The Pre-dead Saga

The Pre-dead Saga by Ripley King

Horror, fantasy, science fiction. Two novels together, telling one story.

Ripley King’s Burnt Offerings is a collection of 20 short stories, bridged together by a larger narrative. And Jesus Wept is the stand-alone sequel. Read together, in order, they tell the powerful story of ordinary people caught in the deadly crosshairs of extraordinary events.

One must live, and one must die.

The trick is to accomplish both, all without lifting a finger. It’s as simple as one angel’s task, becoming one man’s burden.

Novel and Cover Illustration © 2013 Ripley King All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locals, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over, and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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To my lovely granddaughter Nevaeh. Papa loves you.

Burnt Offerings by Ripley King

A rugged well-muscled man suddenly appeared near the center of a crowded intersection, startling all around, screaming salvation or damnation to heaven-on-high and everybody who would listen, grasping at all who dared pass by. He was out-and-out naked.

The first cops on the scene noted the naked crazy man probably weighed two hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and decided to approach with riot batons out. Pepper spray was un-holstered.

The two officers approached the man together. The idea being the first officer would spray the disturbed man in the eyes with the pepper spray to blind him, throw him off his guard; then the second officer would cock the poor slob upside the head with his baton. Working together the two policemen would see him cuffed.

The plan would have been a good one, yet several problems remained to hinder it. The first of which was the pepper spray didn’t blind him. It enraged him. That plus the naked crazy man didn’t go down with the first or second or third blow to the brainpan. Instead he lashed out, becoming a danger to the two officers, as well as the mushrooming populace gathered to watch the highly unusual but unusually entertaining spectacle.

The first two police officers were quickly joined by four more burly men in blue, and together they had to work hard to wrestle the man to the pavement, into cuffs, and as an added precaution, plastic leg restraints. They, in a word or two, hogtied him.

The police were obviously dealing with a deranged, probably drugged lunatic. A man who was as much a danger to himself as well as others who happened to get in his way. A hospital with a competent psychiatric ward was nearby and suggested.

With the general public watching, some of them murmuring about the dozen or so blows to his noggin by their many batons, a decision was made by the senior officer at the scene to send the man there, rather than endanger other, more benign prisoners in lockup, avoiding a possible inquest if he was unfortunate enough to up and die in their custody.

The man was promptly bundled into the back of a uniform’s cruiser, and shipped down the road less traveled.

Brought in by the front door, bypassing the Emergency Room, creating a thoroughly unique spectacle for those in the lobby, the man was carried into the first elevator (going up) to open.

He was cut in several innocuous locations, bleeding all over himself, bloodying whatever and whoever he happened to bump against, and onto the floor.

When the heavy gage plastic the police used to turn him into a human suitcase was removed, he was quickly admitted to the well-lit third floor, still cuffed for his own protection. A large syringe of Thorazal was administered.

His body struggled less, yet his mind tumbled like it was profoundly out of phase with the rest of the world, and all around him flashed into focus for the shortest of moments, only to vanish into the unfathomable abyss of his confusion. A torment of sight, sound, touch, and smell.

He raged against the unknown inside of him as well as outside of him. Words that made no sense toppled from his lips, or were spat out at the cops who were not-so-patiently waiting for another large syringe of Thorazal to be administered.

The second shot calmed the man on the outside, but not on the inside. What was inside his mind frightened him, which provided fuel to the fight or flight furnace within, yet it was too late. He had been wrestled across the room, strapped to a Gurney, and wheeled into a patient utility room to be cleaned up, professionally stitched, and bandaged.

He remained in that room for some time covered neck to toe by a single, clean white sheet, screaming with little or no sound into his own mental black hole.

An attendant came by and checked his pulse, but that was all.

A nurse came by much later and drew blood, though he didn’t feel her hands on his restrained arm. She pried open one eye and asked a question, but didn’t get a coherent response. A smaller third shot of Thorazal lulled the man into a dreamless sleep.

It was some time later when the man suddenly woke that he had his first lucid thought. It was about the nurse. Her words had sounded . . . wrong. That was all, nothing more. Again, he slept.

He finally woke to a mind no longer inflated by the twisted or frightening. Two attendants were wheeling him into a standard bleached hospital room. Inside the hospital room was an old man with long bluish-gray hair, sitting on the edge of an early model, barely comfortable, white hospital bed.

With the old man watching the two attendants removed his restraints, dressed him in ward-specific green hospital pajamas, and placed him on a bed of his own. The word catatonic was casually tossed from one attendant to the other.

What happens if he starts screaming again? the second attendant asked the first attendant. Their words filling his empty mind with meaning, learning anew that their language was also his.

The chief will let us know when he gets tired of it, the first attendant said. Right, Chief?

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, said the chief. Aren’t you going to buckle him up?

