

# Anything Goes

An Anthology by Authors from the Anything Goes Author Group

~o~

Copyright 2013 by Anything Goes Authors Group

Smashwords Edition

All stories are copyright of their respective creators, and are reproduced here with permission.

# The End... Or Is It?

By Lindy Spencer

The price of gas just keeps going up. I was irritated by the thought. Looking down at my fuel gauge I calculated how long the less-than half a tank I currently had would last. Not until payday, that's for sure. $20.00 will probably get me through the weekend and past the price hikes... if we stay home and out of the holiday traffic. Not like I'd made any plans anyway.

It was Monday, May 20, 2013 and the average price of gas was edging up toward $4.00 per gallon. With Memorial Day weekend coming up the price was sure to continue to climb for at least a few more days. It happens every time a holiday rolls around. I only wish I'd thought about it last week and filled the tank then; gas was .66 cheaper per gallon seven days ago.

I kept one eye on the red stoplight as I ran my hands through my hair and pulled it up into a pony tail. I pulled down the sun visor and looked at myself in the mirror to make sure my lion's mane was at least relatively tamed; it was hard to get all these natural curls into one hair tie. They were all corralled, more or less, for the moment anyway. My eyes looked tired; hell, I'm surprised there aren't bags under them with as little as I'm sleeping lately. I pulled the skin back on the sides of my eyes, gently, like I'd seen my mother do so many times when I was younger. When did I get these wrinkles? I'm pretty sure they weren't here yesterday.

The windshield wipers kept up a rhythmic staccato beat – swish thump, swish thump, swish thump – as they chased each other rapidly back and forth, trying to keep up with the increasing rainfall. I hope these things hold out until the rain quits. Just one more thing that needs to be replaced on payday... damn wiper blades. The light turned green. I kept enough distance between me and the car cruising along in front of me so that the spray thrown up off of the wet road by their tires wasn't adding to the poor visibility I already had going; between the spotty wipers and the wind-whipped rain I don't need any more distractions. As if on cue, lightning seared across the distant sky; out of a habit born in childhood I counted the seconds between lighting and the rumble of thunder... one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, si—boom! The portion of the storm that produced that bolt of lightning is five miles away.

With a sigh of resignation I put on my turn signal and pulled into the Zippy Mart parking lot. A white SUV was the only other vehicle currently parked at a gas pump. I was happy to see an open space underneath the overhang where I could get gas without getting soaked. The rain, which had started shortly after I'd left work, had steadily gained intensity and didn't look like it would let up anytime soon. The wind bursts spit the rain under the overhang, but wasn't strong enough yet to fling it all the way to the middle, directly in front of the gas pump. There was about a two-foot wide stretch of concrete that wasn't wet. This was not an unusual sight; it was springtime in Oklahoma after all.

I turned off the key and dug through my purse for my credit card while I waited for the engine to complete its sputtering noise routine in protest. I needed to get a mechanic to figure out what the problem was; yet one more thing I couldn't afford right now. When the engine quit with a sigh of its own, I climbed out and inserted the card into the reader on the pump. The readout on the screen promptly requested that I take my card inside to the cashier.

Freakin' figures. I don't even have my umbrella. I reached back into my car for my purse; they would probably want to see my drivers' license before they ran my card through in there. Mentally congratulating myself on thinking ahead, I snagged the newspaper from the passenger seat and held it on top of my head while I made a mad dash for the door. Within about two steps of reaching the door, the wind whipped up and snatched the newspaper from my hand, pelting my face with rain. I hadn't read that yet! I made it to the covered sidewalk in front of the store and looked back, wiping the rain off of my face with my hands and drying my glasses with the hem of my shirt. Probably wouldn't have been able to read it, anyway, after using it as a hat in this weather. The paper disassembled in the air; a ballet of sorts. Separating out and flying different directions, it made me think of the trip to Texas the year I took the kids to see the hundreds of bats fly out from their cave at sunset. That was a fun trip for all of us, I thought wistfully.

I opened the door and went through, pulling it shut behind me. That wind was really picking up. Taking my place in line, I waited behind a woman with a toddler on her hip. I wiggled my fingers at the boy peeking at me over her shoulder. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and smiled at me around it, wiggling the rest of his fingers in response. He lowered his head to her shoulder, apparently shy. I looked around absently. The sky continued to darken and for the first time I noticed that the clouds were looking particularly ominous. As if on cue, thunder rumbled deep, low and loud. It seemed to come from all sides at once. Fast moving storm, I thought.

The cashier finished the transaction. The woman hiked her child up into the air and wrestled him into a football carry position. His infectious giggle made me smile. She asked him if he was ready to go, and he clapped his hands and kicked his little feet in response. She carried him that way out of the store and ran toward their car, calling out the run as if it were a football play. "Mom gets the Bryan and makes a beeline for the door, dodging left, stepping right, jumping clear over the puddle..." The wind closed the door with a forceful slam, cutting off her recitation and his belly laugh. Enamored, I watched her cross the parking lot at a serpentine run, dodging imaginary opponents, entertaining her son the whole way. She got to her SUV and lifted him in the air, doing what could only be interpreted as a touchdown victory dance. The lights flickered, breaking me out of my trance.

I was still smiling as I stepped up to the counter. Before I could say anything the cashier, who couldn't have been older than high school age, apologized for the inconvenience. "I know it's a rough day for the pumps to act up, I'm sorry you had to come inside."

"Not a problem. I'm glad I did, I might not have seen her play with her son like that." I motioned over my shoulder, toward the parking lot. "That was fun to watch, took me back to when mine were little. Have the gas pumps been giving that message to everyone?"

He blinked at me like I was from a different world. The generation gap loomed large between us. Apparently he didn't have any memories like that one from his own childhood. "Since the rain started, yes. How much gas did you need?"

As I opened my mouth to answer, the tornado sirens went off. We both looked out the window immediately, as Oklahomans do, and saw nothing except more rain. The woman at the SUV looked at the sky, startled by the sirens, and quickly hung up her gas nozzle before jumping behind the wheel.

Apparently not one to take a chance, the clerk reached over and clicked the remote control, turning the television to a news station and un-muting the volume. "Take cover immediately, tornado on the ground, I repeat, tornado on the ground!" The excited voice of the storm chaser filled the store. "If you're in the Moore area, you need to be in your storm shelter or safe room NOW!" called out the weather man. "The tornado is on the ground on Fourth Street, about half a mile from Tuxahawney Road, heading east. Oh! It just took out the strip mall! Oh, my God, look at that. Oh, my God... Get underground immediately, right now, RIGHT NOW, its gaining intensity!"

We looked at each other, both of our mouths hanging open. The Zippy Mart was on the corner of Tuxahawney Road and Fourth Street! "This way, hurry!" He yelled over his shoulder as he turned toward the back of the store and the door to the cooler, not waiting to see if I was going to follow. Apparently what to do in this situation had been part of his training because he didn't waste time.

I ran to keep up. The floor trembled and the power went off with a loud pop \- the light fixtures and the television exploding, raining shards of glass down all over the store. I ducked and dodged, covering my head with my arms.

Thunder and what looked like lightning but could have been street lights exploding filled the air around me, crushing in from all sides, reflecting off of the overhead mirrors originally used by the cashier to watch what the customers were doing at any location in the store to cut down on theft. The inside of the store was completely black except for the erratic bursts of light from outside and the sound of the rain was drowned out by the unmistakable and increasingly loud sound of an oncoming train. The tornado was almost on us! The air pressure changed; I felt like I was being crushed. Breathing became a chore and the last few steps before reaching the cooler and the outstretched hand of the teen-aged cashier were like running through mud. The ground shook and rolled, coming apart underneath my feet.

I gripped his hand and he pulled me off my feet and into the cooler, slamming the door behind us to the shrieking sound of ripping sheet metal. The roof of the Zippy Mart creaked and groaned under the pressure and strain before being torn loose with a fingernails-on-the-chalkboard shriek. I cringed as I heard it go. The walls of the cooler shuddered and shifted, twisting, ripping. We shoved some boxes out of the way and crammed ourselves underneath the bottom shelf, away from the cans and bottles that were toppling and falling from the creaking and tilting shelves. I prayed the tornado would lift; our shelter wouldn't be able to take much more. We held onto each other and the shelf above us. I was crying. Someone was screaming; I don't know how I could hear it except... it was me.

The ceiling of the cooler suddenly and completely let go without much fanfare; I watched it disappearing into the sky like the house in The Wizard of Oz. I don't know what made me think of that. This whole situation was surreal, and it was so much worse than any movie. Unidentifiable debris poured in, swirling and whirling, slamming down all around us before being picked back up and thrown somewhere else. The walls of the cooler collapsed in, held off of us by the only shelf left, the one we'd crawled under. I don't know how long it was there, couldn't have been more than a second or two, before it was ripped from the last of its moorings and lifted out of sight faster than I'd ever seen anything move. The cashier was torn away with it, his hand that had been holding onto mine gone before I knew he was moving, the shelf above me twirling like some macabre dance before screaming back down and lodging itself in the concrete floor inches from my head.

With no walls left between me and the outside, I guess I was outside now too, I watched my car flip end over end and bounce several times before being sucked up and out of my line of sight. I didn't see the SUV that the lady and her son had gotten into; I sincerely hoped they'd seen the tornado coming and she'd been able to drive them safely out of the area. Lying as flat as I could, I pressed my body hard onto the concrete, trying to become one with it, and prayed that the tornado wouldn't pick me to throw around like a rag doll like it had the clerk. Pieces of metal, shards of glass and fragmented wooden beams danced and dipped, shuddered and disappeared only to reappear and rain down from the sky. I couldn't watch it anymore; I squeezed my eyes shut and burrowed my face into the crook of my arm, and I prayed over and over that it would end soon. I knew I was still screaming but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I had no control over anything, including myself.

As quickly as the tornado came, it left. The ensuing stillness was palpable; though there wasn't any wind at all, the air was pressing in on me as I stood surveying the damage. Why can't I hear the sirens? Surely they're still going off, I wondered idly. Maybe I'm temporarily deaf. That would totally make sense. There wasn't anything standing between me and the rain – no roof, no walls, nothing. In fact, there wasn't anything between where I stood and the tornado. I could see it clearly and I watched it as it moved away, swaying like a drunken sailor, creating a path of destruction, and leaving devastation behind in its wake.

Where my car used to be was a twisted hulk of metal; the overhang under which I had parked only minutes ago was now wrapped around and through an old red pickup truck that hadn't been there when we'd run for the cooler. I was pretty sure it didn't drive itself in, either, as it was upside down and crushed to half its normal height. It was still raining. Why can't I feel the rain? My car was nowhere to be seen. I hope it didn't hit anyone or hurt anybody during its short career as a plane. Paper, leaves, and other lightweight debris floated calmly down, see-sawing their way back to earth. The entire scene was surreal; so much destruction in such little time. I'd never seen anything like this before in my life and hoped to never see anything remotely similar again. I watched the tornado continue its trek and thought about the people it had yet to encounter.

A man in a worn pair of jeans, an old t-shirt and well-worn work boots stepped out of his front door across the street. The tornado had missed his house by about four feet; his neighbor's home was a memory, along with every home behind theirs. He scanned the area and started running toward the store, or where the store used to be, where I stood. I could see his mouth moving but I couldn't hear a word. He ran past me without slowing down and dropped to the ground, hastily pulling boards off of a pile and flinging them to a relatively clear space next to him.

It was then that I saw what he was digging for; there was an arm protruding from underneath the edge of the pile. I tried to move toward him, to help. My ears don't work, I can't feel the rain, and now I can't walk either? Jesus. What else could go wrong?

Another man, dressed in what looked to have been an expensive suit and tie before his wreck, climbed out of the sunroof of a car that had obviously been expensive at one point; it was half smashed in now, partially wrapped around a telephone pole. Lucky for him it was the passenger side that had taken the hit. Except for the blue plastic slide from a child's swing set that was currently lodged in the rear door, the driver's side of the car looked fine, if you didn't notice the deployed airbags visible through the windows. Suit man hopped down off of his car unsteadily and loped toward worker man and the wreckage. Suit man, worker man, and the wreckage. Sounds like the name of a heavy metal or punk rock band. He didn't seem to notice the trickle of blood tracing a path of its own down the side of his face; he was intent on getting to worker man and helping pull the bricks and debris off of the person underneath.

