Final draft 141031 by Gareth Bk

ANTEDILUVIAN A Journal of the Weird

Issue One October 2014

ÂŠ 2014 Antediluvian Magazine

A special thank you to everyone who contributed stories and artwork to the inaugural issue. Find us online at www.antediluvianmag.com Email us at antediluvianmag@gmail.com

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Dearest Reader, I’m incalculably excited to welcome you to the inaugural issue of ANTEDILUVIAN: A Journal of the Weird. We are a new weird fiction magazine dedicated to publishing works from the realm of the strange. Within this issue you will find three original short stories. I invite you to delve into these tales of Faustian deals, dark fantasy, and the evil that lurks within the human mind. I’m pleased to be able to present such diverse offerings, and hope they will quench your thirst for the strange. You’ll also encounter one poem, and a few pieces of artwork. Antediluvian is designed to be a showcase of literature and art, both essential in capturing the essence of the weird that we desire to express. I hope you enjoy this issue, and continue to follow us in the future! Humbly yours, GT Gould

CONTENTS COVER

R. Patterson

THE BARGAIN.....................................................................1 Taryn Noelle Kloeden

COW SKULL.......................................................................14 Elyse Bk

FALLING .............................................................................15 Michael Farina

RATTLEBONES..................................................................37 Melie Lewis

THE TAKING......................................................................38 Gregory Klynne

THE THING IN THE CLOSET.........................................44 Gregory Klynne

HAUSU AT THE HOUSE..................................................45 Grace Mae Huddleston

CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES....................................46

The Bargain Taryn N. Kloeden

Do you know what year it is?

“Yes.” I can tell by the pregnant pause that this is not really a yes or no question. “What year is it, Ivan?” “That’s not...” I cut myself off, the blankness reflecting off her glasses is enough to remind me of with whom I am speaking. “That’s not…” … “That’s not for me to decide though is it?” The warden says, leaning back in his rolling chair. “See, if it were up to me I’d keep nut jobs like you locked up for good.” His mustache grins down at me. I do not react beyond blinking and he continues with his arms laced behind his neck. “Exonerating evidence, hm? State of the art DNA analysis?” He pushes a file forward on his slick desk. “Even if you didn’t kill that girl, we both know you’re one sick fuck, Volkov.” I blink again and he is gone. I am outside. The sky is hot and red for a second, but when I look it’s changed back to gray. They kept my coat. Washed it though. They took my knife out of the pocket and wouldn’t ANTEDILUVIAN

give it back. I pull my trench around myself and sit on the bench. I forget the little woman is there until she speaks again. “Mr. Volkov?” Her hair is old paper, curled and yellow. …

“Yellow.” I tell the man behind the counter.

“Sir, if I may?” The pock-faced boy smiles indulgently, “If these are for a lady friend, I’d suggest red or even pink. Yellow, you see sir, is the color of friendship in flowers and-” “Yellow.” I repeat, I am growling and he is scared now. He sees my dirty hair, my stubble, my scars. I am used to this, the moment when a person starts to actually see who they are talking to. The worry that builds in watery eyes. The nervous shuffle of expressions, from disgust to fear to the dumb smile that they think will conceal their prejudice. “Uh certainly sir. How many?” I have to count through the English numbers in my head, triandtsat, “Thirteen.” My v’s still sound like f ’s and my t’s are almost d’s. Fuh, vuh, tuh, duh, fuh, vuh, tuh, duh. “O-Okay that’ll be twenty even then sir.” The nervous adolescent says, typing the numbers hurriedly into the retro cash register. I hand him a crumpled mass of bills, he blinks and I wonder if I had given him enough. He opens his mouth to speak, but his eyes linger on my face and he closes it again. He smoothes the bills out and places them in the register. I slide the slip of paper with her address on it over the counter and he nods thankfully. I turn to go but a slight sound escapes his chapped lips. “Yes?” I ask, twisting back to face him again.

“The card. Uh, what do you want it to say on the card?” I pause. “Just have it say, Happy Birthday, malyshka.”

… “What did you just say? That’s not what Ivan?”