Nope, the first attendant replied. I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere, or doing anything for a long while.

The second attendant patted him on the head in a condescending way, and followed the first attendant out of the room.

Seconds later the old man stood, walked over to him, gazed into his face for a few minutes, and said, You don’t belong here.

The old man gently touched his numbed cheek, and he held onto the old man’s stare like a lifeline, and let the first images his mind could hold, form.

How the People Kept Their Power

When the Grandfather spread his hair, sparks from each strand became the stars. It was he who made the Sky Father and the Earth Mother. Also he made the Moon Sister, whose lifecycle affects us all.

I am old, and do not believe all the stories as they were told to me, yet know the universe is vast. I also know the universe is a bubble, and we are on the inside with no way out. It is the Circle of Life, and the Circle of Life is what we are.

The Moon Sister was pretty, yet was barren. The Earth Mother was not. It was she who made the bear and bird, the fish and wolf, and all other creatures. She also made man and woman, for we are also animals, and her knowledge is found in the hearts of all things. This made the Moon Sister angry and jealous, so she hid her face until the Sky Father spoke to her and asked that she smile, which she does now once a month out of joy. She knows the Sky Father loves her.

The anger and jealousy of the Moon Sister, what she kept hidden, soured, and a Black Warrior rode the darkness to infest the Earth Mother. This happens now and again. It was I who fought the last Black Warrior. I was young and impatient.

Mountains rumbled, and the Earth Mother shook. She had a secret to tell. It was I who went up the mountain to listen, to touch the spirit of the Earth Mother.

The insects were frightened, so did not bite. I am always grateful for small favors and thanked them. Snakes were to be avoided for they were angry, and would remain so for several days.

I was on a spirit quest, so took no food. I had nothing to drink, but knew I would find water enough to quench the most powerful thirst. I sheathed my knife, and also my pipe, so I could take counsel from nature.

I climbed the holy places, and when I looked down between my feet I saw Grandfather Peyote. I pulled the button from the soil and ate it, for contained within Grandfather Peyote is a powerful medicine. It makes the heart beat strong, and the spirit unfold like a spring bloom.

I found sweet grass, which I cut. I gathered wood and made a fire with the back of my knife, striking it against a stone, and smoked the sweet grass to purify my spirit and body. When my clothes vanished I knew my prayers had been answered. The spirits would protect me as long as I was not foolish.

I was thirsty, and could hear water as it tumbled toward the grassy plains below. I found the stream and drank, and as I drank I saw in my reflection the wisdom of two. Two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, man and woman, body and spirit.

I had been told to beware the spirit world if I was unprepared, so I asked the spirits if I was ready, and was answered. A black bear tore through the trees, and then lumbered up to me and spoke.

You are unsure, the bear said. Perhaps you are not the warrior I seek. Do you have any food to eat? A bear is always hungry.

I have no food for you, I said. Are you the Black Warrior I must face?

I am, but you do not possess the strength to defeat me.

Then I must call to the spirit of the grizzly bear, for he is more fierce.

So I called to the spirit of the grizzly. It came, and I was the grizzly.

We stood and roared our challenges. I knew my words and deeds were strong and clear, and charged the Black Warrior. His claws raked my chest, and his bite was deep, but the fur of a grizzly is thick, and his skin tough.

We rolled on the ground, biting and clawing each other until dirt flew into my eyes. I quickly cleared my vision, but the Black Warrior was gone. I was myself again.

The wounds bled, but I found the yellow root at my feet that halts the flow of blood. Once again the Earth Mother provided what I needed most.

I climbed farther up the mountain, and found some snow and danced. I did so to live. I danced, and an eagle’s feather fell at my feet. The feather was wide and long. I picked it up and asked the eagle for his power, and danced so to commune with his spirit.

I listened to the wind whisper that I could ride the currents, and heard the proud cry of my sky brother. Love filled his voice, and when I closed my eyes I saw with his eyes a puma, watching me as I dipped and wheeled in my joy. This puma was the Black Warrior.

I swooped and tried to rake the puma’s eyes with my strong talons. His paw swiped at me, but I tucked my wings against my body and rolled out of reach. With each beat of my powerful wings I climbed higher into the sky vault. It was then that I truly understood the Sky Father.

Water makes the clouds, lightning tears the clouds, clouds water the earth. That which is given birth will die and be reborn. Life is an endless ring with no beginning or end. The joy of being.

I whirled to attack, but the puma was gone. In his place was a rattlesnake. This was not the Black Warrior, but a temptation. To fight an angry rattlesnake is foolish.

I let my sky brother go to fly where the wind would take him, and noticed the sun was tired. I was also tired, and gathered more wood to throw onto my fire. The night would be long and cold for a warrior without clothes.