The rain slowed to a little more than a drizzle as the clouds began to disperse. The sky grew lighter as the storm passed; from here it looked like the clouds were rubberneckers following the tornado, jockeying for position and watching to see what other horrors it was going to deliver. Wow, my thoughts sure turned macabre. I guess being attacked by a tornado will do that to you. Who knew?

As suit man continued to unearth the top portion of the woman's body, worker man held his fingers to the wrist for several seconds and then tried to find a pulse in her neck. His eyes were suddenly sad as he shook his head once at suit man. Worker man reached into the purse near her body and pulled out her wallet, opening it and laying it on the ground near her head. They moved on, continuing to clear detritus, moving it to the side, searching for survivors. I could have told them the only other person in the store besides me was the cashier and he was lying over there in front of what used to be a pickup truck, but even from here I could tell he was dead.

Wait. There were only two of us in the store. If he's over there, and I'm right here, then who is she? Where did she come from, and when did she get here? Was she tossed in with the debris by the tornado? I didn't see anything like that, never saw another person. Was it while I had my head buried in my arm? All of a sudden I felt lightheaded. I sat down on the ground, dropping my head between my knees. Well no wonder, with what I've just been through. Why aren't they asking me if I'm ok? It's almost like they can't see me.

The lack of hearing, of feeling, of control over my body, it all fell into place with one last click and realization struck as quick as lightning. They can't see me. I jerked my head back up, not wanting to know what I now knew to be true, fighting it every step of the way. That's not another lady, that's me. It can't be! I'm not there, I'm here. I'm NOT dead!! Am I? I'm not... I'm not... I'm not...

In the blink of an eye, without feeling as if I'd moved at all, I was next to the men, looking down at the unmoving lady. She was me alright. As sure as I was squatting here she had my hair in my pony tail holder and that was my shirt and my watch, and those were my eyeglasses broken in half and twisted around what appeared to be a door handle. Without a door it was hard to tell for sure if that's what it used to be. Somehow my purse strap had stayed on my shoulder – something that never seemed to happen when I wanted it to, and I found it very funny considering a tornado had blown a building on top of me and there was the strap finally staying where I put it – and my wallet was laying next to my hand, open to my drivers' license. No doubt that was me.

I can't be dead, I'm not ready. Carrie's coming home for the weekend after her last class tonight, Bill should be home from Iraq any time and I promised to bake him a cake, Mom can't drive herself to her doctors' appointments, I need to live long enough to pay off my damn house and meet my grandchildren and they're not even conceived yet. I have so much to do; I don't have time for this. I realized I was trying to pep talk myself out of this situation as I'd done for so many others. Somehow I don't think it's gonna work this time.

What am I supposed to do now? I tilted my head back and howled my frustration as loud as I could, with everything I had, until I was empty. Neither of the men turned to look, they continued moving bricks and wood and large clumps of grass, looking for people who weren't in that mess. It wouldn't do any good for me to tell them. They can't hear me. Nobody can hear me anymore.

Wait... if I'm dead, and I'm here, then I was right, there IS life after death. If I'm in my death after life, what the hell am I supposed to do now?

END

# Voice of Reason

By Cameron Jon Bernhard

~1~

I awake in a daze, sprawled on the debris-strewn tiles of the former UN General Assembly building. The place is a blackened, weather-beaten shell. The terrorist attack of 2056 destroyed it before I was even born. Decades of rot have taken its toll, tearing sunlit gaps in the domed ceiling. A musty, sickening stench permeates the vast chamber. Only the rats hold congress here now.

I slowly rise, searching my gutted surroundings for any clue as to how I ended up in such an unfamiliar place. My computer-augmented brain purrs softly in my head as it postulates, calculates, and organizes a plethora of data in seconds. I study the Condemned signs and graffiti spray painted on the charred, peeling walls while its processors hum away.

A familiar tag catches my interest. The red fist raised in defiance has spread at a disturbing pace over the past few years. It's the symbol of New Way, a radical extremist group committed to bringing down the international governing body of the Order.

I've become quite familiar with the group since assuming my role as chancellor general to York City. Their revolutionary activities are a regular part of my daily briefings with the president.

The solitude and desolation stir me into a panic. Outside the secure walls of the Citadel, an armed escort always lurks in my shadow. I check my pockets. They're empty. My Wireband wrist PDA is gone as well – not that I could contact anyone this far from the city, anyway.

I roll up my sleeve to press the alert switch on the tracker embedded into my forearm. The fresh bandage I find instead covers its recent extraction. My cyberbrain calculates possibilities and quickly presents me with the most obvious scenario. The thought sends chills through my body.

"Somebody abducted me," I utter breathlessly. The revelation introduces a greater mystery – one whose answer I'm unable to discern, no matter how thoroughly I investigate my strange surroundings; where are my abductors now?

"Hello?" I shout.

My voice echoes in the cavernous ruins of the hall. From somewhere high above, a startled bird takes wing. The rustle of its feathers as it soars into the sunlight is my only reply.

A low whine pulls my attention towards a wall devastated by a massive explosion. The gaping fracture reveals the decrepit ruins of once-proud structures on First Avenue. The rickety matchstick towers, now partially consumed by twigs and leaves, stand empty, save for the wildlife nesting within their crumbling walls.

As I struggle to make sense of my situation, a mechanical shadow whirrs past. An automated sentry drone. Even in this abandoned fringe of the city, enemies of the Order require our constant vigilance.

"Here!" I yell out to it in my loudest voice, stumbling over the detritus as I hurry to the opening. "I'm here!"

The whine of its servos lower in pitch as it hovers in place while its A.I. triangulates the source of the disturbance. I help by squeezing through the crack in the outer wall and running across the grass, waving my arms.

It's a stupid risk, considering the armed drone will attack any visible threat, but the prospect of rescue blinds me to the obvious. It swings to face me, the spinning barrel of its high-capacity repeater wailing as it threatens to unleash hellfire in my direction. I overlook the threat completely in my headlong rush into danger.

Stop, you idiot!

The stranger's voice shocks me so badly that I trip over my own feet and tumble to the ground. My clumsiness saves my life. The drone continues to track me warily, but allows its primary weapon to wind down. In a microsecond, it reclassifies the prone target in its sensors as non-combatant.

I clutch handfuls of grass while my face pales. I realize with dawning horror that the unfamiliar voice that just barked at me came from inside my own head.

"What? How..?"

The drone approaches. Its cannons tilt to keep my face in its crosshairs.

"STATE IDENTITY," it demands in its synthesized, inhuman tone.

Give the machine what it wants, or we're both dead.

"I don't understand. How are you–?"

"STATE IDENTITY," the drone repeats, this time accompanied by the spinning drum of its main guns. "YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO COMPLY."

Are you trying to get us killed?

"What are you doing in my head?" I shriek. The unreality of the situation flummoxes me. Not even the threat of impending death breaks through my stupor.

"ERROR. STATE IDENTITY OR YOU WILL BE TERMINATED. YOU HAVE ONE SECOND TO COMPLY."

In a heartbeat, I'm disconnected from the physical world, ripped from my senses and set adrift in my own mind. My body is on remote control.

"Nason!" my mouth responds autonomously. "Chancellor General Robert Nason! Ident number..." Unseen fingers rifle through my brain. "...AA1375609-G."

The drone processes the information, wirelessly transmitting data to its central hub. It receives its orders in the blink of an eye.

"FACIAL ANALYSIS COMPLETE. IDENTITY CONFIRMED. CHANCELLOR GENERAL ROBERT NASON, YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA. DO YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE?"

"Yes," my tongue replies without awaiting my input.

"PLEASE REMAIN IN THE AREA. A SECURITY TEAM HAS BEEN DISPATCHED TO RETRIEVE YOU. ETA: FIVE MINUTES."

Its business here concluded, the drone returns to its preprogrammed patrol route.

In its wake, the feel of grass between my fingers and wind upon my flesh becomes a tactile sensation again. I'm back in control of my wayward body.

I rise uncertainly. Clouds lazily drift by above my head. The unfamiliar sight only exacerbates my bewilderment. I long for the comfort of skies dark with steady streams of aircars and towering skyscrapers. Lacking the constant bustle of a megacity thirty-five million souls strong, the silence of the polluted East River hurts my ears.

"What is going on? Who are you and what are you doing in my head?"

Call me Trace, the deep voice echoes in my mind. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. We planned to leave you in the dark until my mission was over. This complicates things.

"What mission? Why did you grab me?"

You have privileged access to the Citadel. I uploaded my consciousness into the backup memory of your cyberbrain because I need you to get me inside.

"Why? What do you intend to do?"

I'm going to kill a man.

Before the question forms on my lips, I realize that I already know the answer. "The president!" I gasp. "You're using me to get close to President Travis so you can assassinate him!"

Trace, the unseen voice in my head, remains silent.

"No! There's no way I'm going to–"

My hand suddenly shoots up and slaps my face hard. My stinging cheek silences me better than a blast of ice water.

I'll say this only once: you are NOT in control. The only reason why you're still active is because I need you to appear like everything's normal, Trace explains. Don't try anything cute. Any attempt to hinder my plans and your wife and daughter are going to pay. Are we clear?

I nod, despite understanding none of this. The bastard in my brain torments me with an image of Janine and Eliza screaming in terror. As he figured, it's the only thing that I need to comprehend.

"Just don't hurt them. Please."

That's not up to me. You play it straight and they'll be fine.

"What about me?"

I won't lie to you. There's a good chance this is a one-way trip for us both. If it makes you feel any better, know that our sacrifice will mean a better life for everyone.

"Of course that doesn't make me feel better, you fanatic!" I snap. "Who are you, really? One of those terrorists with New Way?"

Only the privileged few, living off the blood, sweat and tears of the masses, call us terrorists. To the majority just trying to scrape by in the Order's corrupt regime, we're "freedom fighters," he bristles.

I spot a shadow in the sky, growing larger. The whine of its rotor blades begin to reach my ears. My ride is coming.

"Perhaps if they saw the faces of your victims..."

We're done talking. Just get me into the Citadel. That's your only concern.

I break into a harsh laugh. "The joke's on you, pal. I've only seen the president once since I took office, on the day he swore me in. Since then, all of our dealings have been across the Net. I don't think he's even in the country."

We're going to give him a reason to make a personal visit.

"What are you planning?" I ask hesitantly.

Just do as I say. Don't try to be a hero, or it'll go badly for you... and your family.

The aircar, a sleek, black bird with diplomatic tags, blows dust and debris as it settles down in an open patch of ground nearby. I cover my eyes and wait.

One more thing – I can hear your thoughts just fine. Things will go smoother if you don't draw any unwanted attention to yourself by talking out loud.

"Chancellor Nason!" the pilot greets through the craft's opened door. "We had teams searching everywhere for you for the past fourteen hours! Are you okay?"

I climb into the seat next to him, my lips tightly pursed. My personal safety is the least of the many concerns weighing on my mind.

"Take me back to the Citadel," I order him. "I need to speak with the president."

~2~

My old friend, Lannister Case, our head of security, meets me at the Citadel's broad anteroom with Karl Adler, the president's chief aide.

Lannister is a vet from the Antarctic war and still bears the scars and limp from three tours of duty he spent defending the Order's water interests. I much prefer his company to the sketchy German bureaucratic cyborg accompanying him. Doctors augmented so much of Karl's body with cybernetics that he's more machine than human now.

"I don't care how you do it. It needs to be ready by the end of the week," Karl mutters. He looks through me while engaged in a remote conference, via the secure wireless communications module built into his bio-optics.

"The prodigal son returns!" Lannister declares, raising his beefy arms in greetings. "You know you had us all in a tizzy. With your tracer deactivated, we didn't know what happened to you."

"That includes me as well, Lan," I smile. "I just came to, alone in the middle of nowhere."

