elements—those are mostly at the back end of the book. Violence, swearing, and really strange monsters abound. If any of these things bothers you, or you are easily offended, turn back now before it's too late.

For the rest of you degenerates and odd sorts, welcome to the first collection of Cult Classics for the Modern Cult. If you like it, please leave us a review or check out our first Christmas collection, _Frost and Other Stories_ , here. http://www.amazon.com/Frost-Other-Stories-Ian-Rideout-ebook/dp/B00HHT1HIG/

And remember—the journey into a dark cabin in the woods begins with a single footstep and a dropped flashlight.

### Attack of the Giant Abominable Gopher People

### L.K. Hatchett

Houses that dot the landscape are imploding as giant holes open up beneath them. Billboards and road signs are disappearing the same way. It's as if the GAGs know, and they are searching. They may even know they're getting close. Too close.

Glancing over at the General as he reloads his rifle once again, I wonder what the secret is.

"Can this thing go any faster?" he shouts.

The short answer? No, it can't.

When they called for a driver to get General Kasper to the White House, I volunteered. Then they gave me the worst vehicle to get away in. This damn jeep doesn't even have a top. What were they thinking? The fucking aliens can easily take our heads off in this death trap.

I shudder at the thought, the wind blowing through my short hair giving me the sensation that it's from long, sword-like claws swiping too close. It's making me too damn jumpy.

A hole opens up to our right and I swerve away from it. But we're still too close as a giant mammal-like rodent person jumps at us from out of the ground. He swings at us with his sword-like claws. The sound of them _schinking_ together motivates me to press the pedal further, even though it's already as far down as it will go. As big as they are, they sure are fast. It swipes again and the General plants his foot in its face. The beast falls away. General Kasper is lucky his leg wasn't severed by the massive machete-like teeth.

Howling in excitement, some of my jumpiness bleeds away. Maybe we'll complete the mission with this piece of junk vehicle after all.

The ground begins morphing to our left as movement underneath displaces the soil. I try not to watch in horror as an entire house gets swallowed up, the one closest to us yet. Two more of the beasts come up from the ground as a family escapes from their collapsing home, only to be devoured.

"Concentrate!" the General yells as the scene momentarily shocks me into a wobbly swerve. He fires more rounds at the horrific aliens.

Feeling sluggish and slow despite my expertise as a driver, I'm in a haze. The whole world seems to slow down. Emptied rounds of ammunition fly across the dashboard in slow motion as General Kasper keeps shooting. Blood bursts into the air, splattering the hood as a gopher gets too close. Bits of bloodied bone smear across the windshield as I flip on the windshield wipers.

Time speeds up again when a billboard leans over the road ahead of us. I swerve hard to the left and almost ram a truck. The others on the road are in my way. A hole opens up in the pavement and swallows the truck. In my relief that he didn't wreck us, I feel a twinge of regret that he met such a tragic end. The regret is short-lived as a new challenge presents itself. There is so much debris and destruction that I'm not sure what I'm looking at.

"Curve!" I yell as the road suddenly veers off to the right.

Yanking the steering wheel to the right, I feel myself leaning into the turn. My heart leaps into my throat as the jeep tilts up on two wheels. The General appears to be unconcerned, still unloading his weapon with deadly accuracy. Jerking the wheel back to the left, the jeep crashes back down on all four tires. My arms fly hand over hand across the steering wheel, the vehicle wobbling left and right before I regain control of it.

"That's why you're the driver," General Kasper grins.

Debris flies all around us as a gopher person suddenly erupts through another billboard, flying straight at us. General Kasper shoots him in the head and his body flops limply across the hood.

"Great shooting," I grin back. That's why he's the gunner.

"Never leave home without one, son." The General pats his gun almost lovingly.

I'm not really much of a soldier, and I'm certain General Kasper knows that. Before the invasion, I was a professional stunt driver. You know those annoying car commercials that used to be on television? The ones that display a warning, "Do not attempt. Professional driver on closed course." Well, that's me. I'm the professional driver. Or I was, until they came.

Arriving from outer space without warning in great numbers, the giant beasts immediately began burrowing large networks beneath the surface of the Earth. Bipedal, covered in gnarly hair with rodentine faces, they have long sword-like claws and they mean to kill us all.

Close to the city now, I drive up on an overpass. The General starts shooting again as I gun it. They can't get us up here, but I can already see where the overpass ends. I can smell them; the stench rising from their holes is tangible. The shooting stops as the General pauses to reload his weapon.

I stare in horror as a hole opens up at the bottom of the overpass. A giant gopher pops out of it, snarling ferociously and gnashing his giant machete teeth. Slamming on the brakes, I already know our forward momentum is too fast. The General fires round after round into him, but the beast doesn't move.

Tires squeal over pavement and we run head on into the alien. My head slams forward onto the steering wheel. Stars erupt across my vision as pain shoots over my forehead. Warm liquid stings my eyes and I realize I'm bleeding.

I look over at the General, He is momentarily stunned by an airbag that deployed from the dash. Mine must have malfunctioned. Seeing the General's rifle on the floor, I reach down to pick it up and the airbag suddenly pops out of the steering wheel across my back.

"Fucking shit!" I yell. I try to sit up and can't, trapped in an awkward position fully doubled over under the steering wheel. Irritation prickles over my skin.

The General starts yelling and my panic triples as I try to free myself. The entire jeep is being jerked around, and the fog from my mind disappears with the clarity that we are in the clutches of one of the giants. We are going to fucking die. The mission failed. What a really shitty way to go.

I am able to crawl my way out from under my trap just as the GAG grabs the General between its teeth and flings him out of the jeep. Pulling the gun up with me, I barely get a round off before the creature wrenches it from my hands and flings it away as well.

"We are going to rid this planet of you human filth," the creature says, his voice whistling through his teeth.

My eyes widen. "So you fuckers _can_ talk."

The gopher stands to his full height and laughs. "That is why you'll lose. You fuckers are too stupid to realize our capabilities."

All I can do is watch in horror as the beast pulls back his fist and spears me with one of his sword-claws through the shoulder. I scream through blinding pain as I'm pulled out of my seat.

The next thing I know, I'm lying on the ground on my stomach, opening my eyes, wincing at the bright sun. Maybe I have been dreaming after all. There's dirt in my mouth, my teeth grinding on the grit. I spit it out and pain lances through my shoulder. I close my eyes and open them again. Damn, this hurts. Nope, still not dreaming. It's a living nightmare that never ends.

"Ah, the human finally awakens. Your species is so fragile. We will easily take you all down." That whistling voice again. I curl my lip in disgust. This... _thing_ is really starting to piss me off.

Painfully rolling over onto my back, something catches my eye and I pause. There is a flash of light, like a reflection off of metal. My heart races when I realize it's the rifle, practically right next to me. I can grab it with an outstretched hand, but any sudden movements at this point will only get me killed.

Continuing the roll to my back, I act as if I've been defeated. The creature is towering over me, some kind of disgusting liquid dripping from its mouth. The drool falls with a huge splash that soaks my left leg. I shift the wet appendage slightly against the gun.

"Why haven't you killed me yet?" I ask. Keep him talking. He won't notice my gradual movement towards the gun.

"You don't know?" the abomination said. "You really are as dumb as you look."

He's not watching me, and I manage to slide directly over the weapon.

"Why don't you enlighten a dumb 'ol human like me, then," I say.

"You mean, before I kill you?" The gopher whistles, its head tilting to the side like a confused dog.

I stare at him. It takes effort not to roll my eyes. I briefly wonder how these creatures are so technologically smart. Maybe this one was on the short end of the gene pool. "If you'd be so kind."

The GAG points its long claw towards a mass on the ground about twenty feet away. A lump forms in my throat when I realize it's General Kasper. My eyes linger on his prone form. I think he might be breathing, but I can't tell for certain.

"That one looks dumber than you," the alien says. "So, you must be the one with the secret."

Lightning lances through my heart, but I manage to control any outward show of emotion that would betray fear of how close this single creature is to destroying everything.

"Yes, you got me," I begin, my mind racing. "I can't tell you the secret, though."

"You will tell me now, or you will tell me when I start filleting the flesh from your bones." He raises his long claws.

The lightning in my heart flashes throughout my body. "No, no, that's not what I meant," I stammer. "I mean, I can't tell you because it's locked away in my brain." I'm making this shit up as I go along. Hopefully the GAG doesn't understand how human physiology works. "You will have to come closer and look into my eyes. Eyes are the windows to the human brain. You don't know that?"

The alien crouches slightly and briefly makes eye contact with me, but doesn't come any closer. It stands back up, its head tilting to the other side.

"I've never heard that before."

"Well, then, you haven't been well informed. I thought all of your kind knew that. I mean, you are trying to take over our planet. Seems you should know how to get information from us when our brains are locked." I flash an innocent smile.

The gnarly-haired beast crouches again and looks me straight in the eye; his head tilts again. He taps his teeth with one of his claws. He no longer looks scary. If the situation weren't so intense, I'd be laughing.

"You're too far away," I say. "You have to come closer." Come on, you son of a bitch. Come closer.

He scoots closer, never breaking eye contact. I can see his pupils dilating. The breath that wafts over my face almost makes me gag. Fitting.

As soon as his gopher face is but a hand-span away from my nose, I pull the gun from underneath me and point it at his abdomen. Distracted by the movement, he looks down. I pull the trigger and the gun burps several rounds into the creature...

Nothing happens. The damn thing doesn't move. Did I fucking miss? I glance at his abdomen and see blood dripping. His pupils glow red.

Shit...

Shit!

He becomes a flurry of movement, coming at me with his claws, aiming to spear me right into the ground. I dodge left, then roll right. My shoulder is protesting with sharp, lancing pain.

Laying on my side on my good shoulder, I'm able to prop the gun on a large rock just as he swoops down to take my head off. Firing one last blast, I close my eyes as his enormous teeth bear down on me. This is it, I just know it.

Waiting for the killing blow, I briefly wonder how much pain I will feel. Strangely, I'm okay with it. However, the blow never comes. All I can hear is my pounding heart in my eardrums.

I open one eye, and then the other when I realize I won't be dying today, or at least not by _this_ GAG. Its teeth are planted in the ground next to my left leg, that disgusting liquid from its mouth thoroughly soaking my lap as its tongue lays limply across my right leg. Blood and bits of bone are leaking from the roof of its mouth. My shot rang true.

Overwhelmed by it all, I push myself away from the massive head and retch until there's nothing left in my stomach. When I stand up, the nasty liquid rolls down my legs. It's warm, and smells Iike roadkill baking in the sun. I throw up again.

Taking several calming breaths and quickly learning to ignore the smell, I look over to where General Kasper lays. The mission. We have to complete our mission.

Not too certain the General is alive, I approach his still form slowly. I'm relieved when I hear him groan. Unfortunately, my relief is short-lived.

General Kasper has massive lacerations that cross from his right shoulder to his left hip. I can see his sternum. His left leg is bent at the knee in the wrong angle. His right arm is missing, white bone sticking out, with flayed flesh twisted around it. His chest is making a sucking noise as he tries to breathe. I am looking at a dead man. I fight the urge to vomit again.

When I see his lips move, I snap out of my shock and rush to his side, pushing my palm against the sucking hole in his chest. The General is whispering something, but I can't hear him. I lean down with my ear over his mouth.

"It's up to you," he whispers. "It's your duty to get the secret to the White House now."

I'm not so sure. There is no vehicle. I'd have to go on foot and there's no way I could sneak under whatever radar the aliens are using. We're close, but not close enough.

"You can do this, son. All of humanity is depending on you."

All of humanity, huh. Fuck me, no pressure.

"Sir, I don't think..." I feel a touch on my arm and realize he's squeezing with his remaining hand.

"There's no time," he wheezes. "Listen to me. The secret..." He struggles for more air and I put more pressure on his wound. "The secret is..."

As he whispers in my ear, I think that I might be hearing him wrong. I sit up a little and look at his face. It's hard to understand what he is saying. Maybe the man is delirious with blood loss.

"Sir," I say. "I don't understand."

General Kasper sucks in another wheezy breath and I lean down again. He says the exact same thing as before, adding, "That's what we did in Georgia." Sitting up again, I think this man may just be crazy. This is the big secret? The folks at the White House are going to laugh in my face. These gopher people are going to ruin our planet. We're all going to die.

"And, son," he struggles through one last breath. "It has...to be...fruit...juicy..." The last of his breath hisses out of his mouth and I feel his body slowly going limp.

For several minutes, I just sit there; stunned, shoulder throbbing, and head swimming. As I hold the lifeless body, anger starts to set in. Looking over at the disgusting GAG, I want nothing more than to kill them all.

My heart fills with determination. The secret sounds so impossible, it just might work. Besides, he did say it worked in Georgia. The GAGs are going down. These fuckers are going to pay.

Grabbing a small shovel I find in the wrecked Jeep, I dig a shallow grave. General Kasper would probably think it's a waste of time, but it doesn't feel right leaving him out to rot. As I pat down the loose dirt, I say out loud. "I will do this. Or I will die trying."

There is a backpack in the jeep that I fill with what I think I'll need for the journey into the city. There isn't much, but I grab what water we had and all the ammunition I can find. Taking one last look at the grave, I prop the General's rifle on my good shoulder, then head east on foot.

Prepared for anything and everything to go wrong, I find out that the gopher people don't bother one lone human on foot. If there's a radar, I'm not on it. Maybe I'm too small to notice. They're only aiming for humans in houses and vehicles. Houses collapse to their fate all around me and I stick to the fields. I stay away from the roads too, vehicles disappearing into shadowy depths as the alien beasts come up to swallow any humans grouped together on the sidewalks.

With the journey so uneventful, I approach the city with caution. Large groups of people are everywhere and it's hard to avoid sidewalks and roadways. Thank goodness no one bothers me. They take one look at my weapon and give me a wide berth.

Though none are present now, there is evidence of the alien attack everywhere. The bottom half of the Washington Monument is gone, the top half laying on the ground next to a giant hole. Vehicles are strewn all over the place, many upside down or on their sides with large tears across the metal frames. The Capitol Building has collapsed in several places, the dome completely collapsed. Every building I look at has some sort of major damage. The only place untouched is the White House.

In a rush of fluidity only elite soldiers are capable of, I'm surrounded by armed men. With all of their weapons aimed at me, I raise my gun in the air in surrender. I can't raise my left arm very high because of my wounded shoulder.

"Stop right there," the one standing closest to me says.

"I'm here by authority of General Kasper," I say, hoping these soldiers are informed. I've come too far for the mission to fail with these guys.

The man lowers his gun a little, but it's still trained on me. "Are you Sergeant Thompson?"

"I am."

"Where is the General? We have orders to escort him, and only him, directly to the President once you get him here."

Bowing my head, I say, "He didn't make it."

The man lowers his weapon entirely, his fellow soldiers doing the same. I notice three stars on his collar and stand up straighter. This is the only remaining commander of the armed forces. He knows exactly of the mission.

"Then all is lost," the commander says. "We've lost."

"Not quite. General Kasper told me..."

"Then why didn't you say so," the commander interrupts, clapping me on the shoulder with a quick apology when I wince.

Everything happens so fast, I don't have time to take in the fact that I'm now in The White House, standing directly in front of the President of the United States. My mouth drops open when my mind finally catches up. I didn't expect that they would want me to tell him the secret directly. It occurs to me that I should salute him, but thankfully he cuts the tension by jumping right in.

"It is regrettable that General Kasper is no longer with us," he says. "But he will be remembered for completing his mission through you. Now, son, what did he tell you?"

"The secret weapon is..." I hesitate and glance nervously around the room.

"Go on," the commander encourages.

"Gum," I blurt out.

There is a stir in the room and I know they think I'm crazy. I hear someone whispering.

"Gum? Like chewing gum?" the President asks.

"Exactly that," I croak, my throat suddenly dry. The whispers get louder.

Someone speaks up from the back of the room, "Mr. President, maybe this isn't..."

The President holds up his hand for silence. He seems to study me for a second. "Is that what they used in Georgia?"

"Yes!" I exclaim too loudly. "Just take it out of the wrapper and drop it in their holes. It kills them pretty quickly, or so General Kasper said. They can't resist it."

The President shushes the ensuing whispers and then nods his head towards the three star commander, who immediately starts stuffing papers into a briefcase. I exhale in relief that the President is taking me seriously. As the commander heads for the door with the briefcase, I remember the last thing General Kasper said to me.

"It has to be Juicy Fruit!"

### One Saturday, Almost 2000 Years A.D.

### Ian Hutson

"...And intoxicated by Ariadne's child-bearing hips and very nearly hairless lady-bosoms, the muscular hunter-gatherer Rodney grasped her firmly by her long auburn hair and dragged her through the craggy, primeval landscape back to his man-cave, there to be his second-best breeding-woman. As Ariadne slid contentedly along the ground behind Rodney, she watched the sun setting over the smoking volcano and knew that, barring being eaten alive by wild animals, they would be very happy together forever, and she would raise many fine, healthy little hominids. The end."

Wiping tears of pure romance from her eyes, Miss Rutherford closed the high-quality paperback book that she had been reading (a 'Recommendation Of The Month' from the Reader's Digest). She looked across the room at Mr Stringer and sighed contentedly, imagining him in a mammoth-fur leotard and wielding a wooden club. Then she dismissed the scenario as really somewhat unlikely. Mr Stringer was certainly a man of many parts, but most of them were broken or missing, and such components of his anatomy as had once been labelled as of a romantic nature were now quite beyond economic repair.

Miss Rutherford's little cottage was in the sleepy village of Toastville in the rolling county of Teashire, in England, the World. Her carefully-tended garden was closing itself up at the end of a lovely, sunny evening. Delicate, feminine roses made from sugar and spice and all things nice were beginning to hug their petals around themselves like pastel cashmere wraps. Gentlemanly hedgehogs were snuffling in the shadows, plotting out the course of their travels in search of juicy slugs and snails and puppy-dog tails. Dusk was growing in confidence and the sky, although still a beautiful blue, had taken on that certain metallic transparency that comes with nightfall.

Without warning or preamble, what looked very much like a shooting star flashed across the sky and seemed almost to bury itself somewhere just outside the village. Miss Rutherford, throwing caution and a lifetime of experience to the wind, quickly made a heartfelt wish upon it. She gave a coy glance in Mr Stringer's direction to see if her wish had been granted, but no; he was _still_ sipping his cocoa and utterly oblivious to her affections. She concluded that shooting stars were probably not what they had once been. This was probably for the best, since one should always be careful what one wishes for in view of the significant danger that one might actually get it.

Eighty years of frustration welled up inside her, and Miss Rutherford stabbed a crumpet on a toasting fork and thrust it towards the flames of the fireplace. Since butter wouldn't melt in Mr Stringer's mouth, it would have to be melted elsewhere. She flicked through her mental catalogue of polite casual conversation gambits and chose one.

" _Fat,_ Mr Stringer, is something that _men_ do to _women_."

Hearing its name, Mr Stringer's mind returned in a fluster from Lords MCC, where he had been scoring a valiant century and thereby retaining The Ashes for England.

"I'm sorry—was I snoring again?"

"Very nearly, Mr Stringer. Crumpet?" Miss Rutherford replied, brandishing a hot item of regional English baking under his nose.

"Oh yes—yes it is. May I have one too?"

Miss Rutherford, fond of Mr Stringer though she was, withered.

"You just missed a spectacular shooting star, Mr Stringer. It seemed almost to land nearby."

"Oh—I've never been fond of shooting stars since reading _The Day of The Triffids_ —I always expect to awake to find that I have gone blind and that the giant flesh-eating leeks are on the warpath.'

Mr Stringer was not one of life's incurable romantics. After his mug of cocoa and a second crumpet he bade farewell and went home, leaving Miss Rutherford to choose another pulp romance. Shimmying up and down her bookshelves Miss Rutherford found herself rather ironically humming the Rolling Stones. She took her fresh book to her bed.

The following morning, while rinsing a pair of Craster kippers for breakfast, Miss Rutherford listened with one ear to the news on the wireless.

The Communist Chinesers, the Union of Soviet Socialistics, and the United State of Americans continued to rattle sabres at each other. The United Kingdomites, to wit, England, yapped around their ankles like a randy Chihuahua and then bombed Cairo, as one always should during a crisis. Egypt was in some sort of a huff over the Suez Canal and the Aswan Dam and Foreign Aid or Lucozade or something.

The promised "Four Minute Warning" of any attempted nuclear annihilation was to be reduced to three minutes and ten seconds, and the Civil Defence Corps was to distribute leaflets detailing a fresh design for an under-the-stairs bomb shelter, plus six free toe-tags per household.