Earth Mother, wind, forest, hear my prayer. Protect me this night that I may finish my battle and defeat the Black Warrior. Then I made a brush shelter.

I smoked more sweet grass, and listened to my stomach complain for something to eat. It was then I heard the call of Sister Owl, who flies with the Moon Sister. I went to where she sat high in a tree, and asked her what she wanted. She threw down a hare for me to eat, then flew away to catch one for herself. I thanked her for the gift and skinned the hare. I did not know why Sister Owl helped me. It gave me something to think about.

The wood I had gathered provided a spit to cook the hare, and as the meat sizzled, I smoked more sweet grass and pondered my fate.

I was tied to the Black Warrior. Twins tethered by heritage.

We belong to our ancestors. One nation makes us strong. I had forgotten those concepts, remembering them was a lesson. This knowledge was earned.

I ate the hare while searching beyond the light of my fire. Darkness is a friend I was taught to embrace, so did not fear it. Shadows were made to hide our sorrows, and as I thought this, I noticed shadows gathering in the night like mists over warm waters on a cool morning. These shadows took the true form of the Black Warrior, whose eyes had a red glow. He looked like me.

As with the birth of the life-giving sun each morning, he said, I am born. As with the death of the sun each night, you will die.

His voice was that of the badger when angered. I was not sure I should speak to him in his true form, but did so anyway. If I am dead in your words, I am dead.

You cannot heal your soul, he said, yet you try to free your spirit.

I was not aware my soul was damaged.

You are not free to follow the deer, the elk, what is left of the buffalo, which are free. You are not free to fish any wide river, or migrate like the goose when winter comes.

I offered him a leg and thigh of the hare to eat. It was all I had left.

I came to fight, he said. Not to eat.

It was then I heard a wolf sing in the distance, and so did the Black Warrior.

A wolf will fight to lead his people, I said. Rarely does he shed blood. His warriors are necessary. A dead hunter cannot catch food.

Does this mean you will not fight?

"When Sister Owl gave me the hare to eat, I realized I had won this battle. You see, Grandfather Peyote gave me his wisdom, the Earth Mother gave me her sweet grass to heal my soul, and her yellow root to heal my body. When I drank the water I saw the wisdom of two acting as one, and with a child’s wonder I saw myself as a sacred being in the eyes of the Grandfather. Supernaturals like you, Black Warrior, are the teachers of new wisdom, or like for me, wisdom that has been forgotten. Like the grizzly my skin is thick, and my heart tough. The Earth Mother will never forsake her people. We fly like the eagle.

"I understand how the Sky Father makes love to the Earth Mother, and how I should love my people. Temptation will always have fangs, but to give in to temptation is foolish.

We will speak our languages to our young until the white skins see this as wisdom. We will tell our stories so we as a people never forget who we are. We will dance our dances to free our souls. I will counsel this. Our history is our culture, our connection to our ancestors. We may die in spirit on these lands, these reservations, but the dead see things differently, and our spirits will be reborn with each story. With each dance will the people keep their power.

With my words the Black Warrior smiled at me, and entered my heart to live as a part of me. The part of me that is just and wise. That was why he looked like me.

The reservations are still our homes, but that does not mean we are not one nation, and we are still powerful. Now our white brothers seek our knowledge, try to learn our ways, and because they were lost to us when the world was young, we give them our understanding.

The children of the Earth Mother are tied together like sticks in a tight bundle. What happens to one, affects all, or all our songs will remain silent, and all our prayers unspoken.

Go now and remember, peaceful are our lodges in the setting of the sun.

Why don’t I belong here? the young man asked the old man when the images had stopped.

Huh? the old man replied, rising from his bed. Did you say something?

Why don’t I belong here?

The old man walked over to him, and the puzzled look slowly gave way to a gap-toothed smile below deeply rutted yet kind eyes.

I said that to you yesterday, brother, and then they brought me my supper. It wasn’t very good. Boiled chicken and mashed potatoes. Very bland. Gassy, too. I miss a good steak with Tabasco sauce to throw on it. Maybe some Worcestershire sauce. Pepper. I miss pepper.

Why don’t I belong here? the young man asked for the third time, realizing the restraints were gone. He sat up, rubbing sore wrists.

The old man shrugged his age-narrowed shoulders and said, It was just a strange feeling I got when I looked into your eyes. When you have lived for as many years as I have, it’s good to get a strange feeling now and again, or any feeling at all.

The young man grunted, felt around his bandaged head to see what was what, and lowered himself onto the pillow, slowly. He rolled onto his side, his back toward the old man.

And just before he fell asleep again, he told the old man, "They didn’t believe you, your fight with the Black Warrior, your message of peace. I’d go back and tell them again and again until they do believe you."

I would, the old man replied, but I’m dead. Several years dead. It’s hard to do things when you’re dead.