“That’s not….…” Fair. I am scared to continue, she smiles. “Ivan, its 2002. January 3rd.” “2002.” I repeat, staring down at my boots, the numbers are weak and sour tasting. “1989,” I whisper. She looks interested, glances down at a stack of paper in her lap. “1989, that’s the year you went to prison. You were released in 2001, one year ago almost to the day.” “Released?” I am confused and she can tell. “Yes Ivan.” She lowers her chin and she smiles wider, the curve still doesn’t reach her eyes. “I don’t think so,” I say before I can stop myself. My eyes wander to avoid catching her interested stare. The office is blank and overly heated. My palms stick to the faux leather cushion as the sweat sweetens my discomfort. I stare out the tiny window, edging toward it in my mind, thinking that I could be the oak right outside. My own roots betraying me to the crimson x slashed on my chest. Killing myself with time. … “Let me introduce myself, Mr. Volkov, I’m Amelia Copper, reporter for the times.” She says, extending her tiny amber hand. I forget that she wants me to shake it and she puts it back in her pocket. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions if that would be alright.” She pushes ANTEDILUVIAN

the cherry button on her little black box as I nod. “The murder of Chloe Briggs was referred to as a textbook example of a ‘Crime of Passion’ by the investigator at the time. Care to comment?” Her hands curl excitedly but I wait for her to continue, “Okay well what puzzled investigators so much back then was the motive. Miss Briggs was a second grade teacher, a devout Catholic, she had no enemies. No suspicious ex-boyfriends. Nothing. Yet the way she was murdered was so personal that it was hard for anyone to believe it was a random act of violence. That was until you, a legal immigrant with no criminal record came under suspicion. Miss Briggs’ neighbor placed you at the scene around the time the coroner said she had been killed. Why were you there again Mr. Volkov?” “I am a plumber.” I say quietly, ignoring the hungry look in her pale gray eyes. “You were a plumber.” She corrects quickly. “But Ivan, I can call you that right?” She waits for me to nod and then continues, “What I don’t understand is why you confessed? According to the new DNA evidence, the killer could not have been you. So why confess to a crime if you were innocent?” I can tell this is what she really wants to know, her big story. Front page news. The car rolls up through a curtain of smog. “I may have not have killed that girl,” I whisper as I open the door, “But that does not mean I am innocent.” … “What does that mean, Chloe?” Her cranberry-painted lips are pursed tightly. Chloe hesitates by the door, turns back to the kitchen where the beautiful redhead is sitting on an old stool. The teacher’s feet scuff uneasily in their high black pumps as their charcoal-lined eyes meet . “It means, I have to go to work.” Chloe whispers as she pushes her glass4

es over the bridge of her slender nose. “Fine,” The redhead pouts but slowly a sly smile slides across her face, “But you better be back before six.” She slips off the stool and walks over to the much shorter woman, click, click, click. … The clock clicks on alone. She doesn’t ask any more questions for almost a minute. Just smiles pleasantly and scribbles in her notebook. Delusional. Stuck in the past. Schizophrenic? The words lift off the paper and dance around her head. “Ivan, I was wondering if you’d like to talk about your family today?” She says finally as she turns to a fresh page. I blink and she seems to think that is my agreement. “Tell me about your father.” “His name was Sergei Volkov.” I say quickly. “Alright, but what was he like?” Her black pony tail sways as she leans forward to show her interest, the tautness of her style pulling at her widow’s peak. “He was much older than my mother. Strong.” A picture of my father holding myself in his right arm and my sister in his left swims across my brain. “What happened to your father, Ivan?” “He died.” She does not respond, she wants me to elaborate, “It was after I came to America. We were living in New York, so I must have been around thirteen.” “That’s too bad,” She hangs her head, showing off her empathy, “How did he die?”

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I pause, letting my sunken eyes hang on hers. “In his head,” I say slowly bringing my index finger to my temple before straightening my thumb up. … Up on the roof, my father is singing. My sister dances her little girl dance in her favorite yellow dress and I am playing with my soldiers on the hard concrete floor. Father finishes his song and claps his hands on his thighs, “Come children!” He says sitting down on the cheap lawn chair, “I promised you a story, didn’t I?” We crowd around his big brown boots and he grabs my sister and puts her on his lap. “What type of story do you want to hear my malyshka?”He says grinning down at his daughter. “Can we hear a scary story Papa?” I interrupt. He smiles as my sister contorts her face as if to cry. “Vanya my boy, you picked the story last night, it’s Tilly’s turn.” Her face is an angel’s face again. “Can we hear a Princess story papa?” She whispers and I groan. My father nods and sits up board straight, “Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess,“ my father winks at my sister before continuing. Suddenly the door swings open and my father turns to see my mother, clothed in her jade green robe with a complimentary red face. “What’s wrong my dear?” My father asks, lifting my sister up as he stands. “You didn’t tell me.” She says walking towards my father, swinging her bony finger in his face. “Tell you what?” He says grinning, obviously amused with my mother’s 6