The weather was to continue to become cooler, the wireless said. Rain, sleet, snow, hail, wind, calm, frost and glorious, baking-hot sunshine were all expected, much as usual for England, and they were expected to be sometimes in curious conjunction or sometimes in injudicious juxtaposition. The _long-_ term forecast was that the afternoon would be much the same as the morning.

In regional news, there were roadworks on the promenade at Froomington-on-Sea, the Brighouse and Drastic Brass Band had been confirmed for the Christmas panto season in Weston Upperville, and a secret government satellite carrying stockpiled dinosaur DNA had crashed back down to earth. There then followed the usual information about dustbin collections, and two county-set obituaries, neither of whom had been in Miss Rutherford's social circle.

Miss Rutherford dried her kippers on a Tower Bridge commemorative tea towel and slipped them into a pan to poach along with half a pint of Gold-Top milk, a chopped onion, a bay leaf and some thyme.

The morning post arrived, and it rather intriguingly contained a buff envelope bearing a _government_ franking mark. Miss Rutherford's hips creaked ominously as she bent down to retrieve everything from the coconut husk doormat.

Mr Stringer, like a lonely schoolboy out looking for his best friend to play with, stuck his head through the kitchen window. The window was fortunately, but quite incidentally, open.

"Oh I say Miss Rutherford—if those are your call-up papers they're very late."

Miss Rutherford sliced open the rough envelope with the kitchen paperknife.

"It is a telegram from Whitehall. They advise that a secret, government satellite carrying stockpiled dinosaur DNA may have crashed very near the village. The Army is to be mobilised at start of business hours on Monday morning and they recommend in the meanwhile that no-one drink the tap water."

"The tap water?"

"The tap water, Mr Stringer. The village is supplied from the reservoir and the reservoir is filled by the run-off from Lessissomuch Moor. From the trajectory of yestereve's putative shooting star I suspect that the satellite wreckage may well lie on that very moorland. This will be why the government is discouraging us from drinking the tap water."

Miss Rutherford glanced towards her kitchen table and the half-empty _second_ pot of tea of her morning. A pot and a half of best Darjeeling made with tap-water was already warming and lubricating Miss Rutherford's kidneys.

"Tea, Mr Stringer."

"Lovely—thank you."

"Tea is made with _water_ , Mr Stringer."

"Being only a man, I have often wondered about the recipe."

"My kippers are rinsed in it."

"In tea?"

"In water."

"You ladies have such a clever way with ingredients. This is something that we mere men will never master."

"Water, Mr Stringer, which our government has just spent hard-won tax guineas on telegrams advising us to temporarily avoid."

"Oh dear, yes, I do see what you mean. Is there some possible alternative ingredient to water then, Miss Rutherford?"

"None. We must take action, Mr Stringer."

"Action? But it's _Saturday_ , I really don't think that I..."

"Mr Stringer—what do you imagine will be the life-span of the average English woman or man in the village when denied tea and a well-rinsed breakfast kipper for forty-eight hours or more?"

"I do see what you mean—although perhaps some other beverage and a cereal?"

Miss Rutherford silenced Mr Stringer's quite preposterous suggestion with a glance and a raising of her eyebrow. 'This is England, Mr Stringer, there _is_ no substitute for tea and the only respectable alternative to kippers is _toast_ or _eggs_. We are not savages to nibble on dreadful foreign "breakfast cereals", Mr Stringer.

Mr Stringer, rather reluctantly given the obvious corollary in taking action, was forced to agree.

"Make haste—there is, in my experience, usually no time to lose during these E.S.A. emergencies."

"E.S.A.?"

"English Space Agency."

Miss Rutherford and Mr Stringer sallied forth with a work-a-day patent leather handbag and a mission to save the world (England). All about them, village life went on as calmly as it had for thousands of years and more.

The blacksmith was working at his horses' bits with hammers. The grocer was chalking up his fresh daily sign that read "Yes, we _still_ have no bananas, due to WWII rationing not ending in England until 1954". The baker's apprentice was unloading sacks of flour-stretching white lead from a delivery cart, and the young Vicar's elderly Austin motor car was parked outside the Saracen's Head Public House. The Vicar himself—less overcome by the holy spirits than he had been at eleven o'clock the previous evening—was snoring in the driving seat, his vestments in quite some ungodly disarray.

Meanwhile, out on the moor among the rare wild orchids and the butterflies and the shallow graves of a long list of local people who had yet to be missed, lay the potential doom of the village—even of England! Upturned alongside the wreckage with lids already askance, several thick glass bell-jars contained now no more than the remnants of the various escaped, wobbling, semi-sentient, sickly-green, putrid-yellow and fuchsia pink jellies that are the very stuff of fresh dinosaur DNA. Trails such as those left by slugs led away in all directions.

Really not much change there then—English village life a lá SNAFU.

"As I see it, our duty is to first isolate the village's water supply by somehow turning the enormous, rusted-up iron-wheel controlled valve in the isolated, dark, shadowy pump-house by the deep, menacing waters of the village reservoir. We must then tidy up the wreckage of the satellite and prevent the public from approaching more closely than might be safe—by establishing an exclusion zone of at least some ten or twelve feet in radius."

"That sounds like an awful lot for merely the two of us to achieve, Miss Rutherford."

"It is indeed, Mr Stringer, and this is why we shall recruit the assistance of Constable Goodboddie. To the village Police Station, and don't spare the horses, as they say.'

They met Constable Goodboddie while still en route to the Police Station, just two cottages along from Miss Rutherford's own.

"Hello, Constable Goodboddie.'"

"Oh—hello. Am I ever glad to see you, Miss Rutherford. There has been an... _incident_. I would appreciate the benefit of your experience in the matter. So far I have h'established h'an h'exclusion zone." The good constable had once been quite correctly severely reprimanded at school for dropping the aitch when pronouncing the word "herbs", and he now very understandably over-compensated on the deep-seated psychological grounds that it was better to be safe than to sound pretentious or faux-French again.

From the roadside, Doris's cottage still looked idyllic. The roof was thatched, the small garden neat and crammed with tamed, well-fed wild-flowers. Only the burst windowpane and the shards of hand-blown glass outside gave any clue that some trouble that had recently been _within_ was now _without_. Miss Rutherford opened the low front door slowly, ducked and advanced into the shadows. She was followed at not some little respectful distance by Mr Stringer and by the Constable (his lignum vitae truncheon erect and his lips puckered ready about his Police-issue whistle).

A domestic radiogram burbled happily in one corner, relaying the many dramatic existential tribulations of the cast of _The Archers_. The mahogany veneer of the cabinet was scratched and covered in quite monstrous amounts of chalky bird-poop. A tall ornamented and gilded bird cage rested at a jaunty angle against the chimney breast, its bars bent and snapped apart. Floral curtains hung in cotton tatters and almost all of the other soft furnishings had been piled into a makeshift nest in the room's centre, out of which Doris Blenkinsopp's slippers and uneaten ankles could be seen poking up over the edge.

'''Ello, 'ello, 'ello," expostulated the Constable.

Mr Stringer, ever the optimist, made as though to step forward and render medical assistance to Doris, but Miss Rutherford with her more complete view stayed him with an outstretched arm.

"Poor Doris, Miss Rutherford—surely a well-placed bandage or even a necessarily chaste kiss of life?" cried Mr Stringer, somewhat distraught and itching to put his Saint John Ambulance Service training into action.

"Mr Stringer, dear Doris has lost a considerable amount of body-weight since we spoke to her only yesterday, and I fear that it has done her general health a power of no good."

"Oh dear. Is Doris's condition really so serious?" queried Mr Stringer, still trying to look over Miss Rutherford's shoulder.

"It is, Mr Stringer. Indeed, Doris's welfare has now passed into the purview of the gods."

"But what might possibly have happened to poor Doris, Miss Rutherford? Some new and fanciful London magazine diet, perhaps?"

"No, Mr Stringer, if you will observe the reckless discarding of dear Doris's remains in the abominable nest-like formation, then combined with the violent damage to the ornamental bird cage, the poor lady's fate becomes quite, quite clear to the logical mind."

"I am afraid that I don't understand, Miss Rutherford."

"Doris has been slaughtered, Mr Stringer. Slaughtered and eaten because she was kind enough to offer her sweet little pet budgerigar some fresh water on a daily basis. Note the unopened government telegram on the doormat. I venture that Doris, in her ignorance of the circumstances, used fresh water from the _tap_. You will remember the payload of the ill-fated satellite so recently crashed in these environs? DNA, Mr Stringer—deadly, all-powerful dinosaur DNA and almost certainly, given the usual modus operandi of our government, in its most virulent and dangerous sickly green, putrid yellow and fuchsia pink slithering, semi-sentient jelly form."

Miss Rutherford girded her girdled loins and issued her judgement. "I conclude that in her uninformed avian husbandry, dear Doris unwittingly created the first pterabudgie to stalk this sceptred isle for some sixty million years."

"Oh dear. _Oh_ —but the window..."

"The window, Mr Stringer, yes indeed, the window. Doris's pterabudgie, fortified by some eighty-five pounds of fresh little old lady flesh, is now _loose_ about our sleepy village."

"Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear."

"Pull yourself together, Mr Stringer, we must act."

"Oh 'ell, oh 'ell, oh 'ell," muttered the Constable.

"Pull yourself together too, Constable. We must act _quickly_."

Miss Rutherford's Girl Guide training came to the fore, and she took charge.

"As I see it, gentlemen, our initial plan remains unaltered even though our circumstances are now very much more parlous than hitherto. We must _still_ endeavour to cut off the supply of contaminated water and we must _still_ attempt to prevent further contamination leaking from the remains of the satellite payload."

The constable had concerns. "But Miss Rutherford—I am concerned that the single, enormous, rusted-up iron-wheel controlled valve that needs turning in order to cut off the village's mains water supply is located in the isolated, dark, shadowy pump-house by the deep, dark, menacing waters of the village reservoir. Exactly where, should it ever need such attention, we should be at most risk during a crisis."

"It is indeed, Constable; they always are. We must think of England though and do our civic duty, regardless of how much it makes us want to pee our constabulary knickers. We will _all_ attend to the enormous, rusted-up iron wheel controlled valve while en route to the lonely moor where we will _all_ search for the wreckage. We will then make it safe until the Army resume their duties on Monday morning."

"We will?" asked the Constable, still not _entirely_ certain of his civic commitment, even on five hundred pounds a year with two uniforms supplied, a generous Station biscuit allowance and—as yet—dry underwear.

"We will," ordered Miss Rutherford, brooking no argument.

"But Miss Rutherford, do you think it wise even to move about the village—with a pterabudgie on the loose?"

"England, Mr Stringer, is a nation of shop-keeps and animal lovers. I think that you will find that the pterabudgie may well by now be the very least of our concerns."

"Animal lovers, Miss Rutherford? I thought that only the French, or possibly the Italians..."

"Lovers of animals, Mr Stringer, not animalistic lovers. We _keep a lot of animals_."

"You don't mean..."

"I do mean, Mr Stringer. Observe the relative lateness of the morning hour. By now every pig, every goat, every bulldog, and mouser tabby in the village will have received a pat on the head, a kindly word and a supply of fresh water. If the water _has_ been contaminated, well..."

"Oh, I see."

An unearthly Guineapigopod screech split the air with perfect timing, less than subtly emphasising Miss Rutherford's point and confirming her theory. Mr Stringer suddenly realised that the three of them were almost quite alone.

"Where did everyone go to? Half of the village was stood about just a few seconds ago, listening to our conversation and gawping in a most unseemly and obvious manner."

"This is a crisis, Mr Stringer, and nobody ever really wants to help out in a crisis if they can melt away into the background instead. Observe the twitching net curtains, if you will."

It was quite true. The last, most distant door in the little village had been slammed and bolted and only the still-rotating wheel of an overturned child's tricycle gave any clue at all that the human population of the village amounted to more than just the three of them. A door opened again, somewhat violently. The overturned child's mother rushed out, rescued the beloved little pudding from where it had been lying next to the upright tricycle, and then rushed back indoors again with a cheery but "much too busy to stop now" wave and a nervous, hunted, glance around.

"We must save England by ourselves, Constable, Mr Stringer, and to do so we must first negotiate our way past the village green and the village pond."

Mr Stringer and the constable looked blank, not comprehending the dangers of the pond. Miss Rutherford encouraged the penny to drop.

"The village pond is fed by the River Eau, gentlemen, and the river itself is fed from..."

"... From the moor. Oh dear."

"The deer are a problem for later. For the nonce, we must be ware the no doubt de-evolving ducks of the village pond. We shall begin by creeping as quietly as possible through these reeds and thence onwards, towards Moor Lane. If we can just reach those discarded bicycles over by the village call-box, they may prove useful in speeding us in our endeavours."

They had crept but a few yards when the Constable stopped in his tracks and held up his hand for silence. He whispered "We're being _hunted_."

" _We_ are being hunted? By whom? Or, more probably now, by _what_?" hissed Miss Rutherford.

The Constable slipped his working copy of "Bradshaw's Speculative Wildlife Recognition During A Deoxyribonucleic Crisis" from his pocket and flicked through it. "Hmm. Spiny Mandarin, Razor-Backed Muscovy, Sabre-Billed Orpingtons, Mallardosauruses and, worst by far of all—Jurassic Velociducks. I do believe that we are being hunted by velociducks."

"Velociducks?" queried Mr Stringer, a slight tremor in his voice.

"Jurassic Velociducks. The finest killing machines that ever stalked the earth. Highly intelligent pack-hunters with water-tight arses. Pure death, a full ten inches tall, and able to disembowel a man with one slash of a webbed foot. And they are hunting us."

"Oh dear."

"Oh dear indeed."

The constable, at last realising his civic duty in the matter, arranged that Miss Rutherford and Mr Stringer would make a desperate run for the bicycles and escape while _he_ dealt in a firm but fair manner with the velociducks. He crept on all fours through the reeds, tempting the avian terrors away with him by waggling his buttocks and dipping his head as though feeding.

Some scant moments later, he realised that he had been suckered by the age-old velociduck ploy. One had distracted him while two others approached from either side to make the kill. " _Clever_ girl..."

Sprinting side-saddle, Miss Rutherford afforded herself one glance back at the pond. Shreds of dark blue uniform serge and a pea-less Police whistle flew into the air while the reeds below shuddered and lashed in evidence of some violent disturbance of the peace. The constable's death was not in vain though; Miss Rutherford and Mr Stringer had reached the bicycles.

They worked through the prescribed Cyclist's Safety Union pre-ride checks as the constable gave of his flesh. They tested the brakes, checked the operation of the bells on the handlebars and adjusted their cycle-helmets. Mr Stringer applied his emergency bicycle clips and Miss Rutherford adjusted her skirts so as not to foul the chain. Then, finally, they accelerated away just milliseconds before the bloodied and ululating velociducks burst forth to have at them. "Quack. Quack, quack!"

Disappointed, the velociducks turned and they joined the plesioswans and megalogeese in battering down the doors in the village, and in consuming alive such villagers as they might. Doris's pterabudgie saw all from its new vantage point of a hastily constructed eyrie atop the church spire and, content with all that it saw, it chirruped "Who's a pretty boy then?" followed by "Give us another kiss, Doris." Then, much to the disgruntlement of the Curate, it laid an egg.

Mr Stringer was pedalling just as fast as his hairy little legs would go towards the moor and the reservoir. Miss Rutherford was pumping the pedals at a more leisurely pace in a higher gear—a benefit of her years in the saddle competing for the honour of the Roedean Cycle Club Long-Distance Second Elevens. A few hundred yards later, Mr Stringer almost ran into the back of her Raleigh Shopper when she stopped without using the prescribed hand-signals.

"I had quite forgotten, Mr Stringer, that _The Convent_ lies between the village and the moor. I fear that the cloistered nuns may not have read their warning telegram in re not drinking the tap water."

"Whatever makes you say that, Miss Rutherford?"

"Observe, Mr Stringer, the wild-eyed, frazzle-haired cave-ladies before us, all dressed in improvised bikinis made from ecclesiastical blue sack-cloth and novitiate wimple-lining."

"Oh dear—they're lighting fires and doing some sort of quaint folk dance with crucifixes. Or is the plural crucifii?"

"Crucif _ied_ may be our plural fate, Mr Stringer, and yet we must go on, or else England is surely doomed. Stay behind me, and we may yet prevail."

Miss Rutherford led them both into the valley of the shadow of the Convent of the Sisters of Saint de-Ath.

Miss Rutherford feared no evil. In truth, when the need arose, Miss Rutherford could be the meanest old biddy that ever walked in the valley.

Catching the scent of a live man, the de-evolved nuns determined that they would claim him for their own, share him around and breed from him without mercy until he dropped like an overworked donkey. Miss Rutherford thus then spent a very busy six and a half or possibly seven minutes drop-kicking, scissor-kicking, biting, hair-pulling and generally throwing nuns over her shoulders until she and Mr Stringer were safely beyond the convent gates and away up the lane that led to the moor. She was left breathless, but oddly invigorated.

"I am breathless, but oddly invigorated, Mr Stringer. Were it not for my fortnightly spinning and Pilates classes at the Village Hall, I fear we should have been overcome."

"Indeed, Miss Rutherford, you fought most valiantly. I think that I may have been... _moved_ on some emotional level."

"Thank you, Mr Stringer. I was worried what fate might befall you should you have been captured by two dozen proto-nuns with basic knowledge of fire, rudimentary stone tools and an excess of pent-up oestrogen."

"That was kind of you, Miss Rutherford."

"Not at all, Mr Stringer. Perhaps it is the effect of the contaminated water, but I do confess to feeling a certain heightened _semi-_ maternal protective instinct in your regard. Let us make haste."

"But Miss Rutherford, does not _The Orphanage_ still lie between us and the moor?"

"It does, Mr Stringer, it does. Beware the orphans, for I doubt that their bread and water diet relies even in part upon bottled Evian or Windermere Carbonated. We may find ourselves surrounded by motherless, fatherless waifs in a similar stage of de-evolution to the nuns. Stay close, and make no sound as we pass."

Their efforts at stealth were to no avail. Dotted around the gates to the orphanage, the abandoned bastards and results of ill-advised unions from the county's titled estates and country seats were even then tearing their charity rags into rudimentary loincloths and leotards. "Please Miss—I want some more ug," pleaded one such, offering his unfired clay eating bowl in hope of nutritious alms with at least a modicum of spicy or herbal flavours. His forehead had already adopted the gentle slope of Homo Slopeyforeheadius.

"Ug?" enquired Miss Rutherford, a little slow on the uptake.

There then began a terrifying repeat chorus a cappella of "ug ug ug ug ug", not unlike the calling of chimps and baboons, and the hungry waifs of the orphanage slipped all about and around them.

"It seems that the poor are indeed always with us, Mr Stringer. Make no sudden movements until I shout 'run' and then you should ring for full steam ahead from the hairy leg department." She slipped her emergency folding hockey stick from her handbag.

The orphans, filthy and lank-haired, and now with the sunken-eyed look of children subsisting on a pre-agrarian hunter-gatherer diet of berries and the occasional scrap of scavenged social-worker, pressed in from all sides.

"RUN!" shouted Miss Rutherford as she began to lay about them with her hockey stick, scattering a broken Tiny Tim to the east and a well-thwacked Orphan Annie to the west (among others). By the time they were clear of the orphanage, Miss Rutherford's hockey stick was, for the first time since her school days, wet with blood and sticky with orphan-flesh. They paused once more to catch their breath.

"What next, Miss Rutherford? Oh, whatever next may be between us and the moor?"

"On this lane? Only the Tuberculosis Sanatorium, Mr. Stringer, and then it is a clear run for our objective. I feel confident that we shall have no difficulty in passing _their_ gates, since all of the inmates, however much contaminated and de-evolved, will be more breathless than are we."

Right on cue a stick-thin chap in a white hospital gown that was inadequately tied at the rear swung across the lane on one of the semi-tropical vines that had begun springing from the familiar oak and ash and chestnut trees.

"Aaa-aaa-aaargh cough cough cough wheeze gasp..." the amateur Tarzan cried, before blacking out with the effort and crashing to the ground.

Miss Rutherford put a very forceful hand on Mr Stringer's elbow and guided him past the sanatorium.

"How do you feel, Mr Stringer?"

"Feel? Well, I must say, Miss Rutherford, that I am beginning to feel oddly _butch_. I have a sudden urge to thump my chest and yell at the top of my voice in order to mark my territory. I mean _our_ territory of course, Miss Rutherford, that is to say— _your_ territory."

"I also, Mr Stringer. I fear that we are feeling the effects of the contamination. We must make haste in our mission or all will be lost and the village, and England, will be beyond saving. Ug."

"Beg pardon?"

"I believe that I just said 'ug' Mr Stringer. Quickly—to the reservoir. Ug. Our time grows short."