Become a ghost, the young man said, and promptly fell asleep.

A young nurse with blazing orange hair and a sweet face woke him, he assumed, the next morning. The assumption made because she had a large breakfast tray of scrambled eggs, with buttered toast and orange juice next to her.

I’m sure you’re hungry, she said. They pumped enough happy juice in you, you slept for two whole days.

Two days? he said. I am hungry. Thank you.

Manners. Very nice. May I check your blood pressure?

She didn’t wait for his answer, but proceeded to wrap the black cuff around his exposed upper arm. She pumped, positioned her stethoscope, and released the valve. He could feel his blood throb strong down the length of his forearm, and then nothing. Afterward she gently held his wrist for a moment or two, gauging his pulse. Her touch was warm.

Her touch reminded him of a mother’s touch, but something was wrong. He suddenly realized he couldn’t remember his mother. He couldn’t say whether he had a mother. That area within his brain suddenly blank. He supposed he had a mother, somewhere.

All seems normal, she said. Do you know who you are?

The man had to think, searching hard the darkness within for the faintest glimmer of a name, and then said, Not a clue. I’m in a hospital. Was I in an accident?

The pretty nurse smiled, and said, The police found you downtown, screaming at everything and everyone. It took six cops to cuff you. No identification. You were naked. We were hoping you knew your name.

Did I hurt anyone?

Her eyes . . . they held such love and kindness, and she smiled to dazzle. He instantly liked her.

"They did a number on you, she said, but I think you only wounded their pride. No charges were filed."

Where’s the old man? he asked.

Mister Eagleclaw checked out last night. One of our voluntary psychiatric patients. He said he finally had something better to do than sit here and eat bad food for free. He was the sweetest man. I’m going to miss him.

You care about all your charges with that same devotion?

Yes I do, she said, laying her hand on his arm in what he took as a gesture of comfort. This is my life.

And her last words seemed to echo inside his head.

Fit for Survival

Leslie Tharp roused tired, as she always did exiting hibernation. The light level was .03, but stabbed at her eyes. She would note the fact in her first report, and hauled herself out of the warmed sleep chamber, wishing for minimal cold-sleep cramps. She was needed.

With a hefty exhale she yanked the fat ventilation and feeding tubes from her throat. Painfully she swallowed until her saliva glands began production. She disconnected the webbing of electrodes strategically attached down the entire length of her torso, and began stretching long dense limbs.

Leslie Tharp. Warrior. The best Earth has to offer. Survivor of fifteen missions over the last—

Computer, she hissed, her vocal cords craving flexibility. How long have I been in storage? It feels like forever.

Ten years, came the canned male response.

—eighty-eight years of her life as a warrior. A hundred and eight years old. She had been twenty years old when they recruited her.

Mission parameters? she asked.

"Humanity has encountered a new and secretive species, the name of which translates as ‘Roundhead.’ Both species wish to colonize the second planet, system A-55, Sigma sector. One warrior has been chosen by each species as per Rules of Engagement. Combat will commence in two hundred terrestrial hours."

Describe enemy species.

No description is available.

Why not?

No description has been filed.

Did Central request a description?

Unknown at this time.

Ask a stupid question. Find out if Central requested a description. If not, contact the council directly and request one.

Confirmed.

Location of combat?

Displayed.

Possession of Earth’s solar system would never be in doubt. All belonged to humanity. But as Earth stretched its ambitions, humanity found an autocratic interstellar community cemented in rules firmly based upon nature’s grand scheme to promote intelligence. Survival of the fittest.

Days one through eight, for the most part, were mundane with food and exercise. The training rooted in martial arts and close-quarter weaponry. Catching up on news and correspondence between-time was a big deal, with Earth just completing the second step in the effort to terraform Mars, using the rich atmosphere of Venus. Two water mining colonies were lost on Europa for some unknown reason, and her great granddaughter, Tinka, was now twelve.

Computer, connect to Earth. Family. Monica Wilkins.

Connecting.

She waited for some time before, Grandmother? It’s been ages. How are you?

Monica looked old. Far older than she had expected. I’m fine. You look good.

"You look good. I’m pushing forty, and you look twenty-five. I have some bad news to tell you."

Can it wait until after my mission?

Not this time. I’m sorry, but we buried mom five months ago. An accident . . . Folio Orbital Base 2. She left you a letter. I’ll transmit it to you later today.

Thank you. I’m sorry too, Moni. I never said my goodbyes. I haven’t told her that I loved her in years.

She never came to grips with you as a warrior, yet had to have space as a home. She made Assistant Commander. Did you know that?

I know now. And you? Did you learn to accept me as a warrior?

My problem was Mother’s space fetish. I’ve been in space once in my adult life, and that was more than enough. Tinka, she wants to be a warrior. Her school says she has the aptitude. She’s been giving it some thought. You are rather famous as Earth’s oldest, surviving warrior.