scorn. “That we were expecting company of course! And now the living room is a mess, I have nothing except for water and moldy potatoes to offer our guest and-” “What do you mean, our guest?” My father’s smile is gone now. Gone forever. “The well-dressed gentleman! He’s sitting downstairs on our old lumpy couch right now! He said you were expecting him Sergei, here.” She pulls a small dark rectangle out of the folds of her robe. “His card.” She says rolling her eyes and stretching her vowels importantly. … “Please Ivan, it’s important.” Her voice is shriveled and tight. I can almost see the tears running in dark tracks down her cheeks. “Give me 10 minutes.” I walk around the corner and check my watch, one minute past midnight. She runs up to me and throws her hands over mine. They are slick and warm. “What’s going on?” I ask wiping my hands on my trench coat, they leave angry red smudges. “Just come inside, hurry.” She pushes me through the little doorway and into a dark kitchen. “Stop,” I growl as she pulls me forward, “Tell me what happened first.” “I’m sorry Ivan!” She wails, her eyes silver in the moonlight, “I didn’t know who else to call. I don’t know what happened!” She pulls me harder and then points to the floor, crying into my shoulder. ANTEDILUVIAN

“Oh Mathilde…” I whisper, staring at the slight woman crumpled on the tile floor. “Oh Ivan, that’s too bad.” The therapist says, shaking her head slowly. I don’t respond and she scribbles something else. Emotionless, dead in the eyes. She thinks better of the last part and scratches it out. “What about your mother, siblings?” She says, a bemused smile returning to her angled face. “I do not want to talk about my family anymore.” I say quickly and her eyebrows knit in reply. “Okay Ivan, what do you want to talk about?” She asks, sifting through her stack of papers. … My father takes the stiff piece of paper in his hands and stares down at it. I rise to stand beside him, I am almost as tall. It is black and the writing is crimson and simple. The first line reads Gregor Tchortov. Below that, a phone number. My father crams the card into his pocket, and strides past my mother to the door back into the apartment. I follow him after a moment with my mother and sister at my heels. We walk into the cramped living room and I peer out from behind my stiff-backed father. Sitting in our best, squishiest chair is a man I do not know. Although he is sitting I know he is tall and thin. He has receding black hair and a bowler hat twiddling between his ivory palms. “Sergei,” He says affably parting his arms. He reaches to the side and grabs a cane I had not seen at first. He hobbles over towards us and reaches for my father’s hand. Father does not offer it, but the man takes it anyway. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your children? I already met your lovely wife.” He smiles as my mother returns, balancing a tray with a few glasses of water. She uses the nice glass, the kind we save for Christmas dinner. 8

“Mr. Tchortov,” My mother says gently pushing my numb father onto the sofa, “This is our eldest, Ivan.” I glance over at my father, but he is staring at the dusty floor. “A pleasure to meet such a strapping young man.” Mr. Tchortov says as he offers his hand. I hesitate but my mother’s fierce look compels me to shake it. His hand grips mine. His nails constrict my wrist and my veins paralyze in shock, ice runs through them now. I am stuck, caught by my hand forever or until he decides to release me. He moves on to my sister, leaving pink crescents glistening on my wrist. I move to stop him from touching Mathilde, a dormant protective instinct taking over my body. But as I prepare to defend her, he stops and does not take her hand, just pats her strawberry head. … I am shaking my head. “I swear Ivan, I just found her here like this!” Mathilde falls to the ground, her skirt suit is splattered with blood, her hands covered with it. Our father’s old pocket knife lies on the floor. “Who is she?” I ask kneeling beside the ruby puddle. “H-Her name is Chloe. Chloe Briggs. She’s my, well she was my- my…” Mathilde trails off, becoming the shy little girl she once was. “Your…” There is no need for me to finish, we both know who this tiny, average woman was to my sister. “She left around eight this morning, I went out about four thirty to get something to eat, I come back a little after six and she’s like this!” “Murdered with the pocket knife you carry everywhere?” I say trying not to sound accusing, even though that is how I feel. “I left it on the counter,” She says slowly, carefully, rehearsed.