"I have to go," Karl finishes in a low voice. "See to it, doctor, or you'll be explaining yourself to the president. End transmission."

Lannister snorts. "That was uncommonly nice of those New Way scumbags to just drop you off unharmed like that. They're not typically ones for pulling childish pranks."

"The dead bodies of the four men assigned to your security detail suggest they went out of their way to abduct you," Karl injects. "Any idea why?"

I shake my head. Lannister's skepticism is more amicable than Karl's.

The security chief produces a badge from his pocket and hands it to me. "You'll need to wear this to move about the building, at least until we get you chipped again."

I pin the identity badge to my lapel. "Thanks."

"Follow me," Lannister says. "You're going to medical. They might have grabbed you to access the state secrets in your cyberbrain. If so, there should be some trace of their intrusion."

You'd best do something about this, Trace cautions. If they analyze your brain and find me, things will not go well for your family.

What do you mean?

Let's just call it a little insurance policy. After we removed your tracker chip, we inserted our own into your body.

I examine my bandaged arm. Karl and Lannister exchange puzzled glances at my odd behavior.

Not there. It's in your leg. If anything happens to me, the chip stops broadcasting. If that happens, the person we placed inside your estate will put a bullet in your wife and little girl.

You son of a...

"Rob? Is everything all right?" Lannister confirms.

"Hmm? Yeah. I'm fine. I... I'll be with you shortly, okay? I just want to call Janine first. Let her know that I'm all right."

"We already apprised your family of your recovery," Karl states.

"Well, I want them to hear it from me," I retort, unable to prevent my dislike for the officious jerk from spilling through. "They're probably worried sick. It'll just take ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," Lannister nods. He slips his Wireband off and passes it to me. "Here – you can use mine."

I search for a quiet place to hide while I consider how to dig myself out of this mess. The nearby men's room is as good a place as any.

The first thing I do after entering is perform a cursory check for feet under the stalls. I have the room to myself. Just my luck that there isn't a window through which I could escape.

Going somewhere? Trace inquires.

I stare at myself in one of the mirrors. My reflection looks feral.

Of course! I can't stay here. You said it yourself – if they find you, my family's dead.

I also recall saying something about having to complete a mission, or have you forgotten?

The desperation I feel bleeds through to my inner voice. What do you want from me? The president's not here. Even if you could get past those two, it's not like you can complete your mission anyway.

I never said I was here to kill the president, Trace replies. You did.

I freeze, realizing that he's correct. Trace never specifically told me the identity of his intended target. I just assumed it would be President Travis.

If it's not the president, then who are you after? I ask.

You have bigger concerns right now. Specifically, getting out of this medical examination before it's too late.

And then what? I counter. Assuming you succeed, what's preventing your inside man from killing my family anyway? You said this could be a death sentence for us both. If my heart stops, so does your signal. You want my help getting past Lannister and everyone else in here? I want my family safe.

You're just going to have to take my word for it.

Not good enough, I snap. Digital chimes ring under my fingertips as I activate the phone interface on Lannister's Wireband and dial my home number. You're going to get on the phone and ask for your man by name. You're to tell him that there's been a change in plans. You say that I'm cooperating with you, because what other choice do I have. He's to leave my house immediately and not return. My family are not your bargaining chips.

I'm just supposed to take your word that you'll agree to help me once I do this? Trace snarls. I don't think so. Your family's safety is the only guarantee that I have that you'll cooperate.

The Wireband buzzes as it places the call.

You're wrong, I reply. My need to get back to them safely is your guarantee. As long as their lives are threatened, we have no deal.

"Nason residence," Eliza chirps through the Wireband's speakers.

I burst into a wide grin at the sound of my eight year-old daughter's voice. "Hi sweetie, it's daddy."

"Daddy!" Over the flurry of my wife excitedly rushing to the phone, Eliza asks, "When are you coming home?"

"Soon, I hope. I miss you, sweet pea," I reply, my voice choked. "Can you put mommy on?"

"Yep! Mommy, it's daddy."

"Love you!" I call as her voice disappears.

Very well, chancellor. We'll play it your way, Trace grumbles. But I'm warning you – if you try to screw me over...

However this turns out, I'm already screwed, aren't I? I bite back. I'll be dead or branded a traitor. Either way, my life is over. As long as my family's safe. That's all that matters.

"Rob?" I wince at the worry in Janine's voice. "Are you okay? They told me what happened."

"I'm fine, sweetheart. Don't worry. Everything's fine now. I'm safe back at the Citadel."

"Oh, thank God," she sighs. "Are you coming home soon?"

I hesitate. "Not for a while. I love you."

"I love you too... Are you sure everything's all right?"

"Everything's f–"

Trace switches off my body in mid-sentence. The biological machine reboots a split second later, without me at the helm.

"Honey," he says in my voice. "Would you please put Laurie on the phone?"

Laurie? I cry. Our housekeeper is a New Way spy?

Janine calls out to the snake in our midst. The thought of our trusted maid pulling a gun on my family burns me up. Her innocent act upon answering the phone only stokes my fury.

"Mr. Nason?"

"Don't say anything. Just listen. We're on the contingency plan. Nason is aware of my presence, but I need you to stand down. Authorization: omega, Charlie, one, five, three. Tell his wife that he asked you to pick up a few things for their romantic evening together, and then leave. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Nason. You can count on me."

"Let Ezekiel know that I'm in the Citadel. The operation is proceeding on schedule. I expect target neutralization soon."

"I'll take care of it."

"Stay safe, Clara."

"Goodbye."

Trace disconnects the call before relinquishing my body back to me. My shock and anger immediately contorts my features.

Laurie was with New Way? You had a spy in my household for months and nobody knew?

Focus, chancellor! I did my part. Your family's safe. Now you put an end to this medical exam so I can get on with my mission.

"Sure," I mumble. "Okay. Let me think..."

I mull the situation over in my head. I need a diversion, I realize. Something important enough to call both men away. An emergency.

Lannister's Wireband gives me the inspiration I need. I start dialing before I have a chance to second-guess myself.

"9-1-1 Emergency," the female operator hums.

"Listen to me carefully," I rasp. "I've planted a bomb in the Citadel's parking structure. It will go off in exactly twenty minutes. This is your only warning."

"Sir–"

I hang up quickly. I can't believe that I just did that. Until that moment, my worst crime was a moving violation.

A bomb, Trace muses.

"It's all I could think of."

That should work out quite well, actually. The chaos will make my job easier.

I frown, feeling even more disgusted with myself. "So glad I could help," I mutter.

I delete the call history from Lannister's PDA before returning to the hallway. The bathroom door is still closing behind me when the Wireband rings in my hand. I return it with a manufactured smile.

As Lannister listens to the excited voice on the other end, Karl and I watch his mood darken, his eyes widen, and his prospects of salvaging a quiet day out of his hectic morning, dwindle. My poker face gets a good workout as the seconds tick away.

"I'll be right up. Sound the evacuation alarm. Have six men teams posted at the doors to direct everyone a safe distance, and get out front to provide the bomb squad with a sitrep. Tell Weathers and Polaski to meet me at the garage. We'll scout the area ahead of time."

He hangs up, visibly shaken. Noticing our curious faces, he announces, "Someone called in a bomb threat. I need both of you out of here. Now."

Karl's already heading for the door, activating his internal communications software. "I'll inform the president," he says.

"Go with him," Lannister orders me.

"I need to check on my people," I reply. "I have to make sure everyone gets out safely."

"Robert..."

"Relax, Lan. I've been through enough close calls for one day. I'll be right behind them."

With no time to argue the point, he nods a grudging agreement before his sprint to the landing bay. I watch him go as the klaxon of the evacuation alarm resounds throughout the building.

A glance over my shoulder reveals Karl is already out the door before everyone else. He's probably more concerned about the Order's data than its personnel.

Nicely done, Trace congratulates me. My face sours in response.

"What now?" I ask.

Now it's my turn...

~3~

Trace brings me to the secure labs on the fiftieth floor. People rush past me in a blur of white lab coats, panicked and jostling for access to the elevators and stairways.

I feel horrible about the chaos I caused. I can only pray that nobody gets hurt.

Trace barely even notices them as we march to the doors at the end of the hall. My eyes flicker from face to face as the scared throng race by. Judging by our unbroken pace, I guess that his target isn't among them.

We reach the locked door to the Order's virology lab. I have no clearance to pass the fingerprint scanner. Fortunately, the evacuation means there's a steady stream of people escaping the room. We simply wait for the next person to leave and slip in before the door closes.

In the lab's uproar, nobody even notices our presence. Technicians race to secure a collection of samples into an airtight, reinforced metal vault. The din of their excited shouts almost drowns out the warble of the evacuation alarm.

A hermetically sealed chamber passes into an adjoining lab rigged with contamination sensors. Through the window, a solitary figure in a bio-containment suit packs away the most virulent diseases.

That's him, Trace thinks.

Who is he? I ask.

Doctor Martin Leeds. The most dangerous man in this building.

Trace spurs us onward. We grab a spare suit next to the door and slip it on as we enter the decontamination airlock. As the door closes with a hiss behind us, a light above the opposite portal bathes the small room in red. A digital readout on the wall silently counts down from ten. Before it reaches three, we're fully suited up.

I study the short figure through the unbreakable glass door into the lab. Him? Dangerous?

A vaporized jet of toxic chemicals washes over my body.

You heard the president's aide on his conference call earlier? New Way learned of their plans some time ago. Doctor Leeds is working on a weaponized virus that could kill millions. They intend to release it in the old quarters of the city. The president wants to wipe out New Way, and he's willing to sacrifice over thirty million people to do it.

A fan kicks in, venting the gas into a dedicated air duct by the floor.

That's insane! I cry. There's no way he would do that!

He'd do that and a lot more. To protect their global empire, the Order would sacrifice billions, Trace admits.

What proof do you have?

Lights pulsate as microwave bursts cleanse the outer skin of the protective suit of any remaining microscopic contaminants.

Several divisions of the army are conducting quarantine exercises outside the city at this moment. After the virus is released, they'll march in to contain the impoverished neighborhoods. Millions will die, including New Way supporters. When it's done, Travis will blame us for the attack and end up painting himself as the hero who saved the entire city.

When the light finally turns green and the inner door swings open, our graphene shell is sterile at an atomic level.

Trace takes us in without another word. I can barely think straight after that bombshell he just dropped on me.

"Doctor Leeds."

The bespectacled figure turns to face us in his protective suit. His puzzled face blinks behind his visor.

"Who are you? This is a secure area. How did you get in here?" His eyes flash to the panic button on the wall.

"Don't bother trying to call security. I'd break your arm before you even got near it."

"What do you want?"

"Everything you have on OEBOV/01," Trace replies. "All of your digital records and backups, your samples – everything."

"The virus is much too deadly. I couldn't possibly–"

"I'm aware of how deadly your virus is, doctor. That's why I mean to put an end to it."

The constant wail of the evacuation alarm suddenly falls silent. The ringing in my ears persists for a little longer.

The virologist considers me anxiously. His eyes dart to the window for any indication of rescue. Though his staff populates the outer chamber, no one notices the precarious situation developing within.

"It's your choice. Either log into the terminal with your own two hands, or I log in for you, after breaking a few of your fingers for your password. Decide quickly."

The threat is all the encouragement he needs. Leeds turns to the keyboard and enters his credentials at the network prompt.

"Now delete the files," Trace demands.

Grudgingly, he types a command on the screen. A window opens with a list of his saved records. In milliseconds, years of hard work vanish from existence, file by file.

"Purge the backups too."

"Please! Why are you doing this?"

Trace says nothing. Leeds finds the answer he requires written on my face.

Leeds sighs at the monitor, realizing that the last chance of recovering his data will be lost for good. He casts another distressed glance through the glass, but the cavalry still haven't arrived.

"Today, doctor..." Trace urges.

With a few more keystrokes, the blueprint for the deadly disease fades forever into the digital ether. Leeds hunches over the blank screen, defeated.

"Now give me the virus," Trace orders him.