At that moment the very foundations of the green and pleasant, sceptred isle began to shake and rumble. The wild-eyed Mr Stringer's weak buttocks flailed in harmony with the tremors like two vanilla blancmanges under a tweed tent. From the direction of the moor, there came the terrible sound of Mother Earth being violated and rent asunder.

"Ug. Whatever is happening, Miss Rutherford? Some sort of explosion—perhaps the wreckage of the satellite?"

"The satellite certainly, Mr Stringer, but an exothermic reaction, I fear, of much more significance than the ignition of the residual fuel in six Delta-Two Mark XIV station-keeping thrusters of the type ordinarily fitted to such secret government satellites. Ug."

"What then?"

"I surmise that the dinosaur DNA has now seeped into the very substrate and bedrock of the moor, Mr Stringer, and is having an injurious effect by regressing the landscape of England to better suit itself. DNA, as you know, brutally changes all things to its own image upon contact."

A small pyroclastic cloud swept over the field to their west, leaving behind it the muttony aroma of ovine livestock roasted over a meadow-grass mix of rosemary and thyme. Another tremor heralded the sudden thrusting of jagged limestone outcrops through the surface. Steam issued from vents and, where once the gentle River Eau had flowed, red-hot lava now crept through the valley. Under the irresistible _meteorological_ forces of the slimy double-helix, dark clouds gathered and raised an oven-door breeze reminiscent of a Ghibli or a Mistral.

"Ug. I fear that we may have run out of time, Mr Stringer. Ug. It may already be too late to attempt meaningful confinement of the genetic material, and England may already be totally ugged."

"I beg your pardon Miss Rutherford?"

"Doomed, Mr Stringer—I fear that England is ugged. Observe how the landscape, once so familiar and gentle, is becoming volcanic and primitive."

An especially energetic tremor forced them both to hunker down and, blasted and windblown, to hold onto each other for support. The hot, fresh Sirocco wind blew dust around the landscape and carried with it the angry calls of primitive, hungry creatures.

"Given the unseasonal heat, Mr Stringer, I do feel that polite society would excuse us for removing a few layers." With that Miss Rutherford promptly peeled down to her underwear; a magnificent brassiere and capacious knickers, both cut from the original canvas sails of Nelson's flagship. She kicked off her sensible shoes and savoured the soil between her toes. Mr Stringer followed suit, stripping down to his sock stays, and wearing his string vest _off_ one shoulder but tucked _into_ his silk St George's Cross knee-length drawers.

"Ug. That's better."

"Are we quite safe here, Miss Rutherfug?" enquired Mr Stringer, as a partly-melted, enormous, rusted-up iron-wheel controlled water-supply valve thrown up some new volcano landed close by. A flock of razor-claw titanosparrows wheeled overhead, screeching and scouring the earth for prey. Tricerarabbits, forced from their warrens by the magma and the quakes, began a slow, plodding migration in search of pastures new. They were in good company with the diplodicosheep and the double-decker bus sized sauracows. At least the tricerarabbits, diplodicosheep and sauracows were herbivors but what, worried Miss Rutherford, of the bronterats, tyrannobadgers and gigantiweasels?

"Not safe in the least, Mr Stringer, ug. Much though I hate to abandon England in her hour of need I fear that there is nought else to be done. We must embrace failure, Mr Stringer, and make for substantial shelter, there to await developments and possible rescue by the Army on ug. I mean morning, Ug morning. _Monday_ morning. Ug."

"Miss Rutherford, ug. I have developed of late an uncharacteristic hankering for life in a cold, damp cave such as those to be found in the escarpment to the north of the village. Should we perhaps make for those?" gibbered Mr Stringer, finding need to keep his knees bent and his knuckles near the ground.

"Ug. Excellent notion, Mr Stringug—an _excellent_ notion" said Miss Rutherford, her hands confident on her hips and her lantern jaw set defiantly to the horizon. "However disastrous the circumstances, Mr Stringer, you must admit that this is rather exhilarating." Miss Rutherford's forehead slipped back another thirty degrees from the perpendicular, and her brassiere creaked under the terrible strain of her body's sudden de-evolution to forty-two, thirty-two, thirty-six with thighs that could throttle an adult woolly mammoth in a fair fight.

Sulphurous volcanic smoke drifted from pillar to post. All that was around and about was primeval in nature, and all that was truly primeval in nature was, worryingly, back with a vengeance and an appetite.

Something deep down inside Miss Rutherford, something that remained a fleeting shadow of her former _Homo sapiens_ self, sighed wistfully at the thought that she would never again toast crumpets and read pulp fiction in her lovely little cottage. Then the shadow was gone, swept away on a tide of adrenalin and oestrogen and the urge to survive and thrive in her new role under the yoke of prehistoric DNA.

Miss Rutherford lovingly sideswiped Mr Stringer with her hockey stick and he fell to the ground, stunned. She inspected her catch. A certain obscurantist indolence about his face spoke of a man-spirit that might be easily broken and semi-domesticated. There was probably enough there to work with, anyway—and precious little else on offer at that moment.

Grasping Mr Stringer firmly by his freshly-grown, long, curly ginger head of hair, the muscular hunter-gatherer Miss Rutherford dragged him through the craggy volcanic landscape to the escarpment caves, there to be her breeding-man forever, or at least until something better came along, such as that nice Mr Cliff Richard or Mr Tommy Steele. Regaining consciousness as he slid contentedly along the ground behind Miss Rutherford, Mr Stringer watched the ash plume spreading over the new volcano where the sleepy, idyllic village of Toastville had once been. He knew, wordlessly, deep down, that they would be very happy together and that, barring being eaten alive by wild animals, he would raise many fine, healthy little hominids.

Wiping tears of pure romance from his eyes, Mr Stringer undertook meticulous man-preparations for the coming shag-fest by picking the blue fluff out of his belly-button, using his pinkie to check for excessive earwax, and scratching his hairy love-spuds.

### Save Our Oceans

### Kirstin Stein Pulioff

"No!" he screamed. Anguish drowned beneath the roar of the waves as he yelled at the shoreline. Dripping from his hands, he watched the last remains of his true love seep through and disappear into the murky depths of the ocean. The only parts remaining were small chunks of algae that clung to his thick fingers.

Glaring at the shoreline, he watched the enemy take control. With their sharp swords, decorated banners, and small plastic containers, their approach spoke of a predetermined mission. He watched their march slow to a menacing saunter. Silver flashed as their short spears stabbed the ground. His heart ached, watching other helpless creatures get captured and destroyed on the enemy's path.

Anger boiled within. They had gone too far this time

His gaze drifted between the remains of his true love, nothing more than a small puddle of swamp gunk, and the beach, recognizing the truth behind the rumors. Rumors they had all been able to brush off until today. Faced with the righteous smirks of his enemy, he wondered if their momentary ignorance was worth the price.

It had happened slowly. One by one, the tribes to the south stopped communicating. It wasn't unusual for tribes to go silent for extended periods, especially in the south with the turbulent currents. As time went on, more tribes went silent, until the frequency demanded their attention. Rumors began as a few survivors connected with other tribes. Horror-filled recounts of the heartless destruction and capture of their people.

With a quick glance to the shore, he could see the sinister plan that lurked beneath their chants. In rhythm to their songs, they moved smoothly, grabbing remains, capturing items, and stealing land. Greedy hands poured chemicals, destroying their natural ecosystem.

As he watched the mindless destruction, his tribe surrounded him. Their soft green bodies clung to him as they peeked around. Soft wails cried out, matching his outrage, and disappeared, disguised as the constant rush of water.

Stretching for miles beyond the shore break, their community grew in harmony with the ocean. They were a peaceful people, a delightful mutation, moving with the ebb and flow of the tide. As the currents transferred them to new areas, they maintained the integrity of the water. Feeding and growing through a complex photosynthetic mutation. After centuries of peaceful living off the coastline, he couldn't help but wonder why they were being targeted.

No, they weren't going to do it to his tribe. He wouldn't let them.

Looking down at the green slime clinging to his hands, he remembered his love's sweet face. Her last pleading look and gasp as she dissolved into the water. She had been going to shore to greet them, not to hurt them, not as a nuisance. They didn't have to attack her. He had to put a stop to it.

He walked slowly towards the shore. The gurgling and bubbling of his tribe slowly disappeared into the roar of the ocean. Looking back, he saw them, a green layer above the waves, moving with the smooth motion of the currents. The waves pulled them apart, pushing him rapidly forward.

Before long, their faces came into view- clean faces, barren of experience. No pockets of gunk from a trip to the southern regions. No layers of green from various tidal pools, or plants growing off them. Not self-sustaining or understanding. Their signs clearly defined their evil intentions.

As he walked closer, he noticed the change in the water around him. The currents pulled him tighter, closer. No algae or weeds were in the water to smooth the sharp edges of the waves. The curls bit into him, carving out portions of his shins. The pain increased as he inched his way forward.

"Stop!" His voice carried on the wind, roaring with crashing waves, resulting in a crescendo of power, and mysterious roar. Their faces turned toward him. The songs of protest stopped. For a moment, he thought he was getting through.

The pain seared through him. Electric surges blinded him as the chemically clean water touched his extremities. The currents cut through like acid, leaving nothing but the stench of rotten sewage behind.

The unforgiving grasp of the current pulled him forward at an agonizing pace, letting the new water seep into him, dissolving away the edges breaking up the formation of his body. Pain he had never felt before. Pain he could never imagine, nor adequately describe, paralyzed him as his body was ripped apart in sections. Small chunks of him broke off, melting and fizzling to the depths of the sea, until only small chunks of goo remained.

The pain diminished but did not disappear as the remaining pieces rushed onto the shoreline before a handful of the enemy.

When he looked up, faces of disgust fell on him.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he struggled to say. "You're destroying us, and the water. You need to stop."

Condescending glares and turned up lips: they ignored his pleas.

Unable to move, he lay helpless at their mercy. A moldy net surrounded him. The grey rope bit into him as they picked him up as a piece of garbage, easily discarded like the others.

The rough words and grunts scared him. Beasts in every sense, they tossed him unceremoniously into the billowing plastic containers. On the final descent, he caught a glimpse of their signs. _Save Our Oceans_. Is that what they thought they were doing?

### Mr. Roacham

### Rachel Savage

It was hard not to shrug. The collar of this damned uniform coat was rubbing against the back of my neck, and there were too many people about for me to shift things about to get comfortable. Bad enough to be forced to wear a second layer of costume, but did they really have to make these things so damned stiff? Never mind this convoluted bit of cloth; I guess I'm supposed to strangle myself with at some point. Don't these people ever need to move their heads at all? A Grubien mawtooth would be able to sneak up from behind, and they would never know because being a fashionable gentleman means not being able to move properly.

Maybe I would have been better off as a peasant or some such. Except, toiling all day for nothing has never been my idea of a good time. Not to mention I need money if I'm ever going to get off this damned lump of rock floating through space.

"Don't worry, Wickham. You'll get used to it soon enough."

Denny smiles at me like I'm just supposed to suck it up and deal with it. He doesn't know it's more than just an annoying over starched collar. Can't tell him either. I've seen what these people do to the insectoid-like life forms on this planet.

"I think they used too much starch." I tugged at the cravat. "Or glue perhaps."

The other officers around me laugh, letting their off white teeth glint in the sun. They are a simple race, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous. It's always the stupid ones you have to watch out for, because you never know what they're going to do next. At least they're entertaining.

"Shall we head to town? We must keep with tradition and buy the new man a pint at the local pub." Saunders is shorter than my current costume, with a red round face that is not attractive in the least. "Maybe see if we can win a few more coins off him this time?"

"My luck wasn't with me then. I won't lose so badly again."

Denny clapped a hand on my shoulder. "That's the spirit, man. Come on, maybe we'll run into that gaggle of sisters again."

"You talking about those Bennett chits, Denny?"

I fell behind as the others engaged in their low talk. A willing lady was a decent enough way to pass the time. But I couldn't pay for it right then, and I doubted I would be able to find anyone willing to lift her skirts for free tonight. My limited funds needed to go elsewhere.

Wickham was a decent enough choice for camouflage when I first took him. The Darcys had seen to his comfortable elevation above his proper status. Though I will admit that I was too taken in by the debauched life I had to assume, and wasted my first few years and quite a bit of coin. It was an easy enough mistake to make, I suppose.

The town is small, and no one knows me here yet. Running into Darcy a few days ago was an unexpected rock in my boot, but it would seem he's not as well-liked here than if we were back at Pemberly. There might even be a way for me to further my standing with the local simpletons if I play that hand of cards right. I might even win something tonight if I can keep my head while the others drink themselves into a stupor.

"Come, Wickham, you've been staring at that tree for far too long now. It won't turn into a pretty little harlot, no matter how much you might want it to."

"As if you'd know the difference." Saunders didn't quite manage to keep the snarl from his voice.

"Save it for the pub, gentlemen. No use to get riled up before we've had anything to drink."

It took a moment of thought to get the trademark grin to show on my face. "Go on ahead. I need to piss."

There was no need for such a vulgar action. A faint sloughing sensation in my lower thorax had started up, and I began to worry the skin suit was beginning to fail. It was a wonder the darkness-damned thing hadn't failed me yet already. Wickham needed to do his duty a little longer now that I'd signed my idiot self up to the militia. If I could find some little heiress to attach myself, to my problems would be over.

I don't know what it would feel like to be in a woman's skin. Gender was as strange a concept as clothing, though decidedly not as uncomfortable. At least readjusting my suit could be passed off as fixing my breeches if any of them looked back. Maybe things would be easier in a dress after all. Something I'll have to consider when Wickham finally falls apart on me, though I hope that day is a long way off. It takes so long to get a new skin broken in.

Denny and the others were outside the pub when I arrived, with pleasanter company than Saunders, at least. The youngest Bennett girl wasn't anything special, though she was a plump little thing with plenty of room for one to move into. Perhaps if things went poorly with Miss Elizabeth, I could tolerate Lydia long enough to get some time alone with her.

"Lieutenant Wickham, how smart you look in your regimentals." Her lashes fluttered as she looked up at me. "Won't you come join us for afternoon tea?"

Poor skills at flirting aside, Lydia might do just fine after all.

### Whisker Bunnies from Hell

### Steven Hammond

"Freckles! Freckles! Where'd ya go girl? Mama has your num-nums." Freckles' owner called for the third time. "Kee-kee-kee-kee-kitty!" She listened intently for the any sound of the kitty's jingle-bell. "Where did she go off to?" It was late afternoon and the sun was falling behind the hills. Freckles always came home when Mama called for num-nums.

Mama stood on the redwood deck and waited, scanning the woodland for any sign of the dappled orange, black, and white fur of the calico. The thick grove of conifers edging the property her one bedroom cottage answered with silence broken only by an occasional whisper of wind rustling through the pines. Neither jay nor crow nor chipmunk called in the afternoon shade. She placed her foot on the first step of the weather-worn stairway, intending to go in search of her beloved kitty. Wood creaked beneath a white cat-faced slipper. A shiver crawled up her spine and she pulled back.

"I got it. Why didn't I think of it before? Stupid." She ran back inside, stumbling over an array of feather and foam birdies, rubber jingle-balls, scratching posts, and yarn balls strewn about the small living room. She dashed into the kitchen, slippered feet sliding on bright yellow linoleum as she made the turn. She grabbed the pantry door and yanked, but it didn't budge. Mama whispered a profanity and covered her mouth with her hand. She flicked open the hook and eye latch and stepped into the dark pantry. Waving her hand overhead, she found a string, tugged, and a CFC bulb bathed the pantry in sterile white light.

Sagging shelves strained under the weight of cases of canned Fancy Vittles and bags of Kitty Chow-Chow. Mama scanned the shelves, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a child impatiently waiting for dessert. She pushed aside boxes of mashed potatoes and threw up her hands in frustration. "Where is it?" She nervously tapped her finger on her chin. She could feel the throbbing of her brain against her skull as it labored to retrieve the information. "Aha!" She bounced out of the pantry, across the kitchen, scooting her feet to avoid slipping, pulled the lid from ceramic cat cookie jar and pulled the bag of Tasty Tuna Tid-bites from within. Armed with the plastic bag of cat goodies, she darted out of the kitchen, nearly fell when her foot found a rubber jingle-ball, and ran out the still open sliding door.

Once again, Mama began calling to Freckles, shaking the bag of kibble treats between calls. She shook and listened, and was answered by the rustling of needles swaying in the treetops from a dusk breeze. "Kee-kee-kee-kitty," she called again, her shrill voice echoed through the copses. She waited. "Kitty. Freckles," she called, almost pleading. She let out a defeated sigh and her shoulders dropped. "Where are you, silly cat?" she whispered.

Mama went back inside, tossed the bag of treats on the sofa, sat down and grabbed her hiking boots. She kept her eye on the back door, hoping to hear the plaintive mew of Freckles asking for entrance as she laced her boots. Mama went to the kitchen and found the flashlight. It would be dark soon, and she had to find Freckles before night, before the predators came out. She could hear her brother's words before she moved, telling her to leave the cat at a shelter, that there were things that would eat it in the mountains. But she wouldn't do it. She couldn't do it. The cat had been her salvation. She hoped he wasn't right.

As she stepped back outside, Mama considered going to her neighbor Bill's house and beseech him for help in the search. It was only a hundred yards down the lane, and she could get there in a flash. But then she would have to be Peggy again, not Mama. She left that life behind, sold her house in the city and moved to the mountain community to get away from people, from everything. She rarely talked to anyone, and she liked it that way. No, she wouldn't ask him unless she absolutely had to. The man was unpleasant, a perverted old creep, and she despised the way his eyes rested on her tits when she spoke to him. No, she could find Freckles without his help. With her walking stick and flashlight in hand, Mama took a deep breath and set out to find her baby kitty Freckles.

Mama reached the edge of the copses and looked back at her house eighty yards across the fire break, hesitated and then walked into the wood where the long shadows melted into a blue-gray shade. Her boots cracked and snapped the forest litter. No animals scurried from the sound and no birds took flight; she was too focused on her search to notice the silence. She called out every third step, a cadence of _crunch, crunch, crunch_ , "Kee-kee-kitty."

She walked deeper into the woods, calling out; her with voice falling quieter with the darkness. She looked to sky, silently urging the dark away and noticed the lack of crows. The raucous birds always returned to their roost at sundown. A chill crawled up her spine, reaching around to her chest, icy tendrils filling her with a sense of urgency. Mama waved the flashlight across tree trunks and patches of Deer Brush finding nothing. Her arms sagged to her side, heavy from the increasing weight of dejection. Freckles was gone.

Mama looked back toward her home. She saw her porch light flicker to life through teary eyes. She stared at the light; her eyes scanned the dark, finding purchase on the yellow glow of Bill's patio light. Maybe the creep would help. There was no one else. She took her first reluctant step toward his house, when her mind, slowed by worry, remembered that the light was a security light. Something had tripped the sensor. "Freckles," she said.

She began to run but got no more than three steps toward the house before her foot caught the root of a Lodgepole pine. Mama watched the flashlight spiral through the air and felt her walking stick snap. "Shit," she said, not giving a damn who heard it this time. She pulled herself up, no worse for the wear, retrieved her light and picked up the remnants of her stick. She began to cuss again but stopped mid-swear. She heard something. She didn't move, not wanting the sound of steps to mask the noise. She heard it again, more distinctly: the tiny tinkle of a jingle bell.

Her heart raced. "Freckles." She took several steps toward the sound, stopped and listened. _Jingle, jingle._ She couldn't contain her smile as she shined the light toward the sound. The jingle stopped jingling. "Freckles, honey. Kee-kee, Mama's coming for you." She swept the light across, pausing between each trunk, looking for the glow of kitty eyes shining back at her. Seeing nothing, she pressed forward, gently calling to Freckles.

She came to a large cedar at the head of a thick stand of firs and pines. She could hear the jingling clearer now. "Freckles, baby. It's Mama. Come here, silly kitty." She let out a frustrated breath. _Why do cats have to be so stubborn?_ She peered into a dense cluster of saplings and shined the light toward the jangling jingle of Freckles' bell. The jingling stopped. "I know you're in there, kitty." She crept forward, parting the infant trees. The light caught a glint on a pass. She brought the beam back and spotted movement. The bell jingled.

She moved closer. In the white light she found Freckles, only it wasn't Freckles. It took a moment for her to realize what she saw. A dangling swatch of white, black and orange fur mixed with strands of red, pink and sickly yellow. "Kitty..."

She heard the jingle and shined the light a little higher. . An animal's head, white fur matted with gore. Eyes blacker than the deepest sea stared back at her; long protruding ears stood high and alert; nose twitching and whiskers bouncing while chewing the cat's hide like a leaf of lettuce.

"A fucking rabbit?" said Mama. "It can't be. It's too big. Who gives a shit? Get out of here, Peggy," she told herself. She was no longer Mama.