Key words: oldest, surviving. I can’t tell her what to do, but this isn’t the life I would’ve ever chosen on my own. Back then, they chose me.

They’ll never take her before her first child. She has time.

You should try to talk her out of it, nonetheless. I’ve missed so much.

I know. I sent several dozen news squirts over the last ten years. Did you get them?

Yes I did, and I’ve gone through them twice. I’m sorry, I have to go. Thank you again for Amanda. I’ll miss her, and you and Tinka.

Awake only for another mission?

The life of a warrior. I love you all.

We love you. Good luck.

She had two hours to quietly grieve her only daughter.

It was time to make her final selections. She procured her equipment out of military shipboard stores. Every item as lightweight and as lethal as possible. Look nonthreatening, be deadly.

Explosive Bolos: these would wrap around neck or limb, and explode with malignancy enough to cancel the victim, and anything nearby.

Disruptors: micro pellets that worked on the molecular level, releasing the electrical energy binding any living organism together with tremendous explosive force.

Ringer Bullets: they would bore into the skin and rummage for an enemy’s vital organs, injecting them with a potent acid.

Concussion Grenades: for distraction in surprise.

Silencer Bullets: tiny handheld devices firing a poisonous dart, using compressed air.

Cadmium Minimines: she didn’t need the enemy warrior skulking up behind her if the battle was prolonged by strategy.

One last item, the PDA to enter her battle log. Strapped to her wrist, she could key an entry on events, and set it to transmit hourly or daily. It was time to go.

Shuttle prepped? she asked.

Shuttle is ready, the computer replied.

Relay current log and repeat every six hours. I’ll instruct you on the battle log later.

"Program code Alpha, complete." The computer was set for shuttle recovery and ship return, whether she lived through the battle or not.

She entered the shuttle and belted up. The hatch closed automatically and locked.

"Program code Alpha engage," she said. The launch was sweet. Into space and falling.

Designated battleground in ten minutes, the computer informed.

Leslie Tharp. Warrior. Chosen for her caustic intelligence, willing to fight and die based on substantial maternal instincts toward humanity as a whole.

Designated battleground in five minutes.

The shuttle savagely rocked back and forth upon entering the planet’s thick atmosphere, but smoothed a moment later.

Her mind blanked. Her body sagged. The last few minutes she spent gathering her strength based on an internal mantra burrowing deep into her soul, fueling her heart and mind.

Designated battleground in four . . . three . . . two . . . one.

With the shuttle down she popped her belt and blew the hatch, eyes livid with survival, and dove from the shuttle, finding cover behind a massive green boulder. A quick 360 revealed zip possible enemy life forms. The smell was that of any living ecosystem: decay and methane. It was midday, and hot.

Her eyes registered an anomaly of light fourteen degrees from zero, and processed the same into her consciousness. Upon further study she concluded it a camouflaged structure. She studied the immediate area again, and confirmed no other possible targets.

She quickly spidered to the left and watched her shuttle depart as per Rules of Engagement. Disregarding Rules meant extreme sanctions. Was the structure the enemy’s craft? Had the enemy risked exile from the greater galactic community?

The dry rocky landscape allowed advantages, and sliced the odds in her favor. She planted a mine with a ten meter proximity fuse and began a wary reconnaissance of the structure.

One-third of the way around an opening presented itself, and although the structure seemed empty from her position, she was unsure. She set her second and third mines and inched closer. A choice had to be made.

No physical description of the enemy rocked the odds toward the enemy. This structure was clearly a trap, and an all out frontal assault tipped those same odds toward her favor, but left her vulnerable for the millisecond she needed to identify the enemy and secure the kill.

Three grenades sailed into the structure and detonated, quickly followed by Earth’s finest Warrior.

The door thudded shut behind her, as expected. She crouched, waiting for the enemy to pounce from a wall, the floor or ceiling, but nothing happened, nothing at all. She waited until she could wait no more.

A slow visual inspection of the room revealed nothing. The walls and such were baby butt smooth. All corners rounded. Leslie Tharp’s equipment clinked, tinkled and whuffed as she closely probed the walls, floor, and ceiling.

The door had shut with a seam, yet dry air squeezed past. She wasn’t in any danger of suffocation.

I could, she thought, pack explosives into the seam and scrag the trap. In the silence of her thoughts she noticed the room softly clinked, tinkled and whuffed back at her.

She scritched her last three mines open, and rolled the explosive contents like clay, packing a half meter of seam. Would it be enough? She cricked open a Bolo, one side only, and molded that into the seam, too.

A proximity fuse was set for one meter. She lay flat up against the opposite wall, and tossed the Bolo’s cord.