The scientist doesn't even try to protest. He sullenly fetches a stoppered vial from a nearby tray and hands it over.

Trace smirks, hefts the glass phial in my gloved hand, and pitches it against the wall. The fragile glass shatters into splinters, but doesn't trigger the contamination sensors. As he surmised, the vial was empty.

The doctor, already alarmed by his actions, now shrinks from his anger. Trace grabs him by his suit, threatening to rip it open, despite needing nothing less than a bullet to puncture the durable fabric.

"Not smart!" he snarls, jerking him by the collar. "Where's the damn virus? And I mean all of it!"

Fear renders the doctor speechless. He dangles from my hands like a puppet, his mouth hanging open. His only meaningful response comes from a surreptitious glance towards a metal cabinet locked with a keypad. Trace follows his eyes and grins in understanding.

"Open it up!"

Trace angrily tosses the doctor across the room. The man cries out in pain as he brutally slams into the safe. Upon recovering, his fingers tap-dance over the numeric keys without further deception.

How are you planning to destroy the virus? I wonder.

Maybe I shouldn't. It would be fitting to use it against these bastards, don't you think?

You wouldn't! All these people–

Relax, chancellor. Trace chuckles. I'm just kidding. Despite how much the Order makes us out to be monsters, we don't take lives unless it's necessary. We're not like them.

Coming from someone threatening my wife and daughter minutes ago, you'll understand if I'm not impressed.

The doctor opens the safe with a beep of the mechanical lock. He throws open the door and steps aside. The shelves inside are full of black canisters, each containing a special cocktail of horrible death. The sight makes me ill.

What about him? Is his death necessary?

I can't destroy the work and leave its creator, Trace responds sadly. Leaving his mind at the whim of the Order puts everyone at risk.

Maybe he can come with us, I suggest.

I can't take the chance that he might end up back here. I don't like it any more than you do, chancellor, but this is for the best. Perhaps one day, after we overthrow the Order, the world may be ready for men like him. Until then, I have my orders.

"Which one is it?" Trace asks the doctor.

Leeds quickly studies the labels, before grabbing one from among the collection. "Here," he answers as he places it in my hands. "OEBOV/01."

Trace unscrews the lid. Inside are a dozen stoppered vials, arranged in two stacks of six cylindrical ring trays. Trace removes one of the vials for a closer inspection.

"Be careful with that," Leeds warns.

A muffled pounding on the window catches our attention. Lannister is standing outside with a contingent of security guards, armed to the teeth. He taps on the glass with the butt of his gun and motions for me to exit peacefully. The "or else" is implicit.

I guess he finally figured out that the bomb threat came from his phone, Trace observes.

How'd he find us so fast?

The security badge he gave you must have a tracking chip installed.

What do we do now? I ask.

Feel like fighting your way through them?

Not really.

Trace faces the doctor again. The scientist grins smugly at us.

"Yeah," Trace says. "Me neither."

Trace pops the lid off the vial and chucks it at the doctor. Colorless mucus stains his visor. Leeds gapes at the mess in horror.

Instantly, flashing red lights bathe the room, while an automated voice announces, "CONTAMINATION BREACH. EXECUTING CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL."

I catch sight of Lannister and his men out of the corner of my eye, while Trace tosses the container and races for the closing door. The protective glass muffles the guards' panicked shouts. The only wailing we hear comes from the scientist frantically trying to wipe his prized plague from his outfit.

We make it through the door with barely a second to spare. Its airtight seal cuts off the doctor mid-scream.

A moment later, a brilliant flare of white-hot flames engulfs the lab behind us, incinerating all matter in an instant. Flames expand to scorch every square inch of the chamber. When it's finally over, there's nothing identifiable remaining in the blackened, smoking rubble.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Trace suggests.

The red light comes on over the door. The computer starts its decontamination countdown. This time, we're not sticking around for the shower and the light show.

The graphene suit is tougher than steel. It protects my body as Trace kicks through the ventilation duct, rips it from the wall, and yanks the wires powering the fan. Two swift kicks snaps off a blade, leaving a gap into which we can squeeze. I just hope the vent doesn't end with a fifty-story drop.

The countdown reaches six...

We peel my body from the suit as the countdown ticks indifferently towards our deadline. There's no time for niceties. We undress in a flurry of kicking feet and waving hands.

Two...

Trace rips the badge from my clothes and tosses it as we dive for the vent. My hands and feet propel us into the blackness.

One...

We scramble elbow over elbow across the cold metal surface, snaking deeper into the unknown.

Zero...

A metal dragon suddenly hisses at my heels. We crawl faster. The poison storm has begun. Without the fan blowing it into the vent, most of it should linger in the airlock.

Trace holds my breath, just in case.

My fingers lose touch with the floor ahead. The vent branches vertically in the darkness. Trace grabs the edge and pulls us closer for a peek.

There's a light below us, a couple of floors down. A rising heat suggests that it probably leads to an incinerator.

There should be a maintenance room down there, I offer.

Good. We can use that. Just let me orient myself for the climb down.

He pulls us forward, angling my body across the shaft and dropping my feet into the hole. He throws a glance back at the airlock. The gas is no longer pumping into the room. Most of it now settles upon the floor in an unhealthy haze.

We begin our descent, while the microwave pulses delay our pursuers further.

I can't go back, can I? I realize.

Would you want to? Trace asks, surprised. Now that you know what the Order are capable of? Would you still want to work for them?

I say nothing. I think of my family. Though I'm loathe to put them in harm's way, I realize they'll never be safe as long as they live under the Order's purview.

Don't worry. I'll call Clara as soon as we're outside the Citadel, Trace says. She'll get them to safety.

Thank you, I reply. For a terrorist, you're not what I expected at all, Trace.

"It's David," he smiles as he shimmies us closer to freedom. "You're not what I expected either, chancellor. I'm looking forward to shaking your hand."

~4~

The scream of the presidential shuttle settles into a hiss of escaping gases as its long wings perch on the landing platform in the dead of night. Security drones hover in the airspace over the Citadel, threatening any vehicles daring to breach their protective bubble.

Karl looks over his shoulder at the sound of boots marching up the ramp. Lannister's platoon of security guards fall in line, while their chief joins the presidential aide.

"All security arrangements are in place?" Karl asks.

"Citadel's locked up tight."

"I'm sure," Karl nods. "It's just that we wouldn't want any surprises during the president's visit."

Lannister flashes him a hateful glint. "Everything's covered on my end. You don't have to worry. I know how to do my job."

A door slides open on the side of the massive bird, revealing several armored figures. The soldiers take up positions outside the ship, scanning the area with automatic weapons.

With the landing zone deemed secure, a convoy of suits disembarks from the aircraft.

Among them is a tall, middle-aged man, neatly dressed in EurAsian silk. His penetrating eyes spot the two men awaiting his presence at the end of the platform, and his cruel features burst into a gleaming, white smile.

"Mr. President," Karl bows his head. Lannister silently follows suit.

The figure strides past them on his way to the rooftop doors, without slowing. Surprised, the two men rush to catch up behind him.

"You want to know what the worst part about running the world is?" he asks in a loud voice. "All the damn traveling. I swear! Crossing time zones has put an extra year on my life. Hate traveling!"

"Yes, sir," Karl agrees automatically.

"Hate it!" Travis reiterates for emphasis. He stops suddenly, turning to fix them both with a dark expression. "So you boys will understand just how much I don't want to be here. Goddamn it! I vouched for that sonuvabitch, Nason!"

He resumes walking, passing through the open doors of a glass corridor on his way to his official quarters.

"Where are we with the manhunt?" he asks.

"The former chancellor and his family continue to elude custody," Karl declares. "We believe he's aligned himself with New Way, somewhere in the city. Our patrols are scouring the streets. We'll find him."

"Well, by God, we'd better. He left us with one hell of a shiner, boys. I'm itching for some payback. Get me something, anything. Any reason to march my armies into their hole and flush those rebellious turds out of hiding. I don't care what it takes."

They reach the doors to the presidential loft. Travis swings them open to a palatial view of glittering marble and gold. The elegance is lost on him. His thoughts are in the mud, where he's tearing into his hated enemies with his bare hands and teeth.

"I want their heads!" he barks, an instant before slamming the doors behind him.

Karl and Lannister blink at the closed doors. The security chief turns away first. He dismisses the crazed politician with a wave of his hand.

"His visits are always such a pleasure," he mutters under his breath as he wanders off to do his job, now that the pomp and ceremony has ended.

Karl turns to watch him leave. A smile materializes on the cyborg's face. Inside his mechanical mind, the real Karl Adler is screaming for help.

"Don't worry, Lan," I reply softly. "It'll be his last visit."

END

# The Predator

By Michael Tinker Pearce

Chuck Peters was scared. I could tell by the hunched shoulders and the quick, jerky movements of his head as he walked down the parking lot to his car. He was used to being the one in control, the one with the power. After last night it was obvious to him that he wasn't in control and he didn't like it one bit.

Chuck was one of the bad ones. The ones that knew what they were. Ones that reveled in the knowledge, in the secret sense of superiority to those around them. In the end it was that very sense that betrayed him and made him careless.

Last evening he had still been full of himself, confident in his own invulnerability. He'd actually been whistling as he locked his apartment. He jauntily slung his gym bag over his shoulder headed out to his red '92 Camaro with a small cooler in his other hand. He unlocked the car and tossed the gym bag into the passenger seat, started the car and pulled out of the apartment complex with the stereo blasting White Snake at ear-shattering volume. He didn't signal as he turned right onto 196th street and headed east. I pulled out after him and followed at a discreet distance.

This had the makings of a real bad evening. He had the look of a man on a mission. I didn't know where he was going exactly but I knew exactly what he was going there for. Chuck had been spending time on Facebook chatting up high school girls and had found a couple of likely prospects. They were meeting in a park somewhere but the references to which one had eluded me.

He took a left on Hwy 99 and headed North. Rush hour was over but the Friday night traffic was still pretty heavy so it was easy to stay behind him without drawing attention to myself. After several miles he turned left again onto the Mukilteo Speedway. As we passed Harbor Pointe on the left and Paine Field on the right I had to close up a bit; too many places he could turn off and if I was right about his plans I couldn't afford to lose him. I knew he had something different in mind than what his teen-age conquests expected. He stuck with the Speedway as we went down the hill towards the ferry to Whidbey Island. If he got on the ferry to Whidbey it could get interesting. Traffic would be a lot sparser on the island and I would stand out more if he went too far. He didn't, turning right on 5th.

We followed 5th until it turned into Mukilteo Boulevard, then West Mukilteo Boulevard as twilight closed in. As we drove past Harborview Park he slowed, then turned right onto Greely and parked in the driveway of the house on the corner. The house appeared to be vacant for renovation; Chuck had done his homework. I drove past; I knew the park and I had an excellent idea of where he was planning on entertaining himself this evening so I could probably afford to let him out of sight for a few moments.

I turned the car around at the next block and pulled onto the shoulder just short of the park. The park closes at dusk so the gate to the parking lot was already down. Getting my gear from the trunk I took the trail along the eastern edge of the park into the trees. The trail led down the bluff to the woods below and across the train tracks to the beach. I would check some of the clearings first, then the beach. The low sound of pop-music drifting through the dark, dense woods guided me to them.

They were in one of the clearings below the bluff. The line of sight wasn't ideal with low brush and some trees obscuring parts of the clearing but it was the best that I was likely to get. Chucky was drinking beer with the two online chippies. The music came from a portable stereo propped up next to a tiny camp-fire. Chuck and the girls appeared to be having a good time, laughing and flirting. The girls had met an older man in a nice, private clearing in a park that was closed for the night and the substance of their private messages had made it abundantly clear what they were there for. That might yet happen; some people like to play with their food. I was certain that things were going to turn out a quite a bit different than they expected.

I hate using special equipment- too hard to explain if you get caught, too easy to trace if it's found, but sometimes there's no substitute. I quietly made my preparations and waited.