Peggy backed out of trees, keeping the light trained on the thing. It stood, unflinching. Its eyes followed her. Clear of the stand, she turned and ran—her instinct telling her to move. Whatever it was, it was dangerous, likely rabid. She swore she could hear the diseased animal running behind her and then on either side of her. It can't be in three places at once. She stumbled on the roots, but kept her footing. She heard movement in front of and stopped. Whatever was out there was smaller than what was in the trees. Peggy gripped her stick tightly; she would beat the things to death if she had to. Hearing the scurry of small feet to her left she spun, brought the light up quickly and spotted a flash light brown dart behind a tree. A noise to her right, and she saw a short, white, fluffy tail as it too went behind a tree. Pine needles crunched under tiny feet on either side of her. She had to make a break for her house. The clearing was ten yards away, two hundred fifty feet to the steps and fifteen feet to safety. She started to move and then saw it: a picket of erect ears silhouetted against the security light.

The things were following her. More than that, they blocked her path. Her eyes scanned the darkness and picked up the light of Bill's cabin. Who cared if he was a pervert? He had to have a gun. She hoped he did anyways. Hell, if he had a gun, she would lift her shirt and show him her tits if that's what it took for his help. Peggy chose her path, gritted her teeth and ran. She pushed through the copses, arms in front, head down as she rammed through the low branches, screaming as the wicked wooden arms slashed at her face. All the while, she could hear them. There were more. A dozen? Two dozen? She didn't know. She only knew that she had to make it to the cabin.

Not much further now. The light gleamed ahead as she sprinted through the open ground. In the beam of light, she saw a tree stump with two creatures perched atop, waiting. They leapt as she passed. She caught one by the swing of her stick; the other grazed off her hip. The light of the cabin grew brighter. She was almost there. She kicked something, soft and yielding. They were at her feet, weaving in and out, trying to trip her up. Peggy hopped and zigzagged, attempting to ward off her pursuers. Another stand of trees and she would be at her destination.

_What if he isn't home?_ she thought. She'd be stuck, cornered against wall. She'd break a window if she had to. Something took hold of her pant leg. She could see the silent beast latched to her. She entered the stand and with a grunt and a scream swung her leg forward and slammed the creature against a tree. Free of the weight, she pressed on.

She broke clear of the trees, jumped over a gully and spotted his trucked parked alongside of the house. He was home. She clambered up the steps of the deck and saw light coming through the open back door. Peggy stole a glance back and noticed the pursuit had ceased. "Bill," she called raggedly. She limped forward, her leg burned where the creature had grabbed her leg. She shined the light on her leg and saw blood. She cussed again. No time to worry about it, she'd see a doctor later.

She pulled open the screen door, stepped in and closed the door behind her. "Bill?"

The house was dark except for the flicker of a TV in the other room. She found the light switch and lit up a cluttered and somewhat disgusting kitchen. Pots and plates were strewn about the counters and a bowl of half-eaten stew sat among a Formica table littered with porn magazines. She stepped closer to the living room and heard the exaggerated ecstasy of woman coming from the room. At first she thought she had interrupted an intimate encounter. When she walked in she saw a pornographic scene on the screen. "Should've known."

With the exception of visual fornication, the room was dark. She found the light switch and closed her eyes, not wanting to see what Bill was doing. "Bill?" she said quietly, flicking the switch. No glow seeped through her eyelids. She opened her eyes and moved the flashlight around the room. A stained and tattered sofa sat in front of the television. Panning the light around the room, she spotted a lamp lying on the floor. "Oh God," she muttered. She stopped and listened. "Bill?" Peggy scanned the room one more time before walking toward the couch. Tiny red rabbit tracks could be seen scattered about a green carpet so worn that bare spots exposed the wood beneath. She looked back to the sofa. She didn't want to see what lay on the other side. But she had to. She felt compelled to.

She stepped around the sofa and nearly wretched. Bill was there. Lying on the floor, naked from the waist down, a tattered and bloodied gray sweatshirt held what remained of his intestines in place. His face was gone, empty eye-sockets dripped ichor onto exposed cheekbones. Deep claw marks were furrowed into his thighs, calves gnawed through to the fibula, his genitals gone. Peggy pulled her eyes away, took a step and vomited. Mid-heave, she remembered the bloody rabbit prints on the carpet and adrenaline brought her to her senses. Were they still here?

Peggy searched until she found the hall light. "Where would he keep a gun?" She spotted a hall closet midway down the hall and reluctantly went to it. Grabbing ahold of the knob, she hesitated and closed her eyes. "Just do it." She pulled open the door and jumped back. No rabbits and no gun; just an old jacket, something she'd seen him wear several times, and a woman's dress and wig, something she had thankfully never seen him wear at any time. She let out a breath of relief and went to the next door, which was partially open. She could see white and green tile of the bathroom counter and turned around. If the rest of the house was any indication, she had no desire to see the bathroom.

Peggy walked to the bedroom door and, like before, tried to muster the courage to open it. She heard a rustle from the other side and quickly let go of the handle. "Shit." She nearly ran away, but she desperately needed that gun. She pressed he ear against the door and listened. Silence. She stared at the door, wiggling her fingers over the knob in contemplation, her hand a hairsbreadth away. A loud scraping sound against the door made her scream and jump back.

She ran to the front room, formulating a plan. She couldn't go outside. They were waiting, and she couldn't find a goddamned gun. But they were inside too; she could hear the steady scraping of claws against the bedroom door. "Phone, phone, phone," she said with a shaky voice. "I'll call for help, take his truck, and go." Peggy found a yellow push-button phone, complete with a stretched-out coiled receiver cord, on the kitchen wall. She held the grimy receiver against her ear; relieved to hear a dial tone, she hurriedly punched 911.

She began speaking before the dispatcher could ask about her emergency. "Help, please, help. There're animals trying to kill me. One person's dead already. I don't know. They look like rabbits." She realized how ridiculous it sounded. "I'm serious," she said while rummaging the counters, looking for the keys. A thump and a click against the backdoor window made her jump. The sight made her step back into the front room. The white rabbit. Padded paws pressed against the glass; nose twitching between needle whiskers; black pupil-less eyes, watching her.

"Yes I'm here," Peggy whispered. "It's big. Whatever it is, it's big. I don't know. It's a goddamn bunny from hell." She stepped down the hall and pressed her back against the wall. The scratching against the bedroom door intensified; wood began to splinter. "I can't stay here. It's coming through."

She had to make a break for it. She looked at the front door and then she saw it: a double barrel shotgun resting in the corner by the door, hidden by a phone table. She stepped toward the gun, holding the phone until the cord could stretch no more. She let the phone fling back and ran to the gun. She snatched it up, checked the breech and found it loaded. She needed more shells, but there was no time to search. She opened the small drawer in the table and found four shotgun shells rolling around. As she stuffed them in her pocket she heard the sound of wood shattering, followed by the pattering of padded feet on a hollow floor.

The creature came down the hall and Peggy froze. It was big, not as big as the white one, but still three feet long. It stopped. It hadn't seen her. The rabbit thing rose up on its hind legs, nose twitching, whiskers bobbing. The twitching stopped and it slowly turned its head, focusing lifeless eyes on Peggy. It turned and leapt. She screamed, fired the weapon, and sent it back the way it came. She fumbled with the chain latch, opened the door and found the stoop crowded with demonic bunnies. She slammed the door and turned to find the one she had shot standing and looking at her. "What the hell are these things?" She aimed and shot it in the head and watched it fall to the ground. "Get up from that, fucker."

She reloaded, determined to survive. The backdoor window backdoor shattered. With nowhere else to go, she opened the front door and fired into the mass. Large claws dug into back before she could get out. She fell. Huge incisors bit into her calf and dragged her back, screaming. Holding fast to the gun, she rolled and fired. The white rabbit let loose and tumbled back. Standing on one leg, she fished the shells from her pocket. The rabbits on the stoop rushed in and attacked. She stumbled and watched the shells fly from her hand, tumbling into the dark. With no other recourse, she began batting the things away with the gun. But for every one she knocked back, another bit or clawed her tattered leg. She stumbled back, her butt pressed against the back of the sofa; she knew she couldn't keep up the fight. The rabbits stopped their attack. She watched them in confusion. She heard sirens. Help was coming.

The white beast was on its feet and hopping toward her with long incisors bared. It leapt. Peggy brought the gun across her body and they tumbled over the sofa. She felt the squish of Bill's entrails beneath her back as she landed. The weight of the rabbit stole her breath. It took the gun in its teeth, but Peggy held tight. Engaged in a vicious tug-of-war, she could hear the sirens over her screams. They were close. The beast raked its claws down her chest, shredding flesh. The sound of tearing fabric, high-pitched screams, sirens and the loquacious sex video mixed, surreal. The sirens ceased. Peggy felt her strength begin to ebb. She heard shouts of men and gunfire. The white rabbit from hell let loose its biting grip, hopped over the sofa and stood in the middle of the room, thumping its hind foot against floor. Seconds later, it was gone.

A deputy ran into the house and called out. Peggy could only whimper. Footsteps came to the sofa. "Holy Christ," she heard him say. He said something about paramedics, but she wasn't sure.

"Hey," the deputy said, kneeling beside her. "Stay with me. Help is coming. You're safe now."

Peggy looked through him and smiled. She raised her arm. "Freckles, baby. Mama's here. Come here silly kitty," she said in quiet, relaxed voice. Her arm fell to her side and her eyes closed. "Mama's got you."

### Eight Million Spec Scripts to Earth

### Zig Zag Claybourne

Eight million dollar Super Bowl commercial. A-list stars, 3D-level effects work, three minutes long and, for the first time ever, a real boob shot. Not an android boob. Full warm nipple. Every American on the planet tuned into that commercial—

"Ma, get in here, they're showing it!"

\--then it went dark. Tak Brazton shot a plasma hole in his TV and answered the phone on the first ring.

"Pandora event, Brazton," the man with the English accent and fist permanently up his ass said. "What's your situation?"

"Having sex and watching TV. Just blasted the TV."

"Then I suggest the other hole and your ass in gear two seconds afterward."

Brazton shifted to quarterback position. "Hauling ass." He clicked off.

"That's so tacky, Braz," said Miranda, his London liaison. "And the TV? Grow the hell up."

"You kill the rhythm when you talk, Panda. Shit just got real. Gonna need you to focus."

Tak Brazton interrupted two things for sex: the Super Bowl was one. America was next. Fortunately, he was in Britain.

"Somebody want to tell me in proper English why the hell I ran over seven brains with tails on my way here?"

"The en-route briefing—"

"The en-route briefing was shit. Where'd they drop in first?"

"The Americas."

"Son of a bitch." Super Bowl Sunday. Son of a bitch. Brazton pulled his shit together.

Just then a tight labcoat escorted a pair of breasts into Pidsby's office. Lenore Tidsby, the only woman who'd ever made Tak Brazton cry in bed. Twice. She slapped her father's desk with a stack of papers then swept a lock of red hair back in formation. "Sir."

"Everybody knows that's your father, Lenore," said Tak.

"Shut the hell up, Brazton. Sir, these things are dropping fast. Every continent."

"Not like the T was fooling anybody," said Brazton.

"Shut the hell up, Brazton. No one's done any calculations, sir, but at the rate these are falling, the entire planet will be infested in two days."

"Dammit!" said Major Pidsby.

"Dammit all," breathed Tak.

"All the way to hell," nodded Lenore. She slapped a second stack of papers no one had seen her holding. "Nothing is killing them fast enough." She leaned on the desk, eyes steely. She had promised herself she'd never speak these words again, not after what happened last time, what happened between her and Rex Sadim, the man who had driven her to Tak's arms after Tak had had to behead him for trying to take a bite out of her arm, that brilliant man who had become what he'd become for science. She leaned forward even more. Tak glanced down her blouse. "We need zombies."

Pidsby glanced nervously between his daughter and Tak. "Do you think that's...wise?"

"Yes, father," she said, dropping the pretense in this desperate hour, "I loved a zombie. I loved him in all the ways a woman can love." She cupped herself through the labcoat. "I gave him these and more, and ...and yes, I will love again."

"And you, Tak?" asked Pidsby.

Tak cupped his crotch. "I loved him like a brother," he said vehemently. He leaned forward too, his crotch against Pidsby's desk, oak to walnut, a promise traveling the length of his length to the very foundations of the Scientific Paramilitary Inquiry & Tactics division of T.A.K.E, of which he was on loan from the United States. "I'm behind Lenore one hundred percent. I'll love her the same."

Pidsby clenched his jaw. He stood. He leaned. His desk wasn't that large. Tak and Lenore moved back a bit.

Eye to eye he said the words that would, by whatever gods were available and listening, be those which saved mankind. "With you behind her, we'll make sure these things get their full comeuppance. Godspeed, Agent Brazton."

"We keep the zombies in cold storage," she said as they raced to the elevator. Tak stabbed the button. Hard. Lenore swept a lock of red hair back in place. Hard.

"Rex bit three other people before he ever got around to attacking me."

"Damn the secrets of lovers!"

"What about us, Tak? Are there any secrets between us?"

The elevator was slow. This could potentially be their last mission. "I'm not really circumcised, I just have hella foreskin control." She deserved to know.

Her eyes softened. "Thank you."

They waited quietly for the elevator.

The elevator came. They raced to the zombies.

The zombies were fricking hideous, and smelled, being mostly thawed. It would have to do. "Wrap them to go," Lenore Tidsby, the fabulous scientist no man had yet tamed told the young science whiz in the wheelchair who had never learned to express his true yearning for an unbound life in any way outside of dissecting something. She felt sorry for him. Victoria in R&D had said she'd go down on him if he'd only asked.

"But," he wanted to caution Lenore. It was all he said, because she slapped the hell out of him.

"This is a global extinction Pandora-level event, Potter. You load them in the truck and then call your mum. It may be your last chance."

"Yes, ma'am." He wheeled around to Tak. "Agent Braz—"

Tak slapped the hell out of him. "Man up. You carrying a weapon?"

"No."

Tak slapped the hell out of him. "Here. First name 'Last,' last name 'Resort.' You understand me?"

The young man fumbled his glasses from his chin to his eyes. "Yes, sir," he said through tears.

Tak felt a lump in his throat. This boy would never see a nipple on a Super Bowl commercial. Tak mentally slapped himself. By damn's early light, he'd make sure one way or another that that wouldn't come to pass. Tak bent and hugged him tightly. "You live, dammit. You understand me? No matter what happens, we will come back. We will find you."

"I'll be right here."

Tak man-hugged him again. "God- _dammit_!"

"Ladies?" said Lenore Tidsby. "We've got a world to save."

"So what, we just let 'em bite people? There's only three of 'em."

A brain sprang through the air via its coiled prehensile tail and landed on the back of a woman screaming her way through a tangle of wrecked cars and dead bodies. Pincers at the stem held the spongy grey mass, wobbling but firm, so the tail could wrap around her throat and suck her neural juices.

"Watch it!" said Lenore.

"What?"

"You almost hit the man screaming 'What do they want?!'"

"Dumbasses! In America, we wouldn't be running _in the middle of the street where there's a shit ton of alien brains with tails_." He shouted at the window: " _How about you go the hell indoors and close the windows where shit can't get you, asshole!_ " Two brains blindsided the man; he went down flailing.

"Dump the zombies," Lenore said abruptly. Thirty minutes in the car with him. Thirty minutes of him yelling at windows and snapping at her about his aggressive over-driving.

"What?"

"Just stop and dump the zombies! I am so—just dump them. Please."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Doesn't make you more of a woman to parrot me." Tak pulled over. "Not more at all." His finger hovered over the release button on the armored transport. Shit suddenly got real.

He searched Lenore's face. "Is this ethical?"

"It's the financial district. CEOs are out for their lunch meetings. Their natural ravenous natures should work in our favor. Zombieism will spread quickest here." That lock of hair had fallen again. Tak reached to tuck it. She intercepted his hand and put his fingers in her mouth, one brief, motivating suck and tongue stroke, then dropped the hand to his lap. "Future generations will forgive—"

Tak kissed her, kissed her hard. She grabbed his button finger. "Do it." They both pressed.

Six weeks later: "How the fuck are we fighting aliens _and_ zombies now?! What the hell!" said the man on the street racing past the reporter and her sword-wielding camera crew.

"Dammit, Tak!" shouted Major Pidsby.

"It made sense at the time," said Tak Brazton on the phone from his bunker in Honolulu. "Zombies are slow, they can be contained. Those little brain suckers were skittering around pretty quick."

"We're going to have to go nuclear."

They went nuclear.

"Shit, fuck!" Pidsby said from his bunker. "Giant goddamn brain zombies with tails!"

"Yeah, that sucks. Honolulu's nice though. Zombies ate the brain aliens, we rounded all the zombies up, tossed 'em in the ocean, sharks ate the zombies, we got zombie sharks, but who gives a damn, they're sharks. All they do is eat anyway."

But Pidsby fell heavily silent. Then silent a moment longer. Too long. Tak braced himself for it. "They got Lenore," he said, the fist up his ass twisting painfully. "She's...she's thirty feet tall with a tail coming out of her skull and a ravenous hunger straight from hell! Part of her is still Lenore. She's managed to evade capture."

"Pidsby," said Tak, pulling his favorite weapons belt from among others on the rack. "You've got to learn to get to the meat of things faster. I'm on my way."

"You don't want to kill me, Lenore," said Tak, his weapon trained dead-center on her forehead. He'd known where she would go: the hillside where he'd first spotted her and Rex having outdoor sex when Rex was supposed to have been on a recon mission regarding mysterious sightings of fog people. After twenty minutes of watching them he'd wandered off to clear his mind and had come upon a rather large cave. They had apparently found it too. Condom wrappers and SPIT TAKE paraphernalia littered the interior.

The red hair was patchy and matted, a piece of lab coat obscured one nipple, but other than that she was naked and, honestly, none too shabby. A prehensile, alien, spine-tail thingy moved about her neck and shoulders like the proverbial snake whispering secrets. She stank to high hell and lord knew what she'd been eating, but despite that she was still thirty foot, sexy, irradiated Lenore zombie. He noticed her bush had grown considerably into a sharp V that looked almost like a loincloth. And not every odor coming off of her was death and funk.

He took a step back.

She took a hesitant step forward, brow furrowed in deep and painful thought. Damn, but she looked like Nigella Lawson, thirty feet tall and dipped in tit sauce. But she was so primitive and not herself.

Tak dug that. "Let me help you." Then a pterodactyl flew down and carried him off.

"WTF?! That's how you're ending this?" said Shapiro Headstein, zombie agent extraordinaire.

"So you're saying as a zombie-American writer, that's not authentic enough?" said the zombie with the cotton tee and salmon-colored slacks. "I should have had some random zombie grab him from behind a tree saying 'Brains'? Seriously, you tell me."

"I'm just saying."

"This is not a historical piece, Shap. Yes, the brain aliens came down and we ate the heads and gained—no, _re-gained_ , our joie de vivre, but that story's been told to death."

"How about we do a sex scene, end it on a romantic note? Beauty and the beast, King Kong."

"That's where I was going with the pterodactyl!"

"Where the fuck's a pterodactyl come from in a movie about alien brains versus zombies, Mortie?!"

"Fine, she screws him, uses him like a dildo, movie ends...or is it? Dah dah dummm, she could be pregnant!"

"Mortie, there's a reason your career is in the shits. It's got nothing to do with you being a zombie."

Mortie sighed through his chest hole, which billowed his cotton tee out a bit. "I'm glad you told me that."

"Listen—"

"No, I'm glad. I can go back to writing zombie porn, I'm okay with that. People still remember 'The Undead Like Dick.'"

"That's a classic, Mortie. Fifty Shades breakthrough for the zombie set."

"My heart's always been in film though, Shap." Mortie snorted. "Hell, my hearts barely in me now, huh? Parchment paper chest, that sucker's always threatening to fall out. Gotta keep oiled and moistened, you know?"

"I know." Shapiro stood to usher Mortie toward the door. "Sleep on it, Mortie. Ha, yeah, I know," he said, heading Mortie's joke off, "zombies don't sleep."

"We're nothing but idea factories, twenty-four seven. I'll work on it, but I still want you to send this out as spec. I got a million of 'em."

"Go home, Mortie."

"What if I get Tak deep in giant poon. Have an interior of him thinking 'It's not a dick, it's a massive clit,' and he's working frantically to bring her to climax. Thirty minutes later he's tired and near fainting..."

"That sounds perfect, Mortie, that's just what we need."

"Don't patronize, Shap."

Mortie left Shap's office-slash-home. That's how Shap described it to people. "My office-slash-home."