She felt and heard the crack whoomp, yet the structure was unmarred when examined.

Acid from her supply of Ringer Bullets did nothing, and the Disruptors were useless. Zwipps and snicks were added to the low din, and the mingled sounds were annoying.

She keyed events into her log and concluded her report with these words.

MY FIRST ATTEMPT USING AVAILABLE RESOURCES HAS FAILED. I WILL CONTINUE WITH REMAINING WEAPONRY. THE SOUNDS I MAKE ARE COLLECTED BY THE STRUCTURE AND CONTINUOUSLY REFLECTED BACK. THEY SEEM TO BE GROWING IN INTENSITY.

She again packed the same spot with her remaining explosives, effectively doubling the charge, and detonated. Nothing happened but more sound. She sat and thought about her problem for some time.

MY TIMEPIECE NOTES TWO STANDARD DAYS HAVE PASSED, AND THE NOISE IS FAST BECOMING UNBEARABLE. WADDING PACKS MY EARS. EXPLOSIVES SPENT. OTHER WEAPONRY ALMOST GONE. I WILL CONTINUE TO EXPLORE EVERY AVAILABLE SURFACE FOR POSSIBILITIES.

NINE DAYS SINCE LAST REPORT. I DESTROYED MY EARDRUMS TO SAVE REMAINING SANITY. I HAVE FAILED. ANY SOUND I MAKE CONTINUES TO AMPLIFY EXPONENTIALLY. I FEEL THE VIBRATIONS IN MY INTESTINES.

RATIONS GONE THREE DAYS NOW. USED A SILENCER BULLET ON MYSELF. LAST ITEM ON MY LIST OF OPTIOND. SAT LOG REPEA EVTKP JEIP% KS . . . .

Madame President?

Come in and sit, Puffer. I just finished the report on the warrior named Tharp, and didn’t like what I read. Did we have any trouble recovering the body?

The structure’s door remained open for all recovery efforts.

Surprising.

It surprised us, too.

Our best warrior, Puffer. Gone. She did everything she could, right to the bitter end. Is it our policy to treat obvious traps the same as an ambush? Hit them head-on and hope for the best?

Yes, ma’am.

I don’t like it.

History has proven the technique successful 87.3% as compared to other methods.

We might want to reconsider that. Have the strategists search for new options. It looks like she tried to set her battle log at the very end, but the poison was too fast for her. Have all remaining warriors key their battle logs to transmit every hour automatically. No exceptions.

Yes, ma’am.

"She died an ugly and entirely needless death, Puffer. If we had known her predicament, we could have relinquished the planet without losing credibility. We could have saved her life. I don’t want something like this to ever happen again. I’ll be the one to notify the family. And I noticed in her records she has a great granddaughter. The girl’s school notes some aptitude as a warrior. Have her accepted as a warrior, and arrange for a child. The sooner the better."

Yes, ma’am.

We also have two upcoming battles with the Roundheads, and both worlds are marginal at best. I don’t want the galaxy thinking humanity unfit to survive. Concede until we have more information on them as a species. Give my regards to the council.

Yes, Madame President.

Sir?

A woman.

Come out of it, sir . . .

A nurse.

Tune into me . . .

His nurse.

That’s the way, she said.

Huh?

You left me alone for a little while.

It was her. His nurse with the pretty smile was the warrior from the future.

Do you know who you are? he croaked dry throated, swallowing once with much difficulty.

Leslie Tharp. I’m your overworked and underpaid nurse.

He swallowed a second time and choked on nothing.

Do you need a tissue? she asked.

He shook his head and cleared his throat.

Better? she asked. Good. What we have to figure out is, who you are, and what’s wrong with you. The drug screen was negative. You did take a few too many knocks to the noggin. Do these side trips to la-la land happen often?

What? No.

Do you think you have Epilepsy?

What was he going to say to her? That he saw her in another life? That she was killed in the future, only to exist in the here and now as his nurse?

No Epilepsy, he said. I’m sure. I don’t know what happened.

Let me know if it happens again?

I’ll let you know if it happens again.

"I’ll hold off marking it on your chart unless it does happen again. Those policemen did a number on your head, and that may cause a problem or two. I have to worry about the details, you know. You eat now, and I’ll check back soon."

Thanks.

He pulled his tray toward him and raised his first fork full. The food was bland. Still, after a while, he finished his tray and left it neatly covered on the bedside table. The table he pushed away so he could climb out of bed and use the bathroom.

Behind the bathroom door he found a ward-specific green robe under a "Sani-Fresh Means Clean" paper wrapper.

In the large mirror above the sparkling clean sink he found a rustic square face, staring back at him with penetrating gray eyes. He slowly removed his bandages. The stitches above his left eye itched, yet he didn’t dare scratch.