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“Mathilde.” I say her name as I rise, stroking her cheek once. “Don’t look at me like that, do you think I would do this?” She asks slapping my hand away hysterically. “I loved her!” She cries falling to the ground. “But,” I whisper as I bend beside her, “Did she love you?” Mathilde is silent, she stands again, wipes her eyes. “She was ashamed, she thought it was wrong… sinful.” She sneers the last word viciously, burning the body with her glare. “But,” she brings her voice back into a whisper, “Ivan I’m scared, please help me.” “Look at you,” I say gesturing to her clothes, the knife, the motive in her frosted gaze. “I don’t think I can.” “No Ivan!” She lays at my feet, sobbing, “Please!” “Let me finish,” I say lifting her gently, “but I know of someone who can.” … “How do you two know each other?” My mother settles us all on the remaining seats and turns to Mr. Tchortov, “I am embarrassed to say my husband has never mentioned you.” We all look to my father, whose gaze is now fixed on the wall in front of him. He opens his mouth slightly, but thinks better of it and shuts it again. “We are old friends. I am the one that helped the three of you,” He says letting his gaze linger on my father, mother and myself, “escape the U.S.S.R.” My mother’s smile falters, “Well, I didn’t know that…” “I even told Sergei here to make sure and have a beautiful daughter in the states, and it looks like he succeeded in that part of the bargain.” Gre10

gor Tchortov looks contentedly around the room, clicking his polished black boots. “How long has it been Sergei?” He makes a show of counting in his head, flipping his gnarled fingers back and forth, “Thirteen years, and to the day I think too. Imagine that.” We are all surprised when my father straightens up, “I never thought this day would actually come.” He whispers, staring at Mr. Tchortov as if he could not possibly exist. “Yes, time positively flies these days.” Tchortov grins as he replaces his bowler hat. Within ten minutes Tchortov is gone, leaving a card in each of our hands. “Please, don’t hesitate to call if you ever need anything.” He says as he walks unescorted out the door. That night, my father shot himself. My sister finds him alone on the roof; I wish I had been the one to discover him folded in the scarlet pool of his own making. Then maybe she would not have stumbled down the path of too much eyeliner, cigarettes, boys, and later, girls. Falling so far that even our mother stopped trying. … “Let’s give this a try then Ivan, how about we talk about your plans?” She turns her head to the side, waiting for me to speak. “My plans.” I say slowly, tasting the words. “Yes, do you want to go back to work, or maybe find a nicer apartment, get a pet.” “I don’t have time for all that.” I say, staring down at my boots, then her slippery black pumps. “What do you mean? You have all the time in the world Ivan!” She laughs as if I had been joking, as if she had not understood my meaning, even though I know she did. ANTEDILUVIAN

… I should know she did it, but I cannot believe it. Even if she did though, I would never let my sister go to jail. I reach into my trench and pull out the creased black rectangle. “Phone.” I say gruffly and Mathilde points it out to me in the near darkness. I push the number in and it rings three times. “Tchortov.” The voice is smoke dribbling through my fingers. “Volkov.” I whisper into the warm receiver. “Yes, I have been expecting this call for quite some time, Ivan. What can I do for you?” … “Where can I take you?” The taxi driver asks, nervously, it was not every day he transported a man fresh out of prison. “Where’s the nearest flower shop?” “That’d be Frannie’s, about 3 miles.” “Take me there first, it’s my sister’s birthday today.” The next day I am arrested, all the evidence points to me. My father’s knife, blood on my clothes… I call Tchortov with my one phone call, tell him it is not fair, this is not what I meant. He says my sister will not go to jail, he held up his end of the bargain. And in thirteen years, I would hold up mine. So I confess, and I wait. I remember my father’s old stories, remember when I thought that was all they were. Fairy tales about deals and monsters and shape-shifting devils that can swindle any man. And when I was released, twelve years had passed. I go to court ordered 12

therapy, I eat canned soup and miss my family. I see things that aren’t there, and overlook things that are. I am crazy, my soul is leaking at the joints and will soon be gone. My time will be up. … “Well, it looks like our time is up for today Ivan.” My therapist says as she closes her manila folder. I grunt in acknowledgement as we both stand and I hand her the cane. As always, she takes my hand firmly. The nails find their old familiar grooves and my veins lock down once more. “Same time next week then, Ivan?”