Fifty years ago, when the zombies and the Tau Cetans had their battle royal, everybody was yay zombies, yeah, go go, eat aliens... but that star had faded. Folks were looking for fresh blood, but zombies had, what, one, two good stories in 'em? Pretty soon he'd have to start dodging Mortie's calls. Better to just lodge a machete in his skull. Shap took a sip of Tom Collins and pulled his vintage samurai sword down while trying to remember the last place he'd left his sharpener.

_Pterodactyl!_ Sweet Jesus, what was the entertainment world coming to?

### Nexus: Octopied

### Nic Wilson

I was going to kill SciDiv—Stephen— _whatever_. I was supposed to be in suspended animation. Instead, I spent the entire trip in the stupid pod conscious—which meant I was aware of how very much like a can of pickled foot I smelled like.

And crappier still, one of the habitable planets in my survey was actually inhabited. So I had to go down to the planet's surface and press flesh with the natives. Which reminded me: I needed to kill Drew, too. It was his asinine idea to repurpose our advance scanning pods so you could put people in them, and his worse idea not to exempt me from the lottery. I'm head of security, and our ship was being _hunted_ —my place was on the _Nexus_ , prepping my officers, and training the civvies for a fight that likely wasn't going to exempt them.

But there was no point grousing; in space, no one can hear you bitch. So I had to make first contact with an urchin people on a planet entirely covered in water—though in the places they lived, it was only a foot to three feet deep. From the intel the pod had gathered, it would appear it was also their bathroom. Joy.

The people looked like porcupines cross-bred with pincushions. No matter how well the negotiations might go, we weren't hugging it out. I got my hopes up when I found out the planet was waterlogged, that habitable species or no, the comm box wouldn't survive the descent, but apparently the comm box was waterproof— _and_ they got it up and running. Their language seemed to be made up entirely of baby farts; I just hoped they made the sounds with whatever their equivalent to a mouth was, because I wasn't not negotiating with a species that speaks through a sphincter.

When the pod found intelligent life on the first pass, the craft set a course around the solar system; it gave the species time to get the comm box functional, and it let me burn off speed using local gravity rather than thrusters. I spent the last local day in orbit. I missed my entry window by a little over an hour.

"Entering orbital window," the pod's computer told me.

"Do it," I told her. I wasn't looking forward to meeting a new species—that had gone sideways on us often enough I had reservations—but at least it was a chance to stretch my legs. That is, p—rovided that the pod's landing protocols worked better than the damn suspended animation.

I wished I'd spent more time in the landing simulators, but EngDiv—damnit, I was still getting used to the bullshit first name policy—Bill—admitted to me while slightly tipsy that there wasn't much of a point. At the speed the pods dropped from the atmosphere, if there was a problem, I wouldn't be able to react quickly enough to correct it—and the g-forces would probably knock me unconscious, anyway.

The one bright spot was that since the planet was a toilet, I got to make a splashdown. It marginally increased my odds that the pod would be functional enough to get me back off the rock after negotiations.

I was sure those would go lousy. I'd never been a people person. I was even less of an urchin person. And I'd spent over a month literally stewing in my own juices.

The pod rocked when it hit the atmosphere. The autobriefing warned me about that, or at least I think it was trying to. It read like the Chinese essay my sister bought to get her into college—and then foolishly didn't proofread to make sure it sounded like it was written by even a stupid native speaker—

I found myself gripping the hand rests built into the seat. They gave slightly; engineering had learned in early testing that people tended to need something to grab onto. "Give me visual," I said.

"Visual is not advised," the computer replied. "In 73% of occupants, visual information of this speed and complexity causes disorientation and nausea."

"Visual. _Now."_ It put up a rocky image of the planet below, rushing up to meet me. It was every falling dream I'd ever had, only at a sharp angle, impossibly faster, and into a shallow toilet bowl of a world flashing by so fast it wasn't even a blur, it was ocular gibberish. It was like the worst coaster simulator ever designed—and the knowledge that it was real made it impossible for me to fight back the queasiness. "Visual off," I managed to get out.

Then the pod lurched. I felt it slow as the water burned off the last of my velocity, so fast that I nearly passed out from the sudden deceleration. Then the pod bobbed back up to the water's surface. "Can I get out?" I asked.

"Hull exterior requires heat dissipation," the computer told me in its monotone; it made me miss Haley. "Water will cool exterior to safe temperature in approximately 3 minutes and 46.2 seconds."

I sighed. It gave me time to try out the pod's cleaning functionality. Of which there was none, I learned after a few keystrokes. None working, anyway. Which was fine. So far as the locals knew, maybe my entire species smelled like a tuna fish sandwich left under a seat cushion for a year.

"Please seal helmet," the computer said. I slid down my visor and locked it in place. I felt a rush of air as my suit pressurized, and finally the door opened up. The water had a high concentration of uric acid, so the entire planet smelled like cat pee—even through the suit. I hope it only _smelled_ like pee, but I knew better than to be optimistic about that.

The pod landed a ways from the continent by design, but I had a marker on my HUD pointing me in the direction of the box. I dove into the water and started swimming. It was clear, with a reddish hue to it; I cleaned up a shark tank after a drunk reveler tried to swim in it, once, and it looked about like that. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't likely that the species on this planet bled red, so it probably wasn't just that I was swimming through an aquatic abattoir.

I thought I saw movement just past where the light pierced the water. "Can you get me a scan of things moving down there?" I asked the computer.

"You don't want me to," the computer said. That made me swim a little faster. But I made it to shore without incident—shore in this case being relative.

The urchins met me a short ways up the coast, hauling the comm box. I let them make the approach—in my experience, it makes the invaded species feel less hostile, getting to be the aggressor in the first contact.

They dropped the box roughly into the water, and I hoped maybe it would break, so I could turn around and go home. "She's exactly as ugly as a florgh-bak's hindparts," one of them whispered, and the comm box grabbed it and broadcast it to me.

"And your entire planet and people smell exactly like the aftermath of my worst hangover. Or were we going to try and pretend to be diplomatic?"

"What makes you think it's a she?" another asked.

"I can see her egg-sacks."

"No, you can't," I said.

One of them gave me what I assume was supposed to be a contrite expression—otherwise, he had something stuck in his throat. "Apologies, Ambassador," he said out of a very mouth-like anus—or a very anus-like mouth—moving ahead of the others. "We meant no harm. Just, to our species, your appearance is very strange."

"Look Blarquen!" an especially belligerent one of them bellowed at me from behind the box.

"She isn't _from_ Blarque," their Ambassador snapped at him, "and I don't believe she can change her appearance just to suit us. Can you?" He paused, but not long enough for me to respond. "Of course not. Why else would you _choose_ to appear to us in such a form?"

I bit my tongue; there wasn't a goddamn thing wrong with my form, but now wasn't the time to discuss alien beauty standards with a bunch of speciest urchins. "I'm not an ambassador," I said, "except in maybe the loosest meaning of the term." My hand went instinctively to my holster.

"Ah, so you're a warrior. Excellent."

"Excellent?" I asked.

"We have...need of a warrior's skill."

"Then institute a draft," I said, and forced my hand down to my side, further from the gun.

"I'm afraid our species isn't built for conflict. Our carapaces mean large predators can't eat us whole, but the more enterprising of them..." He pantomimed something like breaking open a crab leg and sucking out the meat.

"I'm not here for that."

"Then what, pray the tides tell, are you here for?"

"Mining rights. I want to broker a deal, for the mining rights to this solar system. The other rocks rotating around the big, burning orb." I pointed up at their star.

"Ah. Done," he said, "on condition you lend us your military skills." Goddamnit, verbally outflanked by a porcuped.

"Tell me what you need first, and then I'll tell you what I might be able to do. I could probably help you out with a tactical assessment——but that is the furthest I go. I'm not here to fight your battles for you. In fact, I don't care if you sign on with me or not. My current bosses might not be as dickish as our old corporate overlords, but you're still probably getting screwed, since you seem to have the collective intelligence of a tube cheese. Either way, I'm on the next pod the hell out of here, signature on the dotted line or no."

Enough of that translated for the Ambassador to be offended, but he was also enough of a politician to stow it. "Understood. But this matter should be a trifle for a military veteran of your stature."

"Are you just buttering me up?" I knew he couldn't know a thing about my 'stature' as a veteran—unless he meant it literally. "Or are you saying that because I'm easily two feet taller than any of you."

"Feet?" he asked, and stared at where my legs met the water; something got lost in translation there.

"Nevermind. Tell me about your problem?"

"The florgh-bak is a menace to my people."

"And that is?"

He motioned for me to follow him into one of their buildings. I hadn't realized it earlier, but they were 'constructed' out of a coral. "How do you?"

He made a soft, baby-belching sound, which I assume signaled pride. "We encourage them to grow in certain configurations. Lamps, warmth, food; all go into growing a wall up out of the water."

He pointed me to a tablet, a shard of an obsidian-like rock with an image carved into it. It looked kind of like an octopus—or at least, a fevered, Lovecraftian nightmare of what an octopus with eighty arms might look like.

He made that breaking his people-in-half-and-sucking-out-the-meat gesture again.

I noticed a localized eclipse—a shadow was cast across me. I turned. One of the urchins had climbed to the top of the wall, and was standing over me with a club. "Crap," I managed to get out. He jumped down on me. I got my pistol out and fired from the hip. I'm even fairly certain I hit him, but gravity was against me at that point—he was falling on me either way. It was like having a sack of screwdrivers dropped on me.

I woke tied up, with my face half in water. My helmet was cracked, because my mouth was open, and had filled with their terrible water; I was lucky I hadn't drowned.

I was in an above-water den, a cavern with twelve-foot walls but no ceiling. There were lots of...I'll be generous and call them 'keepsakes' scattered around. I've never been that keen on marine biology, so I had no clue what kind of animal might live here—presuming there was some analogous patterns to animals back on earth. But judging from the bric-a-brac, I was in the front room of a humongous sea hoarder. Skeletons and bits of shell lined the ground—and that made me wonder if maybe this wasn't the front room. What if it was the kitchen? That made too much sense to ignore.

I didn't have much room to move my arms, but I managed to worm my way to the wall, which I used to push myself up off the ground. From there, I found an especially sharp bit of rock jutting out to fray the rope. That got my hands free. I could tell from the way that my face was sticky that it was caked in blood.

I reached for my pistol. I'd managed to get it strapped back in its holster before I passed out—and the urchins didn't take it. Small miracles.

I noticed a pile of animal droppings in one side of the lair. Even without getting any closer, I could make out bits of rope mixed in. So I was meant as a TV dinner, or maybe takeout.

It was at that moment that I heard a horn blow from not far off. "The dinner bell," I said. Apparently the locals weren't interested in giving me any kind of a chance.

I looked at the wall. It didn't look like there was a purchase for me to climb out. Besides, from the close sound of waves crashing, I was likely in a little island out in the ocean. And I was fairly certain I didn't want to be in the water when the florgh-bak came to the dinner table.

There was one opening in the walls, and it descended into the water, like steps into a flooded basement. I heard something break the water's surface, though at first it was too dark inside to see. Then I could make out a long tentacle wending its way towards me.

I wondered what kinds of senses it might have. Olfactory nerves on the limb? Some kind of heat sensitivity? I didn't know the morphological differences between an octopus and a crawdad—and that was with Earth critters.

Then it touched me, and I smelled it. The closest facsimile was the month I spent at a training camp where _none_ of the amenities worked. Not the showers, not the garbage disposal. But the instructors told us to carry on as usual. We dumped craploads of rotting food into the disposal, but it would never run. It smelled like a month of moldering, wet garbage mixed with the body rot of overworked fighters.

But I told myself, maybe this one wasn't hostile. Maybe this wasn't the owner, come to claim his sacrifice. Maybe it was just a curious little fella seeing if there was anything interesting in here. I was pretty sure I was just telling myself that to have some kind of distraction from the fact that it was like a person-sized slug brushing up against me. And then the tentacle got to second base; I've never felt more like a Japanese schoolgirl in my entire life. And that was about as much as I could handle.

I wished I'd brought along something with a little more...oomph, a rifle, or a shotgun, rather than a little pistol. How Drew managed to stay alive this long with just a pistol I couldn't guess—oh wait, it was because I was constantly saving his _stupid_ ass with my rifle.

I shot the tentacle in what looked like maybe the most sensitive spot, a sucker that resembled a sphincter.

The immense creature tried to rise up out of the water, squalling, but only managed to brain itself on the doorway. It was too large to come in that way, and either too heavy or too stupid to try to come over the top.

That seemed to piss it off, and it shoved several more tentacles through as it crammed as much of its face as possible inside. It flailed psychotically. I rolled under the first tentacle's swing and managed to dive over the next, but the third caught me across the torso and knocked me into the rock wall. My gun took the brunt of it, and I knew from the sound it made that it was cracked.

But the creature wasn't done; it wrapped its nearest tentacle around my leg and pulled me upside-down into the air. I aimed at its eye, and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

It brought me up to its face and looked at me with one big eye. I still had hold of the gun, and I felt along the handle. Sure enough, there was a fracture. I pulled apart the plastic handle. Stupidly, they were designed to crack at the slightest pressure, but it took everything I had to even widen the hole.

The creature handed me off to another limb, and turned so that another eye a third of the way around it could stare unblinking at me. I imagined there was at least one more eye behind, but I think it found whatever it was looking for, and turned over, exposing its underside.

Its mouth was on its undercarriage, and I couldn't see more than the one hole. So it was a one-size-fits-all entrance. Food went in, waste came out, and, I suspected, maybe even babies fit that way—along with whatever constituted an octopenis.

I'm sure one of the SciDiv staff would have been wet over it, but I was more concerned with the fact that I was being lowered slowly into an anus with multiple rows of teeth—like a shark mouth, but only if the shark's mouth was also its butt. And now that I'd seen a florgh-bak's hindparts up close, I was _officially_ insulted.

It touched my butt, and tried to separate the cheeks enough to break through. Was it looking for an orifice? I really needed to shoot it before it found its way to my mouth.

I fumbled with my gun. If I dropped it from where I was, dangling fifteen feet upside-down over a woodchipper of a cephalopod, I was going to be fisted up a giant squid mouthbutt—possibly after it got to third base with me—or worse.

I managed to jab two fingers inside the handle of my pistol. The wiring was frayed, but my fingers were sweaty. I hoped maybe enough had oozed through my glove to use it as a conductor, so I could get enough of a connection for one more shot.

I took aim, trying to compensate for the swaying of the thing's tentacles. I needed to hit it through the mouth, and hope it kept its brain in close proximity. I took a deep breath, and let it out slow, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. "Fuck," I said.

I felt suction along my hip as it pulled at the edges of my clothes. The thing was literally trying to figure out how to get into my pants.

I looked at my fingers. Miraculously, they were the one part of me that was dry—at least on the outside. I looked at the tentacle holding me in the air; it was slimy, but I wasn't sure whether or not it would be conductive.

I swore. My cracked helmet meant I'd been sucking down the planet's carcinogenic air for hours, anyway. I tore my helmet off and let it fall.

The splash excited the monster, and several tentacles slapped against the water, trying to find what had made the noise. It turned over to be able to see what had made the noise.

I spit on my fingertips, and shoved the moistened digits back up my gun. "Better work this time," I told it. "I don't think we've got any more time for foreplay."

The florgh-bak shook me around violently. I didn't want to wait and see how long before it either bashed me against the rocks, or tried to tear me apart. I steadied my aim at its eye and fired.

My pistol exploded in my hands. Electricity arced through my arms, and one last blast shot out of the barrel. The creature dropped me into the water. It wasn't deep enough to completely break my fall, but it stopped me from breaking my ankle as I landed.

The florgh-bak was definitely dead. A wriggling mass of what looked like worms the circumference of my wrist dribbled out of the gunshot wound; either the florgh-bak was riddled with parasites, or they were brains. I spent a moment looking for my helmet, but I knew that more likely than not it was under several tons of squid tentacle. I could see enough pieces of pistol-shrapnel floating around my shins to know that I wasn't piecing humpty dumpty back together—which was probably just as well, since it was never going to fire again.

Then I realized my only exit was blocked by the squid carcass—or octopus carcass, I guess, since it didn't have a beak. It was definitely too large to move. But when I shoved it, I noticed there was give to it. I took a few moments taking deep breaths, to saturate my lungs with air. Then I pushed myself between the rocky wall and the squid; without my mask, I had to face the squid to keep the rocks from cutting me up.

It was slow-going. My feet kept getting caught in its skin. I felt panicked, because I didn't know how deep the cavern was, or how much more squid there could be.

I did one undercover mission while coming up through the security ranks where a four-hundred pound smuggler gave me a sloppy, tongue-heavy lap dance. This was worse, if only because in that case I only felt like I might be smothered—here, it was a very real possibility.

And I couldn't shake the idea that maybe the squid was playing opossum, waiting for me to get into the water where it would have a clear advantage.

I broke free from the rock, and despite myself let out a little sigh of relief. Then I remembered I had an indeterminate amount of island overhead between me and the air, and I started kicking for all I was worth. The acid content of the water meant I couldn't open my eyes to see.

When I thought I couldn't hold out any longer I pushed for surface; I was in that odd overlap between animal panic and human exuberance. My knuckles scraped against the rock.

I thought about the _Nexus_ , the life I'd built there, the life I planned to live out there. I kicked off the rock and swam harder, farther.

I swam so long I realized I'd lost track of which direction I was swimming—I think I was angling down. I let out a few bubbles from my mouth, and they traced up my cheek. I followed them up to the surface.

I wasn't going to have enough left in me for another burn. It was air or drowning this time.

My hand broke free from the water and I gasped shallowly. Nasty as this planet's air was, I was happy to have it, and spent a couple minutes treading water while I caught my breath.

I called up the comm box location on my HUD. I wasn't surprised to find there was some ocean between me and them. The practical side of me said I should cut my losses, and head back to my pod and out of here. The part of me that was incensed that they were going to let a giant squid date-rape me wanted to burn their shitty little village to the ground.

I swam for their coast.

They met me on the shore, like before. Only this time they were armed with little spears.

I didn't mince words, or posture; I used a mixed martial arts roll to disarm one who got too close. Having a hard outer shell made them harder to kill—but it also made them crap at maneuvering. They weren't warriors.

Half of them dropped their spears rather than appear hostile. The others were clearly cowering. If it was possible, I pitied them while really wanting to wipe their species out. "You knocked me out and left me in an octopus monster's rape den; I'd feel pretty righteous about anything I do to your people this side of genocide."

"The beast is dead?" One of them whispered, full of surprise.

"If you little bastards start singing, 'Ding dong, the beast is dead,' I will put genocide back on the table."

I'm not sure how, but I recognized the little shit who heckled me earlier. I leveled the spear at him, and he dropped his. "You." And I'm pretty sure he pissed himself, too. "I've seen a florgh-bak's hindparts— _up close_ —and I am at least four times sexier than that." For some reason, that didn't feel like enough. "Say _it_."

"You are at least four times as beautiful as a florgh-bak's hindparts," he repeated. He nearly vomited, but choked it back down. I told myself it was because of my fierceness and beauty, and not because his species vomited when lying.

"Please," their Ambassador said, moving to the front of the group, "don't harm him." He produced the contract, already signed. "We had no choice," he said.

"You could have chosen not to try to feed me to a tentacled monster."

"We kept the florgh-bak fed, or it came to our village and _feasted._ It was you, or one—and frequently more—of us."

"On principle, that means I ought to murder one of you." I pointed the spear at their Ambassador, at what would have been his throat if he were human.

He sighed, and bowed his head. "A small price," he said, "to free my people."

"And you did already shoot me," one of them near the back said. He was short enough I hadn't seen him, but now that he was shoving through, I recognized him as the bastard that cannon-balled onto me. _Him_ I did kind of want to stab a little.

But I didn't _really_ want to hurt anybody, so I dropped the spear at the Ambassador's feet and tore the contract out of his hand. I wanted the hell away from this planet, his crappy people, and a whole host of smells that were still somehow worse than the body odor I'd accrued on the trip here.

The stink of this planet actually made me miss my BO.

I remembered to put the contract into a waterproof pocket, then I dove into the water. "Computer? Diagnostics on the pod."

"Functional. Systems are ready for launch."

In a little over an hour, I was out of orbit and plotting an intersect course with the _Nexus_. The ship not completely failing meant I didn't have to kill Bill, which was good. The list of people I had to murder was already long enough as it stood.

### The Newfoundland Medusa

### Tina Traverse

### One

My favourite spot in all the world is the cliff overlooking the ocean. I love to climb it every Sunday to enjoy some solitude and to unwind from the vigor of a hectic week. I've always felt one with the sea.