What he saw in the mirror was a hero’s bold chin, with an obviously appropriate dimple, sporting a prickly three day growth of beard. His complexion was sun leathered, with more than a few superficial cuts across his cheek and brow, and an amazing amount of bruising in odd places. He placed his age between thirty-five and forty-five.

Taking care of his immediate business was simple enough. After the mandatory morning grunt and flush, a cursory search of the drawers under the sink revealed a few sample-sized soaps, shampoos, and conditioners.

The shower was excellent. More than enough hot water to loosen his aching muscles. He carefully dried himself, dabbing at the sore spots, and then redressed in the hospital jammies provided, and took the robe. He did a quick spic-and-span of the room before he left, wiping down the shower, floor, and sink.

Next to his bed was a pair of funky foam slippers he slid onto his feet.

You do clean up well, Nurse Tharp said as she entered. She checked the bathroom first, and then crossed over to examine his wounds. And you picked up after yourself. I’m beginning to like you.

Nurse Tharp gently poked and pushed at his stitches. Out of her uniform shirt pocket came two large adhesive bandages she peeled and stuck to his face. One above his eye, one on his cheek.

Will I be allowed to shave? he asked.

You seem to be healing nicely, so I’ll keep that under consideration. She claimed the breakfast tray. You are free to leave the room. The common area is to the right, my station is to the left. Most of our other guests will keep to themselves. One television, this morning’s paper, and the magazines are only three months old.

And with that said she left him alone with his needs, and what he needed most was a name.

John? Robert? Mark, Ed, Bob, Joe. Leroy. Willy?

He hoped speaking a few names aloud might trigger something, but it hadn’t. He took a minute to feel stupid, and proceeded to check out the common area.

A dozen or so patients were robed and slippered much the same, scattered about the room. Quiet conversation for two took place with only one present. Rocking back and forth with a blank stare was the favorite pastime for most.

The television was on, yet nobody was watching. A classic Trek with Shatner and Nimoy, thinking and fighting and nerve pinching their way out of whatever fix fate had gifted them. Leonard Bones McCoy getting his licks in from the sidelines every episode. Good enough.

A wide-faced dwarf walked by, and then performed a series of cartwheels out the day room door. He knew then he was in for an interesting stay.

Will, Bill, Tony, Leonard, Jim. So many names, and none belonged to him. I’m a mental patient, damn it, not a maternity case.

Bones. That might work as a temporary way to get my attention.

The man sat and decided to let the name thing go for a while. A tall thin man with a receding hairline caught his attention when he reached over, greedily grasped his hand, and in a quavering voice asked, Vandiver?

Fire with Fire

17th Precinct. Fifth Street. Monday, the twenty-third of February. Too goddamn early in the morning, if you ask me.

It was cold outside. Wet, windy. I ran a shaky hand through my thinning hair as I entered the time-worn stone building. I knew the way. Up the far stairs, to the right, third desk. I sat and took the cup of coffee Vandiver offered, but let the desk hold it. I don’t drink station-house coffee.

Seventy of the city’s worst thugs, Vandiver began, dead in the space of eight weeks. It’s beginning to look like a war zone in some areas, plus we got us another one.

Another one? I said. Like that fat piece of gutter trash I found over in the Underbelly?

What I found was the Baron of Bay Street. Judas Matthew Baron. He ruled the Underbelly with a bullet-riddled ascendancy to the throne. The blood on his hands could grease his hair every morning.

He had my brother killed, I was sure of it, but couldn’t prove it. He probably did it to teach me a lesson. He considered me a thorn. Might have done it personally, but I’m not sure.

The third pile this month, Vandiver said. This numb-nut cycles every twelve hours, and then the gibberish begins again. Nonsense and monsters. When I listen to it my skin crawls.

Who? I asked.

Does it matter?

Not really.

Vandiver doused his cigarette in his coffee then took a drink. I don’t think he noticed.

What he had on his mind was why I was here. Vandiver called on me when he needed to circumvent the law. This case was strange, no doubt about that. I’d heard loads of crap coming from too many worthless fucks in the past few weeks about indestructible monsters of some sort. Scared the shit out of them. Some went insane, others went straight. No more crime, no more drugs, nothing but the urge to hide under the biggest rock they could find.

And for some strange reason all the survivors found God.

I’ll tell you who it started with, Vandiver said. Leo Cox. ‘Tin man.’ We found him howling like a dumb dog in the uptown warehouse he used as a base of operations. All his home boys were present, dead.

And? I prodded.

M.E. Collier puked.

Mac tossed?

Mac was tough. From the old school. He usually saw the worst life had to offer two or three times a year, for the last thirty odd years. We had shared more than one bottle of quality booze over an autopsy.

Vandiver nodded and said, He said he never saw anything like those bodies before. And I thought he’d seen every way you could frag a corpse. I guess he has, now.