After a time Chuck and the girls started getting serious. Great- Chuck was a molester too. Before things got too serious Chuck broke loose and made an announcement that made the girls giggle and headed into the woods, presumably to take a piss. The girls kicked back and drank some more beer and listened to the stereo, occasionally meeting each other's eyes and giggling in nervous anticipation. But after a short time they sat up and looked into the woods. They seemed to be getting agitated. I heard a thin clear soprano voice call a question to the night and the girls drew closer together, peering into the darkness under the trees. I could imagine Chuck moving silently through the woods, watching them. Making the brush rustle suggestively and watching their apprehension turn to fear. Teasing himself with their growing terror.

Perhaps he growled occasionally to spice things up-whatever, the teens were starting to freak out. Then he crept into the clearing and one of the girls screamed. I'd guessed him to weigh maybe 180, 190. Not huge, but a pretty big guy. As a wolf he was enormous, half again the size of a natural wolf. He slunk towards them menacingly, head down low and hackles up, teeth bared. The girls grabbed at each other and backed away, eyes riveted. He wanted them to run, I realized. He wanted the thrill of the chase- perhaps to taste the adrenaline in their blood when he finally brought them down. They had backed nearly to the edge of the clearing and he started to lunge towards them but stumbled as the 5.56mm TAP bullet slammed into his shoulder. You can't completely silence a high-velocity rifle, but the loudest sound from the Keltec carbine was the slap of the bolt and the cracking of the miniature sonic booms of the bullets. I was nestled behind it with its integral folding bipod extended and braced on a log, peering through the Russian night-scope and I swore as I rapidly stroked the trigger again and again. The girls were running now but Chucky had bigger things to worry about. He leapt back to his feet as I fired again, the next round kicking up pine needles and dirt into his face. The following round struck him somewhere in the lower chest as he flinched away from the spray of dirt. He spun half around and a bullet took him in the hip, almost knocking his leg out from under him. The next several rounds missed as he turned and bolted into the brush directly away from me. Shit.

I thought quickly- should I pursue him? He was injured and would be slowed down but was still dangerous. The Russian scope was passive light-gathering and not nearly as good as modern American equipment. In the heavy underbrush under the trees it would be next to useless. On the other hand I knew where he was going. I quickly broke through the brush and moved up the trail as best I could while scanning with the night-scope. I couldn't move very fast but I was betting that he couldn't either. I lost the bet; just as I got to the edge of the park I saw the Camaro fishtail onto Mukilteo Boulevard from Greely and head west. Staying under the cover of the trees I broke down the rifle and scope. I unscrewed the suppressor and threw it deep into the brush. Most likely if anyone found it they wouldn't know what it was. If they did it wouldn't matter- I had made it myself in a 'borrowed' machine-shop and had never handled it without gloves on. Likewise the empty casings left back in the brush.

The next night I was once again waiting and watching the parking lot of his apartment. He had gone straight home. Fucking idiot. He'd been holed up all day, most likely allowing his wounds to regenerate. Now it was night again and he'd finally broken cover. He had a large duffel with him as he limped to his car- seems he hadn't completely regenerated last night's wounds. Chucky appeared to have decided it might be wise to be away for more than a night or two. He opened the door and threw the duffel into the passenger seat. He didn't stow it in the hatch-back. He didn't look behind the seat and see the bags full of packages of sinus medicine or the jars and jugs of chemicals like acetone and ether.

He did smell something as he got in- I could see his face pretty clearly through the 300mm telephoto lens on my old Pentax. He sniffed and looked puzzled, but after a moment shrugged and started the car. He didn't roll down his window yet, reaching for the stereo and switching it on. Power raced through the circuits, hit the recently frayed wire on the big after-market amp behind the seat. The current quickly tripped the tiny capacitor inconspicuously attached to the frayed wire and sparked to an exposed screw-head, igniting the minute quantity of gunpowder heaped around the screw and setting off the fumes in the car.

The car blossomed into a fireball, all the glass blowing out and bouncing the car down against the suspension stops. The sound reached me a couple of seconds later- a loud slap of noise that probably shattered a few windows in nearby apartments, but since Chuck was in the habit of parking away from other cars (no doubt to avoid door-dings on his custom paint job) there was little other damage. The inside of the car was like a blast furnace. Even at this distance I could hear the roar of the flames as the flammable chemicals in the jugs burned.

It had been kind of an 'iffy' set-up but what the hell; he already knew someone was trying to kill him and if it worked it would be just another amateur 'meth' manufacturer screwing up. The fierceness of the fire would almost certainly eliminate any trace of the fact that the car had been rigged even if the police were inclined not to take the explosion at face-value.

"Regenerate that, motherfucker." I muttered as I stowed the camera, put the car in gear and drove away into the dusk.

END

# Dinner with the Family

By Linda Pearce

I looked out the window of the coffee house the sounds of people laughing behind me as I stared into the moonlit streets wondering why I was alone, again. I was a nice looking fellow with a good job and reasonable intelligence. I couldn't figure out why I was having such a hard time. The neon light from the Pike Street Market sign shined brightly causing a kaleidoscope of colors on the wet ground. As I pondered the breakup of yet another relationship I suddenly realized that I was staring straight into the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. They were looking back at me through the window. When she saw that I had noticed she glanced away shyly, her curly auburn hair curtaining her face. I started to get up entranced wanting to meet this lady. Her eyes widened and she bolted. I tried to jet out the door after her but was blocked by the crowd of people coming in as she disappeared into the darkness up the street. I looked around for her a few more minutes and then sighed in resignation.

Somehow I knew I needed to meet her, this stranger in the night. I went dejectedly back inside and asked the woman at the counter if she knew who the lady was.

"Do you know the woman with long red hair and light hazel eyes?" I inquired.

Her tag said her name was Julie replied, "Oh, you must mean Jeanine. She is a friend of mine. No one else I know has that color without contacts." She looked at me suspiciously, "Why?"

Unable to think up an excuse I replied honestly, "I just saw her, she is remarkable! I don't normally do this but is there any way I can meet her?" I couldn't believe my own ears as I said that. I usually didn't pursue anyone.

Julie looked me up and down trying to see if I was some sort of stalker or something. Hesitating a few more minutes she gave a nod and replied, "I think I can arrange it... HERE."

I got her meaning and smiled, "That would be perfect. I am Avery by the way."

She smiled sardonically, "Nice, but this is assuming Jeanine wants to meet you, did she even see you?"

Suddenly I was unsettled as I fiddled with my watch, "I think so. Just tell her I was the one staring out the window tonight. I think she will remember." I looked up, "Can you tell me anything about her?"

She gave me a shuttered stare, "Nothing, IF she wants to meet you I will let her tell you." She paused, "I'll tell you what. You come back tomorrow evening around seven and if she is here, fine. If she isn't then you will NOT be coming back. Deal?"

I hesitated as this coffee shop had been a convenient place to hang out but then I nodded. "Deal!"

\--**--

The next day dragged by at my job, minutes ticking slowly as I waited until the time to go meet her. She had haunted my dreams the night before, this Jeanine. I tried to throw myself into my work but everyone seemed to know something was up and steered clear as I growled through the day. I didn't know why I was reacting to this woman but I wanted to find out.

Seven o'clock and I arrived at the coffee house almost frightened that she wouldn't be there. Julie looked up and nodded at a table in the back. I ordered my Latte and she handed it to me along with a Chai tea. I walked back to greet this lady I needed to meet. Her countenance was proper, her back straight and her small delicate hands clasped tightly together before her. Her auburn tresses were swept back into a loose ponytail with only a hint of lip gloss for makeup. She studied me neutrally with those expressive hazel eyes as I walked up. I slowed when a panicked expression flowed across her face and she looked ready to bolt again.

Very slowly I slid in the chair across from her saying, "Hi, I'm Avery. Please don't leave. I don't usually frighten people." I grinned with my most winning smile hoping to put her at ease.

She slowly smiled in return and replied in a hesitant husky voice, "I'm Jeanine. Why did you want to meet me?"

Unused to someone being so straight forward I stammered a moment giving her a puzzled look before replying, "I am not sure. I don't usually do this. But you are striking and your eyes..."

She glanced up at me shyly, trying to read my expression. Pushing a stray curl behind her ear she nibbled on her lower lip and decided to stay.

We spoke long into the night and much the same for the next several days as well. My friends were leaving me messages everywhere but I only had time for her. I soon realized that I was falling in love with Jeanine. The way she moved so gracefully and the way she played with her curls. The way she would lift her face to the sun with a smile that rivaled it.

The lovely weather stayed with us into the weekend and we drove to the beach. We ran along in the sand and played keep away with the waves. We collapsed on a blanket I had brought and she stretched out in contentment as I started unwrapping our lunch. I realized that she never spoke of her family and I suddenly wanted to know everything about her.

"Jeanine?"

"Hmmm?" she replied with her eyes still closed. I leaned in close feeling the warmth from the sun on her skin. Tracing the neckline of her soft green sweater with my fingers I delicately kissed her lips. Her eyes flew open and she started to tense. I gathered her close and kissed her deeply feeling her relax in my embrace. She made small mewling sounds as she wrapped her arms tightly around my neck pressing into me. I tangled my fingers in her hair as I lifted my head to look in her eyes and suddenly realized they had changed colors. They were a beautiful shade of yellow. My eyes widened in shock as I watched them change back and the sadness that came with it. She moved away and started putting on her shoes as if getting ready to leave. I reached out to capture her hand.

"Wait." She looked away. "What's going on?"

Jeanine shook her head silently.

"Please!" She looked over hesitantly and saw not rejection as she thought she would but just bewilderment.

With hope dawning in her face she replied, "I guess I better just show you. Come on."

We gathered up our few things and drove back to the city. As she gave directions to her home I was suddenly nervous about meeting her family. She laughed at the look on my face, "Don't worry, it's just my sister. My parents live in Oregon." I breathed a small sigh of relief.

We pulled up outside a nondescript rambler somewhere in the northern burbs of Seattle. Hand in hand we walked slowly up to the door, my heart skipping a beat.

"Danny, I'm back. I've brought someone home for dinner." Jeanine yelled as we walked in.

"Oh good, I will be out as soon as I have changed!" I heard the voice from the back of the house.

"It's ok, Danny. I want him to meet Drew before we eat." Turning to me Jeanine glanced at my puzzled expression and said, "Drew is my nephew." She took my both my hands as we walked into the kitchen wrapping my arms around her. She hesitated a moment before moving past the island and led me to the playpen in the center of the family room. Contrary to the rest of the comfortably furnished home, the room was sparsely decorated and had a sterile white tile floor. Moving out of my arms Jeanine stepped aside so I could see, giving me a strangely triumphant look.

I looked down into the playpen where a tiger cub was clutching a seafoam-green teddy bear as it slept. I looked up at Jeanine in surprise, then stared as her beautiful hazel eyes melted into tawny gold with vertical slit pupils like a cat. I could not look away, even as I saw an adult tigress padding into the room from the corner of my eye.

I barely recognized Jeanine's voice through the husky growl as she said, "Wake up Drew, dinner is here..."

END

#   
Stealing the Show

By Zach Abrams

Although she had been kept busy, the day passed so slowly, each hour Sarah marked off seemed to stretch into eternity. It was the anticipation. Sarah was impatient, desperate to finish work so she could go home and have a rest before her planned evening out. Pretty and petite, it was her singing voice which attracted the most attention. She had a booking to sing at the local bowling club dinner-dance. It was her first ever paying engagement.

"Thank you, Mrs Bissett. Is there anything else I can do for you today?" Sarah answered reflexively as she slid forward the five, twenty pound notes.

"No? Then please remove you're your card from the reader."

As Mrs Bissett scurried away, Sarah turned her excuse for attention to the next couple in the queue. She started to recite the standard Vistabank welcome but the words caught in her throat and she gulped. An array of thoughts cascaded through her mind within a fraction of a second. – 'This couldn't be real. What on earth were they doing here? And why now? I only sent him the demo tape three weeks ago and hadn't expected to hear back yet. Of course it had been a dream for me to be taken seriously, but surely if he'd liked it he would have written back or arranged for someone to check me out. He wouldn't have come here personally and not to my place of work, not without calling.'