Right now I'm enjoying the wind in my hair. The smell of the salt air calms my hectic mind. I close my eyes and let the stresses of being a customer service representative at a local department store float away. I hate that job with a passion. Every day I deal with old hags bitching about everything from the inferior service to how outrageous the prices are. At least once a day, I have a strip torn off me about something minuscule and petty. If I wasn't desperate for money to support myself and keep myself from moving in with my meddling hag of an older sister and her fat husband and whiny kids, I'd tell the store manager to take the job and stuff it in his lard-ass.

It is a warm, sunny August morning. I complete my relaxing ritual by stripping off my clothes and let the sun bathe my body. It is so liberating to lie here and to become one with nature. I don't notice a presence until I hear a long whistle. I open my eyes and see a man standing over me.

"Fuck, lass, you look good enough to eat."

I jump up and glare at the stranger. "What in fuck do you think you're doing? How did you get up here?"

"How do ya think? I climbed up here. Do you have a problem with that?"

My skin burns underneath his leering stare, anger churning in my gut. "Yes, I do have a problem with that! This is my private spot, and I'd really appreciate if you get the fuck off it."

"Well, I don't see your name on anywhere on this cliff, so unless you are prepared to show me a deed or do me another favour, I have a right to be here."

I shiver as his eyes roam my body, his tongue flicking about suggestively as he stares at my sex. I reach for my shirt and shorts, but the jackass swipes them from the ground, pressing them to his nose before dangling them over the edge.

"Mmm, I love the smell of sweet pussy. Come over a give me a blow job, sweet lass, and I'll give you your clothes back."

The rage was being to boil in my gut and I felt it rise to my brain, I stomped up to him and stared him down.

"Fine, you cocksucker, have it your way! Keep my clothes and do with them what you will, but heed my warning. If I catch you up here again, I'll drive your sorry ass over this cliff."

It takes many deep breaths, but by the time I get to the bottom, I am once again calm, still wishing the intrusive fucker might trip and fall to the rocks below.

Now, how fast can I drive my lemon home before I'm arrested for indecent exposure?

### Two

I'm normally a laidback person and not prone to sudden bursts of rage, but when that jerk invaded my space and acted lewd with me, it was hell open for sinners. I have to push that out of mind, though, because my best friend's cousin is in town, and she insisted that I meet the two of them for drinks. I've never met her cousin Brett before because he lives overseas, and this is his first trip to Newfoundland.

As usual, the only dance club in Isle de Mort is packed tight with eager bodies itching for some fun. I scan the crowd for Lacey and find her at the bar. I fight my way through the crowd to her.

"Hey Lacey, I'm here."

"Hi Marina. Glad you made it. Just let me get these drinks and I introduce you to Brett."

I order a white wine from the bartender and follow my friend to the table located in the VIP section. Lacey's father owns ICE, so we always have prime seats when we come here. When we arrive, Brett isn't there. "Now where in the name of Christ did he fuck off to?"

"Do you see him?"

"Wait a sec. Oh, yep. There he is on the dance floor. Boy, that was quick."

I try to see which of the three dozen or so guys she could be referring to, but since I don't know what he looks like, I have to wait until he graces us with his presence. When the song is over, a man saunters over to us. When I see him, I nearly die from shock. It's the jerk-off from my spot! I am about to punch the guy's lights out, but when Lacey hugs him, I stop.

"Marina, this is my cousin Brett. Brett, this is Marina, the girl I told you about."

Brett smirks at me as he holds out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Marina. Lacey has told me so much about you."

I resist the urge to slap his hand away. "Nice to meet you, Brett."

I should have known that Lacey had intended to make this casual evening an excuse to use her matchmaking skills.

When my favourite slow song comes on, Brett holds out his hand to me. "Care to dance?" I want to refuse, but Lacey is looking at us with such hope that I don't have the heart.

"Sure."

He grasps my hand and we navigate through the labyrinth of clubgoers to the dance floor. I shudder as Brett circles his arms around me and pulls me close, whispering in my ear. "I'm having fun getting to know you with clothes on, but I would looove to see you naked again." Brett's piercing blue eyes travel up and down my body, undressing me. My stomach churns.

"Don't count on that, pervert."

"Oh I will count on that. "

My blood boils. I try to pull away from him and give him a clout but he he held me tighter. "Calm down, Marina. Don't cause a scene, especially with Lacey watching. She has her hopes held high that we hit it off. I want that too."

"You do a piss poor job of showing that, jerk off. Why are you so rude?"

Brett's expression softens. "I'm sorry, Marina. I just can't get this morning out of my mind. You caught me off guard. It's not every day a man goes rock climbing and finds a gorgeous naked woman lying in front of him."

"Okay, you have a point, but that didn't give you the right to harass me."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I honestly thought I was hallucinating or had sun-stroke or something. How can I make it up to you?"

"I don't see how you can."

The song has ended, but Brett pulls me close for the next one. Chad, the DJ never plays two love ballads in a row. I wonder if Lacey has bribed her brother so Brett and I could stay out on the dance floor longer.

"Look, I love Lacey, and I know you do too. She's been determined for us to hook up for months now. You're all she talked about in our emails and texts. Lacey spent the last six months singing your praises and begging me to come here to meet you."

"Lacey's been doing the same with me. She has been painting a very favorable picture of you. I was actually looking forward to meeting you, until you ruined it all. I'm surprised she never showed us a picture of each other."

"Would've it made a difference in your opinion of me?"

"No. It doesn't matter what you look like, you're still an jackass."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Don't see how, unless you do something spectacular and earn my forgiveness."

"You'll have to be fair and let me try to make up for my lewd behaviour."

"That depends. What's your plan?"

"Let's give Lacey her wish and go out on one date. By the end of the evening, if you discover that you want nothing more to do with me, we can tell Lacey that it didn't work out. Whadda say?"

I don't know what to say. I want to do this for Lacey, especially when she's always doing things for me. I could endure one evening. "Yes, I'll go on one date with you."

"Brilliant! Where do you want to go?"

The slow beat of the ballad fades into the background, replaced by a pulsating dance beat, making it near impossible to hear what Brett was saying. I drag him outside. I take a long draw of my cigarette and blow rings into the night air. "I think our one date need not be a big event. I think simple and casual is best. "

"What do you do here for fun, besides this club?"

"We make our own fun. Sometimes we drive two towns over and go out to dinner and a movie."

"That sounds good. How about that, then? Dinner and a movie." Brett swipes the butt of my cigarette and inhales the last draw.

"Hey! If you're going to make it up to me, stealing my smoke isn't the way to do it."

"You expected me to ask?"

"It would've been nice."

"Fine," Brett comments as he bows before me. "Your Majesty, please forgive this humble jackass for his impertinence. May I bum a fag?"

### Three

Brett studies the selections of movies, taking his time. I stand back and watch him, amused. He looks as though he's choosing the best investment for his future, rather than what to watch. "Hurry up and pick one. There isn't that many to choose from. It ain't the theatre in St. John's, b'y."

"Relax, chick. Come here and tell me which one you want to see."

I bound up to the board and scan the selections.

_The Underlighters._ Rated R.

_Let There Be Blood._ Rated R

_Phantom Big Foot Strikes Again._ Rated G

_Swan Song._ Rated PG

"The second one."

" _Let There Be Blood?_ Are you sure? I read that movie is a certified blood fest, not exactly suited for chicks. Wouldn't you like to see Swan Song instead?"

"Pffft! No freaking way, Brett! _Swan Song_ is a chick flick. It's for pussies and lame romantics. I like blood and gore. So, come on, it starts in fifteen minutes, and I want nachos!" I grab his arm and drag him to the refreshment counter.

"I thought you liked that mushy stuff."

I peer at him over my Big Gulp. "Seriously? I know we just met and all, but after our first encounter, I thought you would've gotten a dose of what I'm like."

"That's just sad. So, very, very sad."

"Oh shut up, jackass!"

Brett chuckles as he brushes off the popcorn I throw at him, and we settle in for our date.

I started out on this date expecting a bad time and looking forward to never seeing Brett O'Ryan again. Instead, by the end of the date, I've had such a good time that I want to go out with him again.

"I had fun, Brett, thank you."

"No, thank you. I don't remember laughing so hard. My sides hurt."

"Would you like to go out again?"

"Yeah, I would. Very much so. When?"

"I have to work tomorrow night. How about a Sunday date? I'd like to show you some of the sights of our little town. "

"Sunday is good. I look forward to exploring this place. Lacey's been meaning to, but she's been unable to take time off from work."

"I'll pick you up around 10 AM, then. I'll take a picnic lunch."

"See you on Sunday, then. Good night, Marina."

I open my mouth to wish Brett goodnight, but he steals my words with a deep kiss.

### Four

That kiss is still fresh in my mind as I show Brett the few but really amazing sites of Isle de Morte. We spend the day walking and sight-seeing. With each new site, I tell him the history and spice it with personal recollections. There are the walking trails behind our town hall that once were train tracks where Newfoundland's only train, The Newfie Bullet, would pass through on its way to St. John's. It was also where my friends and I would sneak away to drink beer and smoke weed. Our town has a small lush park in the centre of town that has a waterfall. Brett stares meaningfully at the waterfall as he holds my hand.

"I love waterfalls. I find them so majestic and mysterious. This is a beautiful one. Does it have a name?"

"It doesn't have an official name, but the older residents nicknamed it Water of the Dead."

"That's a peculiar name for a waterfall. Why do they call it that?"

"As the legend goes, in 1864, the wife of the town's mayor was secretly meeting her lover behind the falls. They got into an argument over her unwillingness to leave her husband, and the lover pushed her, sending her over the falls to her death."

"Was the lover ever charged?"

"No. It was said that he was so distraught over killing the love of his life that he jumped to his death. Their bodies were found side by side washed up on the shore. The waterfall was forever tainted by the tragedy. However, the couple were not the only ones who died here. Over the years, a total of one hundred people died at or near this site."

"So that's how this town got its name?"

"Yes. Isle de Morte, Island of the dead. Named for all those people who died here. Fearing that this town was cursed, residents abandoned this place for a century, until another group of settlers rediscovered it and formed a new town."

"But they didn't change the name?"

"No, because it was the reason why the settlers came here in the first place. The legend of Isle de Morte spread, and a small band of people from Western Canada travelled here in search of this infamous land, wanting to claim it for their own."

"In other words, they had a morbid fascination with the place. Am I to assume you are a descendant of these death worshippers?"

"You can say that. Though 'death worshippers' isn't what I call my ancestors. They just suffered from morbid curiosity."

"Is there anywhere else you want to show me? Because this has taken a very depressing and creepy turn. Besides, I want to kiss you, and I don't want to do it here."

"Okay, you big baby, come on. Let's go to my favourite spot."

"Why would you take me there? The last time I was there, you practically threw me off the cliff."

"That's because you invaded my private sanctuary. Plus you practically raped me," I teased.

"Hey, I didn't practically rape you! I merely was admiring the vision before me. I would've never forced myself on you. When we finally fuck, it'll be because we can no longer control our primal desires."

"Who says we're going to fuck? I'd never allow a person who is so lewd and rude to fuck me." His eyes sparkle as he smiles at me, pulls me close, and caresses my face. Brett's lips are mere inches from mine, and I feel my heart race and my blood grow hot with anticipation. Suddenly, the idea of Brett fucking me is making me wet between the legs.

"I find that hard to believe."

"W-why?"

"If that were the case, then you must not have finger-fucked that sweet pussy of yours."

It takes several seconds for his comment to register before I push him away and storm off, with Brett chasing after me. I found myself at the opening of the forbidden cave.

"Marina, there you are. Why did you run away?" I feel Brett's heavy panting on my neck as I stare into the cave's depths.

"Why do you say those things, Brett? Why do you sabotage a perfect moment by saying something offensive and stupid?"

His obsidian gaze fills with regret as he runs his hands through his lush auburn hair in frustration.

"Honestly Marina, I don't know. There's something wrong with me. It's like I lack the filter that catches all the rude and stupid things that go through my mind." Brett slaps his forehead in frustration. "I enjoy being with you, and I feel this spark of something deep between us. But when I find myself becoming close to you, wanting more than a one-night-stand with you, I...I get scared and all the wrong things fall out of my mouth."

"Brett, I feel the same spark, and I want more with you too. I enjoy our exchanges, and can be as raunchy as any man, but I do have a line and I need you to respect that."

Brett's broad shoulders slump as he rips off his shirt and begins to pace, muttering to himself. I have no words for how strange it all is. He paces for several moments before he suddenly runs and dives into the ocean. I rush to the edge to see if Brett is okay, only to discover that he's no longer there.

"Brett! Brett! Where are you?"

Panicked, I rip off my shoes and jump into the sea after him. Though the water is warm and calm, he could easily get caught in a riptide and get tangled up in the rocks. I swim, desperately searching for him. I dive under the water and found no sign. I look up on the shore to see if he slipped past me, but again, there is nothing.

Finally, I see him emerging from the waves and climbing to the mouth of the forbidden cave. Relief washes over me as I watch, temporarily transfixed. The sun bathes his golden skin, enhancing the amber hue of his hair, making it look like a halo. Water drips from his chiseled physique, making his body art glisten. I haven't noticed that half of Brett's skin is decorated with a stunning tattoo of what appears to be angels on a cloud. But I have never seen him with his shirt off.

Brett is beautiful. I swam up to him and wrapped my arms around him, raining soft kisses along his jawline to his shoulder.

Brett relaxes under my touch and melts into me.

"Brett, are you okay? You scared me."

"I'm okay now that you're here."

"Please tell me what happened. I've never seen you so distraught. It worries me to see you berate yourself like that. You could've drowned, and Lacey would've been devastated, and..."

"Would you have been hurt by my death? Cause you are the only one that matters." Brett holds my head in his hands and stares, daring me. I am frozen. A swell of emotions washes over me, drowning me. How would I feel? I remember the panic that threatened to swallow me whole when I thought he did drown. I remember how lost I felt until I found him.

"Yes. Despite the fact that you're annoying, rude, crude and the most strangely wonderful man I've ever met."

"Jesus, Marina, please don't hold anything back. Do be honest, luv."

"There is no other way for me to be, ol' cock."

"Did anyone ever tell you that I adore how you talk?"

"That all you love about me?"

"No. I love everything about you. I love you, period."

This should throw me completely off guard, but somehow, it doesn't. "I love you, too." I crush Brett's lips to mine and we melt into each other.

### Five

The memory of our first time still produces arousing shivers throughout me whenever I think about it. Brett's hands on my skin, his kisses setting me on fire and the joy of hearing him call my name in ecstasy. Since that first time, we can't keep our hands off each other. We make love every night, all night. Each time is more exciting than the last. Sometimes we make gentle love, others, we fuck wildly.

To much of Lacey's delight, Brett and I are becoming serious, but we know that very soon he'll have to break my heart when he has to return home.

"I don't want you to go! You can move here and work. I'm sure with Lacey's influence she could get you a teaching job at her fiance's school." I cling helplessly to him, burying my face in his chest. Brett hugs me close, crushing my naked body into his.

"I have to go, luv. My students need me. They're special needs kids and don't like change. Why don't you come with me? You could move in with me in my flat and I could find you a job in the school. The librarian retired last year, and they're still looking for someone."

"I don't know. I've lived here all my life; it would be hard."

"Yes, it would be hard, but you'll adjust and make new friends. You said yourself you have nothing keeping you here. You hate your job, and you put up with shit from your bitch of a sister and her husband, who only come around when they want something."

"What about Lacey?"

"You and Lacey can still stay in contact and see each other as often as you can. Come on, luv. I'd be a mess without you. It will kill me to leave you behind."

"I know, it'll kill me too. But you're a certified hottie with women falling at your feet. You'll replace me in no time." I am teasing, using some humour to take the sting off the painful moment. Brett doesn't like what I say and seizes my arms, then sets me astride him.

"Don't ever say that to me again! I'll never replace you, because no one can. I love you, Marina, and someday we'll be together forever. We belong to each other."

### Six

Brett and I make a happy, fulfilling life in Dorset and I grown to love the sleepy hamlet. Our marriage is solid, and we still crave each other every moment of the day and night. It's hard to keep our lust under control, keeping it for the bedroom, but there have been times Brett and I have been known to sneak a quickie in secret hideaway places. Our love and lust is strong. I am loved here. But one of my best friends and greatest supports is Lena.

Lena Bancroft has been Brett's teaching assistant this year, and because of her skill and devotion to my husband and students, she has proved to be a very valuable asset for him. Lena is also very pretty and bubbly. I adore her, and she and I have become very good friends. Sure, she flirts with my husband and always seems eager to please him. Doing everything he asked her to, without question. Lena doesn't even seem to mind the long hours they both have to work at the school. She's so supportive, kind and cooperative.

I come home early one afternoon to the sound of soft moaning and deep groaning coming from upstairs. The noise is louder and more insistent the closer I get to it. It sounds like someone in pain, and it is coming from our bedroom.

I think that Brett is hurt, so I rush into the bedroom and see Lena on her hands and knees, screaming as my husband fucks her ass. The scene steals my breath. I don't yell or scream. I turned to stone. A plan starts to form in my mind as I watch my husband screw his assistant. I close the door behind me, and in a trance, walk downstairs.

### Seven

We're on the way back to Newfoundland for our annual summer trip. Brett is anxious to get off the plane and onto solid ground. He hates to fly, and is tense from the moment we take off to the moment we land. Once we arrive at Lacey's, I set things in motion. Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary and everything is ready.

"Where are you taking me, luv?"

"Keep that blindfold on, we soon be there," I reassure my husband as I guide him to the spot where we made love for the first time. "Okay, you can look now."

Brett slips the blindfold off and is greeted with candles, a blanket, and a basket filled with goodies.

"What's this?"

"I figure it would be nice to celebrate our anniversary at the spot where we made love for the first time. You like it?"

Brett responds by lifting me into his arms and fiercely kissing me. "Babe, you're the best! I love you."

"And I love you."

It is a romantic evening, filled with good food and fine wine. We kiss and hold each other and watch the sunset. Brett and I laugh as we remember our unique first meeting. "I never would've guessed that the naked goddess that lay before me and later threatened to kill me for invading her spot would become the love of my life. "

"That's what I love about life. You never know what strange package a miracle is going to come in."

"Indeed."

His kiss is passionate and needy. Soon, we are exposed under the moonlight and I am enjoying his gentle thrusts. When I position myself on my hands and knees, the memories of Brett's cock deep inside Lena's tiny hole secure my hatred. I turn, locking eyes with my husband, and take a deep breath.

Brett's screams echo in my ears as he falls to the ground with a thud. I stare at my husband, now etched forever in stone, and smile. I dress and carry Brett into the forbidden cave to join the other husbands.

### Tomb Beasts Need Love Too

### Michelle Browne

Moxy grinned at Lixbeth. "Are you excited?"

"Not as excited as you are, from the looks of it!" Lixbeth leaned over to peck her on the cheek.

"I'm just looking forward to getting off the ship," said Moxy. She ran a hand through her thick natural curls and sighed.

"Or maybe just getting off?" said Lixbeth, reaching into her lap.

Moxy couldn't restrain a laugh. "Nah, we've done that plenty on the ship. We can get off anywhere. I do mean _anywhere_." She winked.

"So, this planetoid," said Lixbeth, stroking Moxy's thigh, "does it have a breathable atmosphere?"

"Yes, actually! A bit higher on methane, so make sure you dial up the micronanules, but we'll be fine without suits."

"Good. Fresh air would be great."

"Mmmm." Lixbeth's fingers strayed up to Moxy's hip and skimmed over her underwear. "Looking forward to an adventure?"

"Returning to this place has been on my bucket list for years. I mean, even getting archeological clearance is _amazing_ , but on our honeymoon?"

"Well, you know. Anything for a buck, in these small-ass systems." Lixbeth moved a strand of red hair out of the way so she could bat her eyes at Moxy. "Well, _ass_ being the operative word." She reached behind to squeeze Moxy's firm cheeks. Moxy swatted her away.

"Go on, drive, woman! I'm gonna have another quick skim through the brochure."

Leaving her new wife to puzzle out directions, Moxy curled up with the external file display in the corner. Clearing the rather naughty files from last night's reading out of the way, she pulled up the brochure again. Skimming over the 'natural wonders' of the waterfalls and 'sweeping panoramas' of the rocky, low mountain ranges, she read over the info on 'ancient wonders' once again. It was a Goldilocks zoner, but a bit too small for current habitation, according to the locals; besides, the 'sacred ruins' were plenty of excitement as it was.

"I can't believe it's been twenty years," breathed Moxy.

"Makeda! Makeda! You have to come here!"

"What? Oh!"

The moss-green planet rose on their screens, forbidding and dignified. Makeda couldn't help remembering the last time she'd seen it...

Moxy brushed the sweat from her forehead and adjusted her clothes. Granted, this was a slightly unregulated mission, but it was so going to be worth it. The payoff alone would put her through at least half of her degree if she found anything worthwhile.