Vandiver swilled more of his tainted coffee, and squelched a second butt into it, before he threw cup and all into the wastebasket.

He continued with, One guy, his head was flat. The autopsy said his skull and brain melted right out of his ears without heat. You tell me.

I said, I take it you want me to look into the problem? Any civilians involved? Or is this isolated . . . just the scum?

No civilians. The talk around here is to let it continue. Somebody is taking out the garbage, my friend, and nobody here wants it to stop.

Might be I need to listen to the ravings of the recently demented. They’re keeping the Baron neatly tucked away where?

You going to cap him?

Don’t give me any good ideas.

He’s at Compton. Let me know what you find out. Didn’t I have a cup of coffee around here?

Take mine, I said. It might taste better.

Compton Asylum was the last place you wanted to be if your wad was blown. A modern concrete structure where the inmates enjoyed their fresh air piped in. Single padded cells and straitjackets were standard issue.

Nobody at Compton worked to cure the ill. The front gate was the only way in, a pine box the only way out. Residents died advancing medicine. The dirty little secret a choice few shared with our wonderful government in general. Vandiver had me cleared to enter with a phone call.

Mr. Pollock? I’m Dr. Stand. Detective Vandiver wants you to observe Judas Baron as a special consultant?

I want to listen to him for a while, I said, if you don’t mind.

"I don’t mind. You do know the man’s brain is baked, though I am interested in what you think you might learn."

At this point, I have no idea.

I’ll have an orderly escort you to Mr. Baron’s room. Push the buzzer the orderly gives you when you’re ready to leave.

Have you bothered to record his rants?

Yes I have. Fascinating stuff. The way he repeats himself was not readily apparent, and really doesn’t say much about his psychoses, but it is interesting. A new phenomenon. I’m thinking on writing a paper.

Is it possible to get a copy?

I have hours of the stuff. Detective Vandiver said you would want a copy of Mr. Baron’s full cycle, and might possibly need more from our other guests? If you do, don’t hesitate to ask.

The orderly led the way, unlocking and locking doors. When he did stop, he unlocked a large door with a heavily reinforced glass porthole. One of the most ruthless thugs to ever inhabit organized crime was on a bed, raging against whatever clogged his mind.

"He killed him . . . Daddy! You won’t get away with this, Judas Baron. You won’t. Not with my brother around. I jus’ did as you said, boss. I jus’ did as you said . . ."

The pitch and cadence of his voice changed with each sentence uttered. For a moment he sounded like my brother.

MAN IN WHITE!

I tried talking to Judas Baron when I first found him, but he was too far gone.

"I’m sorry, momma . . . Jimmy fell off the building . . . I couldn’t save him, momma . . . I’m not sorry. You! Judas, I don’t want you to touch me!"

The way I understood it, everybody alive afflicted with this were the same. They would storm on and on as if they were a thousand other people rolled into one body, and then scream about monsters, or a Man in White in the Baron’s case, and whatever would begin again. I needed to study the rants in-depth, and punched the buzzer. Outside the room the orderly handed me two CDs in paper sleeves.

Is this all you have? I asked.

That’s two complete cycles, the orderly replied, if that’s what you’re asking.

More than enough. Thanks.

I feel for him, the orderly said, nodding toward Judas Baron’s closed door.

I don’t.

And I didn’t.

At home I played the recordings and drank, and made a few notes I felt pertained to the overall investigation.

Violence is like breathing to filth like Judas Baron. All he was, the hate, the death, maybe that’s what he spouted. It still came down to one thing: this mysterious Man in White, the monster as Judas Baron saw it. I saw my first step forward.

Hell’s Alley. The Man over Baron. Over all organized crime inhabiting the city. Sooner or later Baron’s Man in White would pay The Man a visit.

Hell’s Alley was just as I remembered it. Filled with refuse, alive or otherwise, stinking like shit and piss. Even the sun was frightened to show itself here. My plan was to watch and learn.

I moved slowly until I was in a position to see who was coming or going, without the extra security the frightened scum had posted, noticing me. Nothing happened on day one. I slept very little.

I saw some action the next day. The Man’s underlings were beginning to move things out. That need to change locations had infected them. I knew then The Man would be inside, taking inventory of his weapons stock. Can’t lose profits to the peons.

Animals seem to have an ability to sense danger, even when they don’t know what it is, or which direction it would come from. Maybe those below could feel it . . . that something in the air. I put myself on ready, and was finally rewarded.

I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. It was like the shadows in the alley were gathering off to one side, in one spot.

One of The Man’s dumbest line grunts pulled out his piece and capped it. The shadows might have moved closer to the idiot, but I wasn’t sure from way up here. I moved a little closer.

That’s when I saw a long tongue of liquid black lick the fool with the .9mm. He screamed once, long and