Standing at the other side of the bandit screen, at the front of the queue, were Simon Cowell and Sharon Osbourne.

Of course it wasn't real. Today was the 31st October, Halloween, and the two people standing in front of the counter were wearing latex masks. Sarah remembered seeing lots of people dressed in costumes when she'd gone out at lunchtime. As she peered through the bank's glass security screen, it should have been patently obvious they weren't the real celebrities. The masks were excellent and the costumes were good but their sizes and shapes weren't right, they were far too stocky and their hair was obviously fake.

Sarah's heart was still racing from the momentary excitement of her false assumption. She didn't want to look stupid and tried to act normally. As she struggled to gather her thoughts she heard the words, "Give me the money."

"Please place your card in the reader and enter your PIN number," she replied nonchalantly, now embarrassed and not wishing to look at her customer.

"You don't understand I want all the money."

"If you want to make a withdrawal I can do it now, but you'll need to use your card. If you want to close your account I'm afraid you'll have to complete a form. It will take three days to process then we'll send you your balance by cheque."

"Don't mess me about. I told you I want the money and you'll give me it now if you know what's good for you."

The snarling voice could never have been mistaken for Simon Cowell's, it had a distinct east end of Glasgow accent. As Sarah looked up again she saw a black, gloved hand in front of the screen. It was holding a gun.

Sarah didn't know anything about guns. Could it be genuine? It looked similar to weapons she'd seen on television, similar to toys her young brother used to play with as a child. It was matte black in colour and about six inches in length with sharp angles.

Once again a deluge of thoughts flooded through Sarah's mind. – 'Is this a joke? Is the gun real? It looks like a toy, but how would I know? What if it's real? What if he shoots at me? Will the bandit screen protect me? Can I get help? Should I press the alarm?'

The reality suddenly hit her. There was a customer in the bank, a young woman with a baby in arms. She was standing at the back of the room but could clearly see the weapon. The woman's jaw dropped and all colour drained from her face as she turned and moved towards the door.

"You stay right where you are." The Osbourne character grabbed her free hand and jolted her back. It was a man's voice. The girl fell towards the floor barely managing to stop the child slipping from her grasp.

Sarah remembered her training. Never take chances, always hand over the money. Be alert and pay attention so you can pass on information, but never confront a robber, leave that to the professionals.

Sarah pulled open her cash drawer and began to empty it into the trough below the security screen. She could barely handle the money her hands were shaking so much.

As fast as she filled the trough, a leather clad hand pulled the notes out and stacked them into a Tesco 'bag for life'.

"Now the rest of it," the man growled.

Sarah moved to the next teller position. As she did, her eye caught sight of Mandy. Mandy had been on her tea break and was just returning to the counter when she realized what was happening. Overcome by panic, Mandy leaned against the side wall, her knees trembled so much she seemed to be in imminent danger of collapse. Her normally bright, rosy cheeks were paler than her platinum-blond curls and she appeared to be calling out. Her lips were mouthing words but no sound was escaping. She looked to be having difficulty breathing.

By contrast Sarah was in danger of hyperventilating as she gulped in massive breaths then quickly exhaled. She thought she was going to be sick and struggled to hold down the bile.

"I need to sign into the computer again to be able to open this cash drawer," she stated, conveying a confidence and calmness which belied the terrors within.

"Just get on with it."

It took three attempts for Sarah to sign in as her fingers fumbled over the keys. She did manage it and at the same time she activated the silent alarm, sending a distress message through to Pitt Street Police station and automatically beaming through live CCTV footage.

Having cleared the second drawer, she was instructed to empty the safe.

"I can't, I don't have access," she cried. "Only the manager has the combination and he hasn't come back from lunch yet." Tears were now streaming down her cheeks, causing her mascara to run, effectively giving her the look of a Pierrot clown.

The gunman said nothing but raised his weapon pointing it at Sarah's head.

"It's true," screamed Mandy, belatedly finding her voice before her legs finally gave way and she collapsed to the floor.

The young woman with the baby couldn't see, but she heard the crash of Mandy falling and mistakenly believed she'd been shot. She turned away holding her child tightly against her bosom and a loud keening wail escaped her lips. The level of falsetto was more than an octave higher than Sarah's mezzo range could reach, but nowhere near as melodious.

Although the masks hid their faces, the body language of the robbers showed sheer panic.

The 'Cowell' character stuffed the gun in his jacket pocket and the last of the banknotes into the bag then made for the exit, only a step or two behind Osbourne.

They barged their way through the door just as a portly, elderly gentleman was entering.

"Clumsy fools, watch where you're going," he called after them angrily.

The impact in the doorway made 'Cowell' move sideways causing the bag to snag and rip against a door catch on the threshold. The robber struggled to keep the contents intact as he fled along the high street and down a narrow lane in the direction of the car park.

Only moments later, two police cars and an ambulance sped along the pedestrian precinct and screeched to a halt in front of the bank, to the deafening accompaniment of sirens. Two officers followed by the paramedics ran through the front door while another two, armed police sprinted down the lane. Their movements were being directed by a control centre which was monitoring the bank's CCTV and the on-street security cameras.

In the bank, they found the mother and child, now both wailing and huddled in a corner. Mandy was trying to recover her composure and pick herself off the floor and Sarah was standing frozen to the spot, statue-like, behind the counter.

The elderly man was looking around him, confused and unable to comprehend what was happening and he was more than a little peeved because he'd had to wait to be served. In the midst of all this, Mr Francis, the bank manager re-emerged sheepishly from the back office where he had been cowering, hoping not to be discovered.

The paramedics checked to ensure no-one was injured and the customers and staff were all treated for shock. The police began their work of collecting evidence. Two hours later and the property had been thoroughly checked, they'd studied all the security camera footage and statements had been taken. Sarah was commended for her cool handling of the situation although she was unable to contribute much with her statement.

"I don't really know what happened. It all passed in a blur. He pointed a gun and asked me for the money and I gave it to him."

Mandy had recovered completely and was able to give a full and detailed account. Now feeling out of danger, she was enjoying the excitement and the celebrity.

The police discovered that the robbers had an accomplice waiting in a car at the end of the lane and they'd made a speedy escape. All local CCTV was being checked to try to identify the vehicle.

Some banknotes were recovered from the doorway where they'd spilled when 'Cowell' was leaving, but the police were overjoyed also to find a receipt and credit card voucher which had apparently slipped from his pocket in his rush to escape. They related to the purchase of two masks that morning from the Party Store. Police officers were dispatched to check the costume retailer where they were given a detailed description of the man who'd made the particular purchase. The name and address of the account holder for the transaction was divulged by Mastercard revealing he was a known felon by the name of James Carey who had a history of bank jobs. His description fitted the one given at the Party Store. A search warrant was already in the course of preparation and an arrest pending. There was a very high probability that in this short time the case had already been solved. The police officers were almost in party spirit, delighting at Carey's misfortune.

It wasn't yet closing time but Sarah was told she could go home early. She put on her overcoat and scarf in preparation for the cold, autumn chill. Before reaching the door she heard a familiar chirping and lifted her mobile phone to read the message.

'Just got your lunchtime text, sorry you're having such a dull day. Never mind you'll get lots of excitement tonight. I'm coming to see you perform and I'm bringing the rest of the 'Bay City Bowlers.' Love Mum

END

# SURVIVORS

By Tyler Roberts

Monk turned off the ham radio and sat alone in the enveloping silence, casually observing his surroundings. The familiar scene of baseball and military memorabilia lining the garage walls and the smell of the wood stove mixed with a faint touch of engine oil filled his world. Never would I have imagined my life would come down to this. A collection of old mementos, a ham radio and a graveyard of lost loved ones next door. There must be some lasting contribution I can make before my Maker comes for me. Something that will...

Chen's troops squealed to a halt in the drive way, the thud of their boots interrupting his thoughts. That blasted Chinaman. Been harassing me ever since Cliffson and his son left. He should know by now I won't give him the information he wants.

Chen marched through the door of the garage without knocking, chest puffed and reeking of an air of confidence that always goaded Monk. Cocky little squirt.

He found Monk rocking in his chair. "Hello Mista Monk, how are you today?"

"Was just fine until now Chen." Monk's gravelly voice complained. Though not tall, he still towered over the little general.

"You not very friendly today Mista Monk."

"Thanks right, now why don't you just turn around and take yourself home. You're not welcome here."

"Ah, but you forget one thing Mista Monk. China now own your country. You live here only by the good graces of our kindness and since this is the case, let us get on with our business. We have enjoyed a very beneficial relationship since the time you informed me the Cranks were planning to steal our supplies. Yes?"

"Get on with it."

"Unfortunately, that relationship must come to an end today if you do not provide me with the information I have come for."

"Chen, this is uncalled for. You know full well I have always cooperated with your requests."

"Then we shall see just how accommodating you are Mista Monk. I told you two weeks ago there would be stiff price to pay if you not provide information I have demanded. So then, your two weeks are up and I have returned as promised. First question. I must know what you did with the chest of gold you and Cliffson took from the Crank's old house. Where did you hide it?"

"Gold?" Monk snorted. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I believe you do. Tell me where the West's disappeared to. I think I might find them and the gold in the same place, no?"

"You're chasing the tail of a wild hare Chen. Either that or you been smoking some of that weed from LaPine."

"This is no joke Mista Monk. If you refuse to tell me what you know there will be price to pay. Next question; tell me what you know about Cliffson and his sons. Where are they hiding?"

Monk shrugged his shoulders. "Like I've told you before, I haven't seen them for weeks."

"We have reason to believe they returned days ago and this is the first place they would come. Would you like to reconsider your answer?"

"There's nothing more I can tell you."

"You lie!" Chen swung his fist for Monk's jaw, but it was seized in mid flight. The barrel-chested old man poured his strength into the vice grip that was his right hand while Chen fought to maintain his composure.

"Don't you ever strike me Chen. Ever. Are we clear on that?" Monk's low snarl sounded more wolverine than human.

"You shall pay for this Monk." Monk twisted Chen's wrist ever so slightly, forcing him to bow and grimace, all the while knowing he was crossing a line by embarrassing the commander. "Guards!" Chen cried.

Three guards advanced on Monk with pistols drawn and he was quickly tied to a wooden chair with his hands stretched behind him.

"This is last chance Mista Monk." Chen rubbed his sore wrist, but the gleam in his eye was unmistakable as he anticipated what was about to happen. "I warned you there would be price to pay for withholding information. Until today we had trustworthy relationship. Such a shame to throw it away. Now tell me where Cliffson can be found." Chen demanded.

A slight grin came to Monks face. He knew things were about to get rough, but refused to engage the man on a serious level. Cocking his head to the side and squinting up to look through his one good eye, Monk answered. "Looks like a turd in your pocket Chen, or maybe you're just glad to see me?"

"I have no time for your tomfoolery."

Monk burst into laughter. "Tomfoolery. That's a good one Chen."

Chen nodded to one of the guards who pistol whipped Monk from behind, knocking him to the floor with the chair still tied to him. "Is that the best you can do Chen?" Monk groaned. "Call in your henchmen while you cower in the corner."

"Untie him." Chen's mouth was quivering with rage as he struggled to stay in control of himself. "I tell you again Mista Monk this is last chance. You must answer both questions. If you do not, you shall die."

Blood was leaking from Monk's right ear, tingeing the fringe of white hair that circled the lower half of his head with a crimson red. Turning his steely one-eyed gaze on Chen he spat. "I owe you nothing. I owe my friends everything." Monk croaked. "I've seen your brutality. You are a monster Chen who doesn't have the balls to even fight an old man like myself." Monk wiped at the blood trickling down the side of his neck. "Show me I'm wrong Chen. Fight me and if I lose you get your answers."

Chen's dark eyes shot back daggers and Monk knew the man was tempted. He would squash the little dictator if given just half a chance. Then Chen seemed to realize the old warrior might be more than a match.

Trembling with the anger that now raged through his limbs, Chen screamed his order. "Take him to the Lang's house!"