Licking her lips, she shuddered. Only half-time at the pleasure house would be such a relief. She parted the soft grasses, feeling them brush gently against her thighs. With a frown, she considered her shorts—perhaps a bit too tight and, well, short, for the expedition, but the previous day had shown her how unnecessary and frustrating a suit was.

The sun was out, a distant red star, but the warm atmosphere trapped its heat well. She panted as the metabolizers adjusted for the lowered oxygen and regulated her aspiration accordingly. The mud squelched underfoot as she trekked through the undergrowth.

The mist was high and heavy, and her skin was damp with dew and sweat. Her loose shirt clung to her skin, and the nanonylon bra wilted in the heat. Annoyed, she unbuttoned her shirt and fanned it over her breasts, trying to get air so the bra would firm up. It almost worked. Seizing her canteen, she uncapped it and poured cool water down her throat.

Wiping her moist lips, she kept walking, looking for the smoothest, driest fragments of a path.

Then she saw it: a post. It was old and weathered, but her heart hammered in her chest. She bent to examine it and took a few choice shots with her retinal cameras. Curving, soft inscriptions etched the sides of the round post, and a curious ribbed carving encircled its top. She ran her fingers over it; the top was bulbous, with a firm dividing line running down its sizes in a radially symmetric pattern. Stroking the smooth, mysterious stone, she rose from her crouch and peered through the mist. Just up ahead, only a few metres away, she could see another one.

"This is it," Moxy whispered to herself. She ran a hand over her close-cut hair. The springy curls were full of moisture, and she shook her hair out. "All this work is going to be worth it."

Delicately, she tiptoed along the path. The vines were thick, and kept brushing over her arms, her waist, her breasts, but she ignored the sensation. The ropy vines of the trees caught her and tangled around her as she moved; a thick, velvety chunk tangled around her neck. She gasped for a moment, unwinding it.

The posts and the vines went on a little ways. She followed them, stepping lightly and balancing on logs when the path broke or was too waterlogged. In a concentration haze, she tripped over the stone walkway's beginning.

Scrambling to her feet, she peered up. A stone temple unfolded before her, its angles unforgiving and seemingly impossible. The curves and corners looked wrong, somehow. She tried not to stare at them.

The door and path ahead were smooth enough. As she mounted the stone steps, her strong legs carrying her up the steep route, her heart pounded.

The darkness ahead, through the door, was absolute. She retrieved her flashlight, and with a deep breath, flicked it on. Biting her lip, she had a look around.

The carvings outside were heavily weathered, but in here, they were pristine. Elaborate swirling designs, bizarre engravings—she knew the language, but this was an unfamiliar dialect of Low Uthranzi. She came closer to examine a few of the hieroglyphics.

_Is that...? Oh my._ She stepped back. Entwined people of every gender and several different species tangled together. Curving designs, a reference to the mysterious Old God of the long-dead Uthranzi, twirled around the couples and wrapped around their limbs and torsos. She fanned herself. The tomb was cool, but not cool enough. Perhaps it was just the lingering humidity getting to her—her clothes were still wet and clingy after the hike. She lifted her scanner and started to take as many pictures as she could. This would be a hell of a find, but it was worthless without proof.

Time passed oddly. As she went deeper in, the carvings became more and more bizarre, the bits of language she could glean from the captions scrolling down the wall beside them, more disjointed. A few of them contained boasts that made her raise her eyebrows, but others seemed...well. Unsettling wasn't the half of it.

At some point, she blundered into a dead end of one of the twisting hallways. It wasn't supposed to be there, by normal Uthranzi standards, and she tripped as she went down the steps. Her flashlight pattered away. She moved forward slowly, feeling around for its end, and her hand slid over a panel on the floor.

The corner lit up. A magnificent shrine to one of the Nameless glowed around her, phosphorescent stones gleaming with the carvings. It was perfect. Gaping, she took as many pictures as she could, before moving forward to the real treat.

In the centre was a small altar of gleaming black stone, flecked with green and gold. On the altar was the real treasure, the thing that had made this slog worth every moment.

Moxy's breath caught in her throat. The swirl-emblazoned stone rod of alabaster had a bronze-gold handle, and the detail of the carving on it was truly phenomenal. She had rarely seen anything this well-preserved, and it was a testament to the Uthranzi's skill. Her hands trembling, she shoved the scanner in her pocket and reached forward.

As she wrapped her hands around the long, cool ceremonial wand, she felt a shock to her core. Her vision swam as she cradled it. Lifting it from its curved holder on the altar, she saw the glowing wall decorations flicker.

_Oh no._ A thin green mist slowly fell from the roof. Concealed openings—a classic trap. It was probably just a sedation gas to prepare her or another unwitting sacrifice, but if the priests were long gone, the gas could be deadly. Time to leg it.

She stuffed the wand in the easiest place that presented itself—between her boobs—and hoped the cushioning would be enough. It wasn't the best for archaeological preservation, but between that and knockout gas, a bit of wear and tear wouldn't kill her.

Somehow, the route back was much shorter than the route in. She went hell for leather towards the opening and bolted down the steps. Her heart quickened as though she was being chased. Panicked, elated, and sweating, she ran back so quickly that she didn't realise her scanner had fallen out of her pocket.

"Is it the one?" asked Lixbeth, shaking Moxy's shoulder.

Moxy startled. "Oh, gods...yes. It is. This...this is the place." Her voice trembled with excitement.

Lixbeth kissed her cheek, blushing in excitement. "Well, this is a big day. Come on!"

The ship door opened. Fortified with micronanule filters in their lungs, shorts and gear prepared, they set forth.

Lixbeth immediately got herself and her long scarlet hair tangled in the vines. Moxy laughed and extracted her, but not without making her lose a button or two from the top of her blouse when her hair tangled around it.

"Oh, man, I hate my curls," complained Lixbeth. "Humidity and—floof!"

"Lixbeth's hair: Destroyer of Worlds," quoted Moxy. She pecked her on the cheek. "Why do you think I went short with mine?"

"Ugh. Ooof!" Lixbeth careened into one of the stone posts and managed to wrap her thighs around it.

"Well, we're on the right track. But watch out for those!"

"Don't have to tell me twice."

Moxy pulled out the ceremonial wand. "Time to put this back where it belongs." She sighed happily. "I'm glad I got to borrow it, but with all the casts and scanning, there's nothing more I need from it."

Lixbeth squeezed her waist. "And then you can sleep easy."

Moxy blushed. "Yeah. As much as you let me sleep, woman!"

Perhaps it was because the season was cooler, or perhaps it was Lixbeth's delightful company, but getting there seemed to take no time at all. Moxy flapped her shirt to get some airflow and groaned, stretching a leg.

"Hey, wait—look!"

She straightened to look at Lixbeth's pointing finger and gasped.

"Oh my gods," she muttered. "Okay. Keep your eyes down. We're here. Don't stare at the architecture too much."

Lixbeth nodded, biting her lip. Moxy tried to ignore those juicy lips and led her forward. She could feel her wife's heartbeat in her fingertips. As her own blood pounded, she pulled Lixbeth up the steps. "Be careful," she said, "and be prepared for the sight of a lifetime!"

They ducked through the doorway, lights on to the highest setting, and gasped. It was bigger than Moxy remembered, but the curving corridors and untouched, majestic carvings were just the same.

Lixbeth peered at the walls, fascinated. "Urai m'heth a'badah...va...what language is this?"

"Low Uthranzi, a rare dialect, but you're doing well."

"Oh, my...look at these carvings!"

Moxy giggled. "Speaking as an archeologist, they're interesting. Speaking as a real person, hot damn, right? But come on."

Lixbeth followed happily, crying out in wonder as she discovered new carvings. Her sense of wonder was one of Moxy's favorite things about her wife. Her heart pounded as they walked down the almost-familiar paths. The twists and turns were just as unpredictable, but they got to the chamber very quickly.

Moxy knelt, feeling around for the sweet spot, and the chamber lit up.

"It's beautiful," crooned Lixbeth. She reluctantly handed Moxy the box she'd been carrying in her backpack. "I guess you'll be needing this."

"I guess so." Moxy sighed and lifted it out. "Little friend, you've been priceless, but it's time to put you back where you belong."

She stepped forward, Lixbeth following behind and examining the carvings. As Moxy set down the wand gently in its holder, she turned to hear Lixbeth quietly reading the inscription aloud again.

"Urai...m'heth...b'dan...ni..."

With a hideous grinding, the floor beneath them quaked to the beat of her words.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know! Let's—aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!"

The floor moved from beneath them and they fell into the darkness.

Moxy hit the liquid below with a splash. Spluttering, she discovered she was floating in warm, salty water. "Lixbeth? Lixbeth!" she sputtered.

"I'm here!" her wife gasped, paddling. "Are you okay?"

They paddled towards each other through the warm water. The opening above them was dark, but she could see one of their flashlights at the corner. They were pretty far down, at least a couple of stories—which explained her stinging skin from the landing. At least the water was deep.

"How are we getting back up?"

"I know this...wait...there should be some kind of a ladder...this is probably..." Moxy gasped. "Oh no. This is a Love Tomb."

"A Love Tomb?"

"I can't believe I didn't realise it. They're very, very rare, but the Uthranzi would build them over small lakes. People would visit them before they died or to celebrate new marriages. There's been a lot of debate over the idea, actually, and some records—"

"Now is not the time for a thesis defense! We have to find the ladder out—or something! Is there an edge?"

"There should be. Just in case priests got knocked in—"

There was a _splash_ somewhere in the cave. The women, paddling, looked at each other.

"That wasn't me," said Lixbeth.

"I don't think we're alone here," said Moxy quietly. They were silent, their hearts pounding. Then, all at once, phosphorescent lights glowed in the roof of the cave.

They heard a low, unhurried _swish_ through the water.

"Moxy..."

"Lix?"

Lix screamed. "There's something around my leg!"

Moxy paddled over, wrapping her arms around Lixbeth and trying to pull her away. She bent down to feel the thing—it was thick and rubbery, suckers on its underside clamped around Lixbeth's ankle.

The thing let go and slithered back. Then, slowly, it rose from the water.

Moxy had a vague impression of something slick and dark. Light gleamed on its earthy-coloured, rubbery skin. Enormous wings blocked out the arcane phosphorescence on the ceiling as it stretched them. A long, low note like a horn rumbled through the cave.

"AW HELL NO!" screamed Lixbeth.

"Your knife!" screamed Moxy. She fumbled for her pouch, pulling out the carbon-steel blade as she bobbed.

Lixbeth coughed and disappeared for a moment.

"Lixbeth!"

"I'm okay!" The grey blade glinted in the dim, eerie light.

The beast turned towards them again, its low, sonorous note ringing through the cavern again. Its tentacles stretched forward, and an impossibly elephantine bulk loomed against the light.

Both women screamed as the tentacles wrapped around their ankles and dragged them out of the water. They dangled upside-down near the roof of the cavern.

The beast shook them a little, but they held onto their knives.

"Moxy, if this is the end...I love you."

"Oh hell no, it's not the end. We're not done our honeymoon yet!" Moxy bent at the waist and went for the beast's tentacle with her knife. It trumpeted again, and she stabbed. Thick, dark blood oozed out.

"Let us go!" she howled. The beast shook her, but she clamped onto its tentacle with every other limb. Lixbeth screamed, dangling from another tentacle.

"I'm slipping!"

"Hold on! Or—" Moxy realised they were near the roof. "See if you can hold onto the roof!"

"That's insane!"

"Reach up! I can see the emergency stairs! They metal's coated in enamel—it's been a long time, but it should hold your weight!"

"I suck at playing on the monkeybars, you know!"

"I know, but it's our only chance!"

The beast thrashed, and Moxy cut at the tentacle again. It jerked her upwards, and Lixbeth as well. It all felt like slow motion. She dropped her knife and heard it splash below as the bars hanging from the roof came closer. Taking a deep breath, she swung up and clamped around the bars with both arms, then hauled her legs up over them. "Lix?"

"Ahhhhhh!" screamed Lixbeth. The tentacle dangled her close to Moxy as the beast roared.

"Grab my hand!"

"I...I can't!"

"Lixbeth!" Moxy bent and seized her wrists. Her legs were taking both of their weight.

Lixbeth panted and started to flail. "Oh, gods," she whimpered.

Moxy's arms were screaming in pain, but she gritted her teeth. "GNnrrhghhhh....okay. Can you..."

Agonizingly, Lixbeth inched her hands up Moxy's arms until she was gripping them above the elbows.

"I think...my arms...can you go faster? It feels like...they might...dislocate...oh gods..."

Lixbeth let go. There was a heart-stoppping moment as she flailed for the bar and missed it. Then, with a deep breath, she reached again and caught it with one hand. As she let go of Moxy's arm, Moxy screamed.

"Oh gods!" Her arm pulsed with pain.

"Come on. If it's broken, the nanos will handle it. We have to get out of here!" Lixbeth inched forward on the ladder, swinging her arms and legs forward clumsily. They heard the beast trumpet again and splash, but it seemed to decide that they weren't worth the trouble.

It seemed like forever until Moxy saw Lixbeth bending at the waist, curving herself from the end of the ladder to cling to the edge.

"Ow, my legs!"

"One at a time," Moxy urged her. "You can do it!"

Agonizingly, she moved her legs and did a slow and painful chin-up to get into the tomb chamber. Moxy followed warily behind on the ladder, then reached for Lixbeth. Her wife's hands clamped around her arms, and she helped her scramble up through the hole.

They kneeled, embracing each other, and kissed. Moxy laughed hysterically for a moment. Lixbeth wrapped her arms around her shoulders, steadying her.

"Shhhhh, shhhh."

"Oh, man. What a ride." She wiped her forehead off and got to her feet, stumbling. "I thought we were goners."

"Well, not yet!" said Lixbeth, smiling crazily. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"At least the rest of our honeymoon can't possibly be as exciting as this."

"I don't know...I was hoping to see the rapids of Ulan-Prime..."

"Can't. Possibly. Be. Now shut up and kiss me."

### Eternal Lie

### Katie de Long

She had tentacles in all the right places, and wings that wouldn't quit. They were flapping, and in their breeze, her finger waves trembled. So did she, like a leaf, tumbling in an autumn breeze. She had big Helen Kane eyes, ringed dark with makeup, streaked by a rain I suspected was her own making.

My first instinct was to put my coat around her and hold her; following instincts like that one'll get you killed.

"Ma'am," I acknowledged without moving from behind my desk, but her mouth was buttoned tight. She wore a red dress, and shoes that gave her just the right wiggle for it. "What can I do for you?"

"My husband's missing," she said, and I knew from the purse of her lipstick-smeared tentacles it wasn't the end of it. I stood up, and helped her wriggle into a chair opposite mine.

"Your husband's the narcolept," I said. I knew the both of them, by way of reputation. "I'll need the whole tale."

"He's been missing some time, aeons, by a wife's count. He went out with the boys; some came back, others didn't. _He_ didn't. They told me he took a shellacking, and wouldn't wake. Doctors said he dreamed, but couldn't be moved. The boys said I couldn't get to him without bringing hoods who'd try to finish the job."

"And you believed them?"

"Do you believe anybody?" she asked, and it was playful, but I couldn't tell if we were sparring, or if I was a stuffed mouse on the end of a string. Tense tentacles formed lips that unfurled in a smile. "It didn't matter what I believed. It was a punch. I rolled."

"Meaning?"

"Before his disappearance, I helped him with the business- there'd never been a secret in that. With him gone, I just helped a little more."

"So what's changed?"

"His old partners got antsy. They want proof of life—or they want to carve up what was his."

"And what'd you tell them?"

"I told them he sleeps with the fishes."

"And they aren't buying?"

"It isn't a sale. It's how it is. He's gone, and I'm left holding his bag—and not the one that came with the chain." She showed me a ring that was the swankest handcuff I've ever seen on a thin, delicate little finger.

"His boys?"

"Loyal to a fault. They think his partners want a bead on him, to..." She eyed me, because she couldn't bring herself to say it.

"And what do you think?"

"I think my husband's been dead a long time, and the boys are afraid of what I'd do to them for failing to bring his carcass back." One of the stalks around her mouth entwined another and squeezed, as if it meant to strangle the life from it.

"Then how do I come in?"

"I think even if I gave them proof of death, proof of life, proof of anything- they'd twist it, turn me into the monster of their little shadow play. Either my husband's a traitor, who left them dry and deserves no spoils, or I'm his murderer. Either way they cut me out—and to be sure I don't come back on them, they make that part literal." Her eyes and jaw were nails, but she couldn't keep a quiver from her tentacles, and her mouth once again hid beneath the roiling mass.

"You still haven't told me what I can do." I wanted to help her; I'd punch my own mother to, and that's what told me I shouldn't.

"If you bring me back whatever's left of my husband on my terms, it makes it harder for them to muscle me out. It stops them stepping on my neck being worth their while."

"How'd you find out about all this?"

"Some of the boys told me."

"And some of them didn't," I said. No matter how you looked at it, her people were compromised. Maybe some got the offer and took it. Maybe the ones who told her took the offer, and wanted to get her away from the ones who didn't. There was no way to know where the knife was coming from before it was in her back. She came to me because she already knew she had to cut ties.

"You got a safe place?" I asked. She couldn't go home. Her boys would know it; probably provided her muscle when she slept.

"No. Though I'm open to suggestions."

"I've got a spot." I grabbed my hat and jacket, and led her to the curb.

It was raining, so I wrapped her in my coat. It also made her less noticeable- as much as it was possible to hide a girl like her. I hailed a brown cab, because the checkers were run through her husband's old crew, and there was a chance they were looking for her.

I opened the door for her and slid in after. She laid her head on my shoulder, to complete the illusion that we were just a pair of sinners sneaking off to our love nest.

Her husband was more than just a heavy sleeper. Local hoods called him the dread, and the unlucky ones knew him as death. No hitter hit harder, even among the old guard.

She was clever enough not to beat her gums in mixed company, but from the tap of her digits on my thigh I knew she had something on her mind.

The cab stopped, and I fingered enough change from my pocket to make the driver happy without making him curious. The proprietor of the motel I knew from far back. I slipped him a bill and he slid me a key, looked her up from her stilts to her locks, then back to me and shook his head. He didn't know my business, and assumed the worst of my intentions. But that worked to my favor- it only made him more discreet—so I never contradicted him.

When we got inside, she ankled from wall to wall, and I lost myself in the way her dress clung as she moved. When she finally spoke up, her ferocity startled the quiet tension. "I'm steamed," she said. "Shoes reversed, you think they'd be hounding my husband after me?" She knew that answer better than I ever could. "The old guard would prefer we call them elders, but that implies respect."

"And that's got to be earned— _and_ shared. Gasper?" I offered one from my hope chest.

"I don't smoke." Which from the shape of her mouth seemed a waste.

"You should. They're good for your throat." I lit myself one.

"So's a stiff drink."

I poured her one from my flask in a motel glass. She ran her tentacles along its rim before putting it all down in a swallow.

"One of them told me, 'Even death dies,'" she said, and she shook, though I couldn't tell if rage or fear had a hand on her.

I touched her arm, and traced down its scaly contours to where it furcated into smaller feelers that were nearly fingers, and pressed her hand in mine. "You'll be safe, here." I pulled my coat from the chair I set it on.

"Do you have to go?" she asked.

"I can't find your husband from this room."

"I know. But you're not going to find him tonight."

"No. I won't."

"So stay." I hesitated, and she understood why an instant before I did. Her scaly feelers traced my neck. "Do you know how long it's been since a man cared for me, touched me without want or expectation?" She blew the words into my ear, like smoke, or kisses, and her lip tickled my lobe the way a baby stroked her mama's breast. "I don't. It's been long enough memory falters."

I lost myself in the slick caress of her tentacles, and the pull of small suction cups on my nape. Her lips stroked my face, and I breathed in her aroma, a little salty, a musk that reminded me of oceans, mixed with the spice and bite of her drink, and haunted by the ghostly remnants of perfume. My lips tingled as her bottom lip brushed them, followed by a tongue with a hide like a starfish, but softer.

I stroked her hair and felt her fingerwaves crackle under my touch, coming loose from their set patterns, to tumble across her ears like a crashing wave. She pulled me against her, and her arms formed around my shoulders in a way no human woman's could.

Her flesh coiled against me, presenting an eerily boneless sensation, reminding me of a dream from my childhood about floating. I wondered if I'd tumbled into fantasy, and would wake to an awkward bit of stiff and a righteously indignant dame.

But the crush of her cheek beneath my fingers was all too real. One of the limbs of her lip curled away from my mouth to wrap around my fingers.

Her wings stretched away from, and then into, my touch as I wrapped my arms around her. Their fragile bones and papery flesh brushed my forearms and caressed my hands. There was a gentility that spoke of her loneliness, and was mirrored in the way she arched her back to fit snugly into my arms.