Outside broken sunshine dappled the lawn and a light breeze danced while Monk was beaten. Then two soldiers seized him by the arms and dragged him to the Lang's empty home next door. Chen stopped for a moment to bellow crisp new orders at one of his soldiers before disappearing into the garage. Moments later he rejoined his men in the kitchen where they were restraining Monk. Confronting his one eyed opponent once again, Chen held up two ten penny nails and a hammer.

"Now we shall see just how brave you are Mista Monk. Place his hands palm up on the counter." Chen spat. Struggling against four guards, Monk was forced into position against the kitchen counter.

Chen's spittle flew and he raged at Monk. "You know where the gold is and you know where the West's are hiding! I demand an answer to my questions. This is last chance Mista Monk. Answer me and I spare you. Just two questions. Fail to provide the information I need and you will be nailed to counter."

Again Monk struggled against the guards, but his aging body was no match and the four younger men quickly subdued him. Unblinkingly he stared into Chen's hate filled eyes and was suddenly reminded of his time in Nam. The look of men in death masks was unmistakable and Chen wore one now.

"The first question is easy Monk. Where are the Wests hiding and how do I find them?"

Monk's tight lipped grin lit up his good eye. "That's two questions."

Chen nodded and a guard struck Monk in the kidneys with the butt of his rifle while the other two pinned his hands, palm up, to the counter. Through the kitchen window a beam of light glint from the tip of the nail and caught Monk's good eye as Chen positioned it over his hand. Chen raised the hammer and glared at Monk. "Last chance pirate man."

"Only a coward would..."

The hammer fell and Monk's world swam. Chen continued pounding, driving the nail deep into the counter, each blow a chisel slicing at Monk's nerves. Blood pooled on the counter against the side of Monks arm before streaming to the floor as a misty veil began to fall over Monks consciousness.

Chen grabbed Monk by the chin and held the remaining nail to his face. "This one's for the other hand Monk. Think for a moment before I ask next question." Chen stepped aside and opened the kitchen window to yell at two soldiers in his native tongue. He took his time, enjoying Monk's agony and his struggles to remain standing.

Sweat was beading on Monk's forehead and poured from the tip of his chin when Chen turned to face him again. Summoning new courage, Monk drew strength to face Chen once more and just as he did a sudden whoosh of flame exploded to life, filling the air with the oily smell of gasoline. Orange flames began dancing outside the window in a fireball licking at the sides of the house and reflecting in Chen's eyes.

Chen brought the point of the second nail to within inches of Monk's good eye. "You failed to answer my first question and the price for your lack of cooperation is the Lang's house. Do not be a fool Mista Monk; you can still save your life by answering the next question. Where is Cliffson and how do I find him?"

Monk spat in Chen's face and snarled. "I would never betray my friend for a rat like you. Never!"

Chen wiped his face on his sleeve, pausing for a moment as if considering what to do before striking Monk in the face. "Have it your way Monk."

Positioning himself to drive the second nail Chen paused to look at Monk one last time. "I tell you this Mista Monk, you die a brave man."

"I don't know how a coward like you could possibly know." Monk grunted.

With renewed enthusiasm the hammer fell once more, and then again, and again, and again, before Chen dropped the hammer and ushered his troops from the house.

Monk writhed in pain. Fire danced up and down a live wire sharp as a razor leaving him barely able to stand. Then a dark fog closed in as the counter top flooded with a sea of scarlet blood and Monk's good eye attempted to follow the progress of the flames outside. I didn't yield. Praise God I didn't fail my friends when the end came.

Stepping to his truck, Chen paused for a moment to watch the flames rise up against a ruby red sun setting behind the house. Then turning smartly, he climbed inside before glancing back towards the house one more time.

Two riders were approaching as Chen and his men raced to the highway, causing one horse to rear, nearly throwing its mount before attempting to bolt.

Both riders were just bringing their animals back under control when one man cried out, "That's my brother's house."

Racing the final two blocks the men pulled up hard, causing the horses to slip on the pavement. Throwing their reins over the pole fence at the front of the property the men dashed to the house, searching for a way in. Together they circled the building, probing in vain for a way inside. Angry flames clawed at the siding keeping the men at bay with swords of orange and black flame. The house cracked and popped in the throes of its own hellfire demise. Making their way to the back of the house the men were peppered with shards of glass when a window burst forth to pour out its dense black smoke. Arriving at the back of the house they discovered a patio with a sliding glass door. It was their only chance of gaining access but the flames were closing in on both sides.

One man challenged the flames only to find the door locked. Repelled by the heat and falling back in a fit of coughs he lay on the grass gasping.

"There's a man inside."

The second man raced to a rock wall near the back of the property and quickly returned with a fat stone. He hesitated only a moment when the flames threatened to engulf the entire door, before charging the wall of fire and smashing the glass. When he retreated from the intense heat, the second man rushed the house and began knocking out the remaining glass shards from the door frame with a shovel.

Charging inside the men were nearly overcome when dark tendrils of smoked reached down their throats threatening to eviscerate their lungs. At first they couldn't understand why the near unconscious man in the kitchen hadn't left the house. Then to their horror they realized his hands were nailed to the counter.

The men quickly stripped off their shirts and soaked them in water at the sink before draping them over their faces and that of the bald man struggling to remain conscious. The wet shirt seemed to revive him just a bit.

"The hammer." Monk groaned, nodding to his right where Chen had left it laying on the counter.

Spreading the man's fingers apart to make room to place the hammer, one man threw his weight against the handle in an attempt to pull the nail but soon fell to his knees in a spasm of coughs. The heat of the flames was searing and their flesh would soon be barbequing on a spit of hate if they didn't make this quick. When the second man grabbed the hammer, ripping away the nail, Monk fell limp, hanging from his torn left hand.

"Hold him up." Billy yelled at Tom and applied the hammer to the remaining nail. The wood shrieked its resistance but slowly yielded and Monk fell limp when the nail came free.

"Grab his feet."

Flames now fully engulfed the door where they had entered but the men had no choice. Carrying Monk between them and moving as quickly as they could, the three men charged the flames and tumbled outside into the cool grass. Monk's shirt was on fire, scorching a shrill scream from his parched throat as consciousness returned. The men quickly rolled him in the grass to extinguish the flames, before backing further away from the blazing house.

His eye patch gone, a dazed, soot covered Monk weakly stared at the men with one good eye and one raw socket. "Now that there's a fire Mr. Ronnie." Monk's pained grin wavered through a sweat stained face.

"Mr. Ronnie?" Billy asked.

"Never mind. Was something a friend used to say."

Extending his hand, "I'm Billy, Billy Lang and this here's Tom."

"Did you say Lang?" Monk said, squinting through his pain etched face.

"That's right; now let's get you patched up."

"My house is right next door, but let me ask you something." Monk's raw voice croaked.

"Soon as we get you patched up."

There wasn't a lot they could do for Monk's hands but clean and bandage them. After treating burns on his scalp and one shoulder the men laid Monk on the couch and took turns holding his hands above his head to slow the bleeding.

"Lang you say." Monk's groggy, weary words were slurred from the pain meds they had given him. "You must be related to Cliffson."

"Cliffson? You know my brother?"

"I did know him son. He left here weeks ago." Monk paused a moment to catch his breath. No one spoke while anxiously waiting for the old man to recover. Then with a smoke engraved voice he continued. "Took his oldest son with him in an attempt to rescue his other son from a Chinese work camp. Sorry to have to tell you this but the bastards killed him."

"Killed Cliffson? How do you know this?"

"His sons returned just last week. Told me the entire story." Monk looked down and seemed to lose himself in thought before continuing. "I'm very sorry Mr. Lang. Your brother was a good man and I miss him."

END

# Hellfire

By Drew Avera

2 July 2029

I rose out of bed to another migraine headache. It was six in the morning based on the searing luminescent glow of the alarm clock. Every morning for as long as I could remember I had awakened to a feeling that I could only describe as the type of headache you get when you drink something cold too fast. I looked over at my itinerary that was sitting on a small table next to the bedroom door. Another test of the latest Pi-Mech (Piloted Assault Mechanism) was scheduled for today. This one was an upgraded version of the AF-45F Hellfire. I ran my hand through my hair holding my head in my hand trying to force the headache away before I grabbed my flight suit and got dressed for the day.

After breakfast I walked into hangar nine to receive my mission brief. Bob Franklin was standing next to the new prototype Pi-Mech. We had been friends for years and I had to admit that he wore the years a lot harder than I did. I could see the crease in his forehead where a thick mane of hair used to fall. The old adage, 'youth is wasted on the young,' came to mind. The new Pi-Mech had all the bells and whistles when it came to armament, but good ol' Bob neglected the paint job as usual.

"So, this is the next big thing eh, Bob?" I asked.

He turned half startled, "Hey, Nate. Yeah, this is her." He smiled and shook my hand for a little longer than I considered necessary and I noticed that there was something odd about the way he was looking at me. He turned back to the unit and jotted down a few notes into his tablet. "The controls are the same as always, we just made things a little more user friendly and things like that. It should be relatively straight forward. Do you have any questions?" he asked with an exhale.

"Nope, I'm just ready to get going," I slapped him on the back and he laughed awkwardly. "Are you alright, Bob?" I asked. "You look kind of ill."

"No, I'm fine. Let's get you strapped in and ready to roll." He stood behind me as I donned my head gear. The wiring and hardware mounted to the helmet made it weight about three times more than what most people would consider comfortable. When I first started this job I was afraid of breaking my neck due to the weight. Those days were behind me, I thought to myself as I climbed into the cockpit of the Pi-Mech and strapped myself in. I fiddled with the controls again before closing the egress hatch. I looked over at Bob as it closed and noticed there was something behind those eyes of his. I shook the thought out of my head when I heard General Parker take the com and initialize the mission program.

"Are you ready, Captain?" he asked in his brisk, snarly sort of way. The holographic video fed onto the Heads Up Display and the details of his face were striking. I could even see the cigar smoke emanating out of his mouth as he spoke. 'Mr. Brass' was my little pet name for General Parker and I felt that he liked it about as much as he liked me, which was not a lot.

"Yes, sir," I replied with a half-hearted salute that he never returned.

"Now start the countdown procedure," the General said into the com just before the sequence began. An electronic voice counted down from ten and I was reminded of the migraine I had wakened to this morning. I pushed it aside as the hangar doors opened and I could see bright sunlight pour into my visor. I dropped the darkened lenses into place and controlled the Pi-Mech onto the battleground. The desert area was rocky and steep and the temperature was so high that I could see the blur of heat radiating off of the ground in the distance.

It did not take long for the first strike to happen. In fact I was barely two minutes into the training exercise before the first shot was fired. My morning was to be filled to the brim with bombardment after bombardment. It became a blur of smoke and fire. I was so used to the programming that I did most of the battle on autopilot save for a few rough sensory inputs here and there. I pulled the trigger liberally at the U-Mechs (Unmanned Assault Mechanism) and rained fire and bullets into the machines. No loss of human life today, except maybe mine if I lost my focus. Even with the headaches I was more focused than the next guy. That must be why I was so revered as a test pilot. That and the fact that this was shit duty no matter how much the pay was.

I took out at least a dozen of the other units before I had a chance to catch my breath. I scanned the horizon under a glaring sun for the next wave of the attack. I could feel the heat radiating from the fiery remains of the U-Mech that was burning beneath me. At some point in all the fun I was having I had seemed to damage my unit's oxygen generating system. I mistakenly made the decision to open the vent that allowed the outdoor air to filter into the cockpit. I wasn't ready for the putrid smell of burning chemicals so I quickly closed the vent door shut. I would have preferred hypoxia over the death brought on by sniffing the burning hazardous materials surrounding me.

I worked the controls of my P-Mech and ran a quick diagnostic check of its operating systems. The Heads Up Display showed that my oxygen system was degraded as well as my thrust propulsion system. Other than that, everything was passable. I cued the targeting scanners to survey for any immediate threats. I was still reeling from the last battle and it had re-triggered the migraine I had wakened to this morning. I had been having trouble shaking these headaches for what seemed like an eternity. I swore under my breath as two bleeps illuminated onto my HUD.