She kissed her way down my throat, her tentacles probing and curling against me with a careful insistence, and loosened my tie. Her feelers failed to find purchase on my buttons, and she pried my shirt apart, sending the top buttons flying. I hurried to undo the others in her path.

Her disheveled hair brushed against my chin, and with the stiffness of her setting concoction still in it, reminded me more than a little of the appendages stroking lower and lower down my stomach.

She was more delicate with my pants, and leaned her forehead against my stomach as they fell and she caressed me with her lips. Her arms wrapped around my waist and thighs, tangling me in them, and lightly sealing our flesh together with little suckers. The beads on her dress rubbed against my knees as she pressed herself closer to me, a harsh contrast to the silky fabric they were mounted on.

I stroked her hair and watched her touch me, though it was little more than flashes of broom-handle between curling appendages. She tilted her face to me, though she couldn't keep eye contact for more than a second before her facade cracked. Her limpid eyes betrayed her vulnerability. I traced the edge of her earlobe along its undefined cartilage shell.

She slid me into her mouth, her tentacles splaying out along my midsection to allow me deeper into her. I moaned, feeling her tongue moving along me with much the same fluidity as the feelers stroking my hips and belly. They suctioned lightly to me to give her the leverage to pull me into her more forcefully. My fingers caught in her hair, and I found myself moving along with her rhythm, tugging lightly on her hair to make it my own.

One of her hands retreated from me and brushed against a row of clasps on the back of her dress that I had mistaken for ornaments. The garment hung loosely from her shoulders, and fell from them with a few twitches of her limbs, though her lips never released me. She curled her arms around me again, moving my hips more forcefully. For the first time, I realized how strong she was, how those limbs could have crushed me like a boa.

She disentangled herself from me, and stood, slipping out of her shoes. She was a vision, her skin warmed in the flickering artificial light, taking on an almost olive cast. I admired her breasts, just as tantalizing as they'd been while concealed by her dress. Beautiful dark nipples rested in areolas the same texture as the underside of her tentacles, lightly beaded from the cold, but still surprisingly soft to the touch.

I stroked her naked skin from her breast, along the curve of her stomach, to her hip, no longer surprised by the firm, almost amphibious feel of it beneath my fingers. She pressed herself against me, and through my unbuttoned shirt, I felt every muscle in her shift to embrace me. She was a soft canteen filled with a spaghetti that writhed in a wave that carried through to her tentacles.

I tugged out of my shirt to feel more of her, and while I was occupied, she slid onto her bed. I hurried to struggle out of my shoes to follow her.

I sat next to her, and she twined herself around me, pushing me onto my back. Her skin was cool, not quite clammy, against mine, and she wrapped around me tightly. Her shapely gams clung to me near as tightly as the articulate limbs twined around my neck. She pulled my face against hers and kissed me desperately, the suckers on the underside of her upper lip pulling my flesh near hard enough to bruise. Her tentacles spread to the sides to caress my jaw, my earlobes, my neck, as her tongue slid into my mouth.

She shifted her hips, and I gasped as I felt her guide me into her with a collection of quick muscle spasms through her pelvis. Though the sensation was akin to her lips on me, I was surprised by the differences: her smooth, almost rubbery flesh was surprisingly warm around me as she tensed her legs and thrust herself harder onto me. Her cozy had clearly defined ribs that pulled against me with each thrust, as though her body itself was begging me not to withdraw from her.

Her wings stretched, and trembled as she rode me, accompanied by little twitches in her lips. She stroked my ear with part of her lip, and slid the appendage into my mouth as she kissed me.

I pulled her against me, as best I could around her wings, and grazed where they joined her back. She moaned and bucked, sliding one tentacled limb underneath me to guide my hips. I realized she was nearly there and kissed her neck, suckling on it and mimicking her own articulate feelers. Her grip on me tightened, _every_ grip, and I shuddered on the same ride she was.

She called out his name, and we both fell limp to the bed. She dreamed, as deeply as anyone ever had in my arms, and repeated her husband's name, again, and again, in sad, seductive gasps. It didn't sit well in my guts, but I understood. Despite everything, she loved him. Poor girl.

I held her until the rain stopped, which was close to dawn, then made my way downtown.

I knew of a man who made his living as an intermediary between the old guard, out of a shop that ostensibly traded in antiquities—in both respects he was dealing with ancient artifacts. They called him the Pharaoh, though his actual handle was something with a "Tep" in it that almost no one knew. He was slender, and I'd heard people call him swarthy, though I don't know I could vouch for that.

He smiled at me, and took my hand like we were old friends. "A private dick," he said, and grinned wider still. He considered a moment. "What do you think of polarizing film?" he asked.

I gave him a shrug, because I never had.

"Dichroic transparent nitrocellulose polymer film embedded with microscopic crystals of iodoquinine sulfate, allowing the near-instant capture of a photographic image, no film, extra chemicals or darkrooms. I imagine it will revolutionize your field. But I'm sure you neither came to talk shop, nor chemistry. So how is it I might I accommodate you?"

"The narcolept," I said.

"You aren't the only one interested in finding him."

"Hermes was said to be cleverest of the gods; but he'd have to be, to be their go-between without getting snarled up in their machinations." He smiled. "I was hired by his wife. I believe she's the only one actually wants to see him alive, again—though she's convinced he took a long walk off a short pier."

"Her husband isn't the one who's all wet—you are." He thought another moment. "Though you might be right, about her intentions. And there's only one man I can think who might be of a position to assist you- the only torpedo who came back from their voyage. Castro. But he's a big six—a real bimbo." He held out his thin hands to grab more air than a man ought to occupy.

"You trust him?" I asked.

He laughed, and said, "He's a killer, and he hasn't killed me yet. I trust him as far as that."

He jotted down an address I recognized well enough. It was a distillery just past town. It belonged to the old guard, and they owned enough of the cops not to get hassled over it.

Cab wouldn't take me all the way, so I hitched the last mile. I found the place with ease, since it was the only thing lit in sight, and was seized by men just as quick.

They led me inside, in front of a man even wider than Pharaoh's stretched arms. "I'm looking for the sleeping dread," I said. Time was, any of his hoods would have gutted me for mentioning even that much, but their god had forsaken them a long time ago, so my blasphemy didn't rile them. Much.

Castro waved the rest off, and he waited until we were alone. "His missus send you?" he asked.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because her I could maybe muster sympathy for. One of them other guys..." His eyes got sharper, and cut me in that instant.

"Yeah. The wife. She's safe."

"Good. What will it take to keep her that way?" There was a softness to him, but I'd met the girl, so I understood it; I imagine I wasn't the first man to walk into a lion's den for her.

"You were there," I said. "What happened?"

"Ever heard of New Zealand? Our supply lines run through the island, but one link in the chain got a little... rusty. We oiled it. We headed back, on the boss's yacht. But we got attacked. Son of a bitch hit him with a boat."

"What?"

"Clove his head like a hoof, and he splashed down into the water, and turned the ocean as far as I could see red. I couldn't bring him back like that. Only, he didn't die. Doctor said he was just sleeping—like my momma told me with my dog, Rudy, only he didn't get cold to the touch, or mess in my bed." He sniffed, then spit on the ground to cover it. "But he called in a German, who used an electron-something, and said the boss was dreaming—that his brain wasn't dead.

"We left him, on this little island in the Pacific. I sent money, figured island girls could nurse him with coconut milk until the inevitable. I could think up worse ways to go. But then one day, he stopped dreaming. And next I know, he's talking at me from over the ocean. I made arrangements, got him back on the mainland, but once he made town he changed his mind."

"How's that?"

"I think something changed while he dreamed. Or maybe having time away from kicking men's heads in, and dodging lead did his nerve in, I couldn't figure for you. But he wanted to be done of the entire operation. Truth be told, I wondered if he were unhappy in his home, though how he could be with a pretty thing like that—but I don't got to tell you."

I didn't want to presume he knew much, and played my response close to my sleeves.

"I didn't like keeping it from her, but...until now, I did," he paused. "But I know the horrors coming for her—and they're bad as anything her husband ever done—and that she don't deserve."

"He's in town."

"Mug like his, you'd think he'd stand out like a broke thumb. But he's always had a... talent for hiding. In plain sight." He jotted down an address. I worried his boys might not take kindly to his letting me leave, but he was resigned to it.

The name of the place was "Really," but the sign was turned so you could only read it right passed out in the gutter. Some mook's idea of a joke. Castro said his old boss worked inside, and there was a hole in the basement he slept in, wet as often as not, from leaky pipes, though he never seemed to mind.

I saw the fella Castro swore was the husband, jerking suds. I cursed myself for taking a wooden nickel. But it was a long walk to any place to catch a cab, and I felt obliged to ruin someone else's night, even if he looked as normal as you or me.

"You walked out on your wife," I said.

"You got the wrong guy, pal."

"Then you wouldn't mind the thought of my mouth on her bubs. Or her gams wound round my ears."

"Go chase yourself."

"Why would I do that, when I spent the better of a day chasing you?" He tensed up, and that was when I saw the bulge of wings beneath his coat. "That a set of flappers, or you just thrilled to make my acquaintance?"

He tried to leg it, but he wasn't used to running, and when he put a clawed foot on the bar to leapfrog, I knocked it out from under him, and he landed on a face full of flagella. When he peeled his face off the bar, both were slicked with ichor.

"Carl Thulu?" I asked, for the first time attempting to read his name plaque.

"I told them that wasn't my name. It was Ellis Island all over again."

"I don't suppose you'd care to explain things?" He sighed, and the motion trembled through his tentacles. "You grow those at will?"

"Grow isn't... exactly it. They form, and unform."

"It hurt?"

"Have you ever been unformed?" he asked, with an edge of menace under his voice.

I smiled. He wasn't used to people smiling at him. "What?" he asked.

"You're in a rough spot. Your wife wants you found. Your partners don't. Neither do you. But... if I don't come back, your wife will know what that means—and she don't strike as the type to quit easy."

"Dammit," he said.

"But that don't mean getting found the way she wants."

"Hmm?" he asked.

"You don't want your old empire back, fine. I'm not here to play at being St. Valentine."

"Then what would you suggest?"

"Those tentacles seem to be of a stripe men wouldn't forget."

He figured me out, and said, "Screw."

"What's a fistful of tentacles for a girl you said you loved?" He glanced behind the counter, at a corkscrew. "We're gentleman talking over a soda fountain. It doesn't need to go further than that unless it does. Just because you're a jerk by trade, don't mean you got to be one in your private moments."

"Is she all right?" he asked, and it took all my kindness not to pop him in the chops for taking so long to worry over her.

"She's working on unforming your marriage. It hurts." It was the nicest thing I could think to say.

The next day I dropped five packages in the mail, a tentacle for each of the old guard, along with a time and place. When all five were standing in front of me, I handed them the rest of the tentacles in a box.

"You know who I work for. In a day I tracked down and either killed your boogey man, or I castrated the devil in his sleep. In either case, do you think you'll win anything pushing this further?"

The oldest among them dropped his tentacle on the floor. "Seems proof enough for me." He put on his hat and walked away. The rest followed suit.

I made my way to the motel.

His wife said she wanted the truth. But the truth was, she'd rather live in a world where her husband was alive and hadn't left her. So I told the kindest lie I could, and she chose to believe it.

believe it. believe believe it. believe it. Just another sin we shared.

### About the Authors

### Michelle Browne

Michelle Browne is a sci fi/urban fantasy writer from Calgary, AB. She has a cat and a partner-in-crime. Her days revolve around freelance editing, jewelry, phuquerie, and nightmares. She is currently working on the next books in her series, other people's manuscripts, and drinking as much tea as humanly possible.

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/scifimagpie

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/scifimagpie

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00BGWZRCW

Blog: http://www.scifimagpie.blogspot.ca

### Zig Zag Claybourne

Zig Zag Claybourne wishes he'd grown up with the powers of either Gary Mitchell or Charlie X but without the Kirk confrontations. The author of Neon Lights, Historical Inaccuracies, and By All Our Violent Guides (under C.E. Young), catch him online at www.writeonrighton.com or wandering bookstores.

His fiction and poetry on everything ranging from science fiction to comedy to soul-stirring drama have appeared in The Wayne Review, Flashshot, Reverie Journal, Stupendous Stories, and numerous online outlets.

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/zzclaybourne

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00IXWUU52

Blog: http://www.thingsididatworktoday.blogspot.com

### Katie de Long

Katie de Long lives in the Pacific Northwest, realizing her dream of being a crazy cat-lady. As a kid, Katie flagged the fade-to-blacks in every adult book she encountered, and when she began writing, she vowed to use cutaways sparingly. After all, that's when the good stuff happens. And on a kindle, no one asks why there's so many bookmarks in her library.

Twitter: http://twitter.com/delongkatie

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/katie.delong.12

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/28564409-katie-de-long

Website: http://delongkatie.com

Mailing list: http://eepurl.com/CSk3n

### Steven Hammond

Steven Hammond is a Sci-fi/fantasy author, artist and photographer from California's Central Valley. His first book Rise of the Penguins has spent time on Amazon's Top-Seller list in the U.S., U.K. and reached number 2 in Germany. At one point in his life, he believed that his debut novel Rise of the Penguins would win the Pulitzer prize for best penguin fiction. Then he discovered there was no such category. Undeterred, he continued to write stories about penguins with the follow-up novella, The Warlord, The Warrior, The War.

A lifelong fan of sci-fi and fantasy, his earliest memories were that of reading Danny and the Dinosaur and Curious George. From there he took the next logical step and delved deeply into the world created by J.R.R. Tolkien. Watching television shows such as Lost in Space and Star Trek as a young child fueled his love for the genre. The art of Frank Frazetta adorned his walls as a youth and movies such as "The Giant Spider Invasion", "Planet of the Apes", "Sssssss", just about any movie that involved Ray Harryhausen, a slew of Godzilla films and, of course Star Wars, left their ineradicable impressions upon his psyche and can be seen in his work.

He is currently working on book 3 in The Rise Of The Penguins Saga titled Whispers Of Shadows, and book 4, titled The Royal Creed. He has many projects under development ranging from producing artwork for his first children's book to, on the opposite end of the spectrum, a mature humor fantasy adventure web series.

Life has taught him to never take himself too seriously because that just takes all of the fun out it.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/StevenHammond7

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/riseofthepenguins

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Steven-Hammond

Blog: http://stevendhammond.blogspot.com/

Website: http://riseofthepenguins.net/

### LK Hatchett

Into anything unusual, L.K. Hatchett is drawn to B movies, specifically Sci Fi, monsters, and horror. Finding humor in these movies, she writes her own offbeat imaginings. When the idea for a B movie anthology cropped up, L.K. Hatchett had gophers on the brain...giant abominable gophers, and secret ways to destroy them.

L.K. Hatchett writes gonzo tales that include aliens, dung beetles, rabid reindeer, sharks, vampires, zombies, and now gopher people.

Published works by L.K. Hatchett include "My Past Life as a Dung Beetle" and "End Town," part of the dark humor/horror Christmas anthology "Frost and Other Stories." She is currently working on "A Zombie, An Alien, and A Vampire Walk Into A Bar."

Twitter: https://twitter.com/LKHatchett

Google+:https://plus.google.com/117507602810436395835/about

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/L.K.-Hatchett/e/B00HGW4QVY

Website: http://lkhatchett.blogspot.com/

### Ian Hutson

Born during tiffin at half-past nineteen-sixty. Grew up initially in Hong Kong speaking only Cantonese, then bounced around living in some really boring places and in some brilliant places, such as the Isle of Lewis in Scotland's Outer Hebrides. Father was a deep-sea trawerlman turned electronic warfare expert, Mother was a socialite and a bigwig in the Civil Defence Corps. Lived in seventeen different homes as a child, attending twelve different schools and missing one complete year at age nine years, while living in Banham Zoo in Norfolk. The zoo was too valuable an experience to miss by attending a local school, and the parents agreed. Home there was between the monkeys and the bears, looking out over the penguins and the wolves (these latter two were in separate habitats of course).

During the eighties, he was recruited into the British Civil Service, studied for a B.A. in Operational Research Systems Analysis, then an M.A. in Industrial Relations. Thrown out of the Civil Service, worked for a few multi-nationals such as ITSA, EDS, AVIVA. Thrown out of the multi-nationals, started own businesses (art dealership; publishing). Went spectacularly bankrupt, ended up in County Court in front of a seriously lovely Judge and lost house, car and valuables but not liberty, to the banks and to Her Majesty's Official Receivers.

Some sample moments in life: climbing Ayer's Rock with his elder brother and swallowing a very large, very juicy Australian fly; not being hit when his car was shot at while stopped in traffic (while working for the universally-loved multi-nationals); "sleeping" passed-out drunk overnight in a red telephone kiosk in Blackpool, Lancashire, and once serving a ghost—the White Lady of Winnington Hall in Cheshire—at an art event he and his sister were running. Not in the least sporting, although has dabbled in hot-air ballooning, abseiling and flying gliders, all in the days when spare cash folded instead of just making occasional chinking sounds. Now lives in uber-serious penury in a corner of a field in Lincolnshire, England, as a peacenik, vegan, non-theist hippie, and when not writing spends his time wandering the lanes ranting at sparrows and the occasional passing tractor. Is a very lucky, and a very happy chappy indeed.

Twitter—@dieselelephants https://twitter.com/dieselelephants

Facebook—The Diesel-Electric Elephant Companyhttp://www.facebook.com/TheDieselElectricElephantCompany

Website—The Diesel-Electric Elephant Company http://www.dieselelectricelephant.co.uk

Amazon page—http://amzn.com/e/B00C6XFRBG

### Kirstin Pulioff

Kirstin Pulioff is a storyteller at heart. Born and raised in Southern California, she moved to the Pacific Northwest to follow her dreams and graduated from Oregon State University with a degree in Forest Management. Happily married and a mother of two, she lives in the foothills of Colorado, and enjoys being a stay at home mom. When she's not writing an adventure, she is busy living one.

Twitter: @KirstinPulioff

Facebook: KirstinPulioffAuthor

Amazon: Author & Book Page

Goodreads: Kirstin Pulioff

### Rachel Savage

Mrs. Savage is a crazy lady in the middle of Wyoming with too many hobbies. When not employing her keyboard to tell stories, she can often be found rooting through her yarn, fabric, or bead stash for random flashes of inspiration. Or debating on the next cosplay creation that just has to happen...and seeing how many friends she can convince to join her in costumed foolery. When her brain needs a breather, she can be found indulging in various video games, playing tug-o-war or chase the stick with a silly recued Pit mix, or worrying she forgot to feed the snakes again.

Facebook – http://www.facebook.com/crazyaliencrafts

Website – www.realmofsavage.com

### Tina Traverse

Tina Traverse fell in love with writing at the age of eight when she wrote her version of the bible story, The Good Samaritan, for a homework assignment.

This love grew into a passionate affair and has been ongoing for thirty years; and there are no signs of it waning. Though, she admits, when she was pregnant with her son Christian, the affair cooled.

Tina's desire to write came calling once again when she needed to find a way to cope with heartbreaking news. Christian was diagnosed with autism in 2010. Her method of coping was to write a story about his journey called Forever, Christian.

Tina likes to joke that a girl can only write about real life for so long without jumping back into the world of make believe. She loves to venture into the world of the supernatural; vampires and witches are her favourite! Tina enjoys all sorts of vampires but admits that she is fascinated with the modern romantic vampire (think Twilight and The Vampire Diaries).

She is currently working on a vampire series set in her home province called Scarlet Desire. When Tina is not at the computer creating her exciting, magical worlds, she is kept on her toes by her two sons, Christian and Brandon.

Sometimes the author manages to curl up in her favourite chair with a good book.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/TinaTraverse1

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Tina-Traverse/432813526755304

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6522690.Tina_Traverse

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Tina-Traverse/e/B008AJX9Z6

Website: http://writersonthewharf.wordpress.com/

### Nicolas Wilson

Nicolas Wilson is a published journalist, graphic novelist, and novelist. He lives in the rainy wastes of Portland, Oregon with his wife, four cats and a dog.

Nic's work spans a variety of genres, from political thriller to science fiction and urban fantasy. He has several novels currently available, and many more due for release in the next year. The second installations in the Sontem Trilogy and the Gambit are due for publication Summer and Fall 2014. Nic's stories are characterized by his eye for the absurd, the off-color, and the bombastic.

For information on Nic's books, and behind-the-scenes looks at his writing, visit nicolaswilson.com.

Sign up for his mailing list to receive a free short story, Octopied, featuring characters from Nexus.

Website: nicolaswilson.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/NicolasWilson

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/NovelistNicolasWilson

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6553776.Nicolas_Wilson

Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/u20RL