The lead U-Mech landed about sixty yards away as its wingman continued an aerial hover tactic. God, I wished that my thrust propulsion was working at that moment. If I could move quicker then I could take both of them out without leaving myself open for an attack. The grinding gears of my unit moving sideways would be a tell-tale sign of its degrading performance to another human combatant; lucky for me I was fighting machines.

I could see the reflection of my Pi-Mech in the mirrored surface of my new enemy that stood before me. Not to sound trite, but I looked like utter hell. I had failed to notice a drop in hydraulic pressure before, but the red mist escaping the lubrication system of my twenty millimeter canon brought that to my attention. I stood still as I calculated my next move. The obvious target would be the ground unit, it's closer and an easier target to hit, but the risk of leaving myself open to an air bombardment by the hovering unit was not one that I was willing to take.

My targeting system locked onto the hovering U-Mech a fraction of a second before I pulled the trigger. Bingo, the three remaining 20mm rounds may not have taken it out, but the eighty foot drop onto the sharp rocks below sure did! Unfortunately my Pi-Mech's audible warning tone alerted me to a complete hydraulic failure in the weapons system. I was left with only two small fractal rounds that I could only shoot at an object directly in front of me. Every other weapon in the unit was either empty or disabled. I wasn't sure if my Pi-Mech could sustain another round of physical combat. Franklin Technologies did not design them for Mech Jousting, but when you're up a shit creek sometimes you've got to jump ship and swim through the crap to victory. That was my plan now.

My Pi-Mech crunched over the blackened earth underfoot as I ran it towards the U-Mech. At twenty yards I triggered the fractals and squinted at the blinding explosions before me. I could have sworn that both of the fractals were direct hits. I would have sworn wrong, the U-Mech stood before me with black smoke rising from its hull. It appeared that the fractals damage was minimal and now I was unarmed against a fully armed and ready U-Mech. Damn, I was screwed.

I rode the forward momentum of the Pi-Mech for all it had, slamming into my opponent. We both fell over in a loud metallic clash. One of the biggest drawbacks of the design of my unit was the lack of the internal stabilization system. I had to control every movement of the Pi-Mech, including those required to stand after falling. The U-Mech, on the other hand, simply fell over and rolled immediately back up into a standing position. In a battle like this, every second mattered. I was still face down in the dirt when I felt the strain of my Pi-Mech's mechanical system buckle under the pressure of the U-Mech. I pressed security camera buttons frantically trying to figure out the U-Mechs position. I finally stumbled upon the right angle and peering through my optical interface I realized that it had one foot on the back of my unit and it was targeting my center section, essentially it was targeting me!

In a flash of brilliance I activated my counter measures system. Flares erupted from my unit in a whirl of blinding light. I winced at the spectacle as it shone on my optical interface. By a stroke of luck I felt the pressure subside as the weight holding me down eased up. I seized control of the situation by jamming the controls full right, causing the Pi-Mech to roll out from under the U-Mech. As I looked at the machine I could see that I had fried its targeting and guidance systems. It stood there and I could hear the whining of the engine powering the unit. U-Mechs are known for being able to bypass failed systems and continue to fight so this was far from over if I just stood there and looked at it.

I took a few steps forward and drove the right arm of my Pi-Mech straight into the center body of the other unit. In a spray of sparks I pulled out wiring harnesses that powered the unit, effectively killing it. The whining of the machine spooled down and I stood in relative silence. Sweat dripped down my face and I realized the cockpit was a sweltering cocoon. The game was over so I pressed the egress icon on the forward console and welcomed the rush of cool air blowing against my face. I wiped the sweat from my face with my arm and it came back black with soot. Apparently I had reopened the vents sometime during the battle.

As I sat against a rock outside of my Pi-Mech a few military vehicles pulled up. Like most military types, the suits driving waited until the last moment before hitting the breaks, kicking the loose sand into the air. I waved my hand through the air to dissipate the choking sand that was trying to enter my lungs. 'Mr. Brass' himself walked up to me with a smirk on his face.

"Captain Stout," he said. "Excellent demonstration, I think we'll be able to work the kinks out this time. How do you feel?"

"Great, sir." I stood up and gave the old man a half-hearted salute. It wasn't a sign of disrespect; it's just that the old man doesn't give a damn to salute you back. I guess that's what happens when you become a General. A couple of suits followed behind him. One was Bob Franklin, my friend and the CEO of Franklin Technologies who designed the ride I had just taken.

"Nathan," he said.

"Bob," I nodded. We go far enough back that titles like 'captain' and 'sir' don't mean anything.

"By my calculations we will need to find a more secure spot for the oxygen generator, a sturdier thrust propulsion system, and maybe see about doing something to beef up the hydraulics. You have anything to add, Nate?"

"Yeah, she could use some paint," I laughed and patted Bob on the back. I leaned forward and could see Bob smiling until he saw the general walking back towards us. He gave me a strange look before turning his attention back to the general.

"They said they'll take her, Bob," General Parker said.

"Alright, write me up the order and my company will get started on manufacturing," he smiled back at me before trotting back to the vehicle he had arrived in. As he walked away his shoulders drooped in an awkward way for a man who had just made billions of dollars. I didn't know why, but maybe it was just stress. I looked up at General Parker and ran my hand through my hair. He leaned against the same rock I was sitting on and leaned in real close to me as some suits made a semicircle around our perimeter.

"I just want you to know that you did a great job today, Nathan," he said.

"Thank you, sir."

"I also want you to know that we couldn't have done this without your blessing."

"What do you mean 'my blessing'?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter," he said and he straightened up and walked back toward the vehicles. "Gentlemen, secure the clone."

"Clone?" it was the only word to escape my mouth. Every other thought ended in a rain of gunfire under a gleaming sun.

3 July 2029

Another migraine headache drove me out of bed. Every morning for as long as I could remember I had awakened to a feeling that I could only describe as the type of headache you get when you drink something cold too fast. I looked at my itinerary for the day, laid across the table next to my flight suit. I had testing and evaluation scheduled for a new Pi-Mech today. This one was an upgraded version of the AF-45H Hellfire. I brushed my hand through my hair and held my head in my hand trying to force the headache away mentally.

"It's going to be a long day," I thought to myself before grabbing my flight suit to get dressed.

END

# About The Authors

The authors in this anthology are members of the Anything Goes... Author's Group.

Visit us on Facebook at  https://www.facebook.com/groups/Anythinggoesauthorsgroup/ or see our hashtag on Twitter, #aga3.

## Lindy Spencer

Lindy Spencer currently lives in Oklahoma with her superhero family - Amazing Husband and Super Smart Dog. When she's not writing she's most likely reading, riding motorcycles or shooting things with a Canon.

Her first novel, The Boomerang Effect, is a murder mystery with a karmic twist and can be found at

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1478209518/

 http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-boomerang-effect-lindy-spencer/1112181586

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/180083

She loves to visit with fans and can be found at www.facebook.com/LindySpencer.Author

The End, Or Is It? is a work of fiction. The only fitting dedication for this story is WOW.

The End ~ Or Is It? has also been published in FEY Publishings anthology titled Horrors of History.

## Cameron Jon Bernhard

C.J. Bernhard began his publishing adventure in 2013 under the name J.B. Cameron. His rebranding came after an identically named author published online, introducing the possibility of future problems. Though born in New Brunswick, Canada, his work usually shows more influence from an upbringing of American TV than his maritime roots. A writer who generally plays loose with the constraints of genre, Bernhard's dark style and black humor typically places fun, exciting characters in situations of suspense or urban horror, making an exciting roller coaster ride to both chill and amuse readers. Author of numerous novels, novellas and screenplays, his first published novel, "Reading The Dead: The Sarah Milton Chronicles," introduces a supernatural detective series unlike anything you'll find elsewhere.

Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/bWt3f9

## Linda S. Pearce

Linda S. Pearce has worked extensively with at-risk youth and in the field of dog, cat and horse rescue. She has been employed as a project coordinator and in the field of IT for nearly thirty years. She has trained as a theatrical sword fighter with the Seattle Knights. Her interests include reading, particularly fantasy and detective fiction, horseback riding, target shooting and her pets.  
She and her husband and co-author Michael Tinker Pearce make their home in Seattle, WA. They wrote the Foreworld Novella, The Shield Maiden, and are currently writing a second Foreworld novella. They have recently finished their first novel, Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman.

## Michael Tinker Pearce

Michael Tinker Pearce lives in Seattle with his wife and co-author Linda. He got the nickname Tinker in the 1980s when he was at various times a soldier, college student, a bodyguard, a private investigator, a meat-carver at a restaurant, a police officer, an illustrator, heavy equipment operator, cover-copy writer, outlaw road-racer, Drill Instructor Candidate, receptionist, executive assistant to the heads of corporate banking at Citycorps, Tobacconist, courier for a currency exchange etc.

He finally settled down to become a knife and sword maker, specializing in the blades of medieval Europe and the Viking Era. He is the author of The Medieval Sword in the Modern World, and the designer of the CAS/Hanwei Tinker Line of medieval swords and trainers. He is a trained theatrical fighter and choreographer, and a student of Historic European Martial Arts. He co-authored the Foreworld novella 'The Shield Maiden and the couple has just finished their first novel, Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman. Their second Foreworld Novella, Tyr's Hammer, is being published in October 2013. The couple is currently working on their second novel, Rage of Angels, a hard-science military science-fiction story based on the events in The Killing Machine and What Happens in Dubai. They hope to release this book in time for Christmas.

Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Michael-Tinker-Pearce/e/B00A6X16X6/

## Zach Abrams

After a successful career in business and finance, Zach Abrams fairly recently started writing fiction.

His first novel 'Ring Fenced' was published in November 2011. This is a crime story with a difference, having an underlying theme of obsession, power and control.

This novel was followed by a collaboration with Elly Grant to produce 'Twists and Turns' a book of short stories and flash fiction.

In 2012, Zach completed his second novel 'Made a Killing' and it quickly joined the ranks of bestselling crime fiction. It is a fast moving, gripping novel set in the tough crime-ridden streets of Glasgow.

More in keeping with 'Made a Killing,' Zach was raised in Glasgow and has spent many years working in Central Scotland.

'A Measure of Trouble', sequel to 'Made a Killing' has been published this summer and Zach is currently working on a new project 'The Source' which centers on investigative journalism.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Zach-Abrams/e/B008DGHXQC

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Zach-Abrams-author/463346010364540

## Tyler Roberts

Tyler Roberts was born in eastern Washington and grew up working in the wheat fields there. Through those experiences he met and grew to know a wealth of real "characters" that now provide a rich vein of personalities from which to draw when writing.

Tyler was not always a writer. In fact he refers to himself as the "reluctant writer" in his blog. During his senior year in high school an elderly English teacher asked him to take a test and write a short story. He hated English but decided to humor the teacher by taking the test. A few weeks later she returned with two scholarship offers to writing schools. At 17 Tyler couldn't image himself as a writer and never took it seriously. But that old teacher must have seen something.

Though the writing seed had been planted, it lay dormant until Tyler retired. At that time he began writing for himself, just for the enjoyment of writing. When his eldest son found out about it he convinced Tyler to polish the work and have it published. That is the work now known as Truth's Blood.

Tyler is educated in the biological science fields and has been married for 33 years. He is a great fan of history, an avid beekeeper, organic gardener and manager of a small orchard. He is currently working on the sequel to Truth's Blood.

Blog: http://organictruths.wordpress.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Cliffsonmonk

Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Truths-Blood-ebook/dp/B00AREMKV6

Barnes and Noble:  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/truths-blood-tyler-roberts/1114020093

## Drew Avera

Drew Avera is an active duty navy veteran and writer of science fiction thrillers. Originally from Mississippi, he now lives in Virginia with his wife and two daughters. His other interests include reading, gaming, and playing guitar. His first book was picked up by Itoh Press and is scheduled for release in December 2013. His novella, Reich, is available on Amazon for the Kindle. He is currently working on multiple projects including a Thriller called Devil's Cradle. You can follow Drew at the links listed below.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/drewavera

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authordrewavera

Blog: http://www.drewavera.wordpress.com