Falling Michael Farina

Half way between noon and sunset, Daddy pulled off the road and into the broken down parking lot of a twenty-four hour diner. A rusted iron pole with a dent at knee height stood out by the roadside. On a termite infested plank duct-taped to the pole, the word “Food” was printed in sun-bleached red paint. The only other vehicles in the lot were a beat up pickup truck resting on cinder blocks and a white van with a flat tire. El got out of the convertible and walked over to the entrance, Daddy at his flank. He scowled when he nearly tripped over a loose block of pavement that had been sticking up from the broken asphalt. El pushed open the grime-coated glass door to the diner, Daddy in tow as he walked in. The cracked bells tied to the upper corner of the doorframe chimed as they entered. He leaned on the chrome lip of the countertop and looked over at the waitress in the white coffee-stained apron. She was standing stock still, hands at her sides as if she was afraid to move. After a few more seconds waiting, he and Daddy ushered themselves into a booth next to the window. El hunched over the paper menu left on the table. “This place gives me the creeps.” He looked around. The diner wasn’t empty. People were seated at the counter and in the other booths, but no one was talking. A young family of three was seated, two parents and a little boy that El guessed was no older than six. The boy hadn’t even touched the twenty cent burger in front of him. ANTEDILUVIAN

“Ignore it,” Daddy groused. He leaned over the table and acted like he was examining his menu before speaking again in a hushed voice that still seemed too loud. “I know a guy who runs a chop shop outside Detroit. We can off load the car with him, no questions asked.” The sound of a stool scraping against the unpolished and cracked floor tiles drew El’s attention down to the end of the counter where a short burly man stood and began to amble over to them. He walked slow, untroubled as he came up to El. The man’s thinning grey hair only came up to El’s chin. El looked down at the crisscrossing red and gold pattern on the man’s shirt. “Got a problem there?” He stood and plucked the man’s suspenders. “Let me guess, you want no trouble. That sound about right, Checkers?” “Checkers,” the man chuckled. “Funny.” The sound was faint and seemed to emanate from deep in his throat. “You’re a funny kid. I’m guessing that the fancy vehicle out there,” the man gestured outside to the lot, “is— what you young people call it now a days— ahh, that’s it, that fine vehicle is hot, stolen.” El grinned. “I can’t say sure how we procured that heap. Seemed to slip my mind,” he said before turning to Daddy. “You?” Daddy shook his head. “Nope. I don’t know about cars. But I can say them cops would be glad to find it, a regular gold letter day.” “Ahh,” Checkers murmured. “Here’s the thing, you two rogues present an interesting opportunity for me and my boy.” A hulking gorilla of a man stood up from one of the booths, and took up a flanking position behind Checkers. “See, Sweetie over here,” he gestured to the waitress whose already frozen face paled even further. “She snuck back to that fancy phone strung up in the kitchen called the cops a little before you boys arrived. That put us in quite the predicament. The police might not be able to get here with any haste, but, with our own vehicle difficulties, 16

escape would become… messy, and I don’t like messy situation.” “Please,” the waitress begged. Her gaze, frantic and darting, searched around the room, unable to spot what she was looking for. “I didn’t mean anything, I swear.” “Shh,” the man whispered, taking a coat of a nearby stool before shrugging it on. “I don’t hold it against you, just doing your job.” Checkers turned, reached into an inner pocket hidden in the folds of the coat, pulled out a snub-nosed pistol, and shot the waitress. She fell, blood seeping into her apron from wound in her gut. She screamed, thrashing in pain, coating the floor crimson. El stared, too frightened to move, his mind not able to process what he was seeing. Behind him he heard Daddy rattle the table has he sprang to his feet. “You son-of-a-bitch, you shot her! What the hell?” Daddy suddenly fell silent. El could see that the hulking man had pulled out a sawed off shotgun, almost like an old tommy-gun with a small ammo drum clipped in, and was leveling the barrel at Daddy. He didn’t want to think of what the blast would do if it hit him at such close range. The other patrons held still. The little boy knocked his drink over, water spilling onto the floor as the glass shattered. His mother held him tight. In a back booth a man cried out wordlessly. No one moved. Checkers grabbed El by the collar and pulled him around the counter until they were both standing over the waitress’s broken form. El never considered resisting. “Don’t try anything funny,” Checkers said, pointing with his gun to the man holding Daddy at shotgun point. “Leroy has a bit of an twitchy finger. I’d hate if you did something that made him jump, can’t quite tell what that finger of his might do. Understand?” El nodded. ANTEDILUVIAN

“Good.” Checkers let go of El’s collar before fishing around under the counter, oblivious to the bleeding woman at his feet. “Isn’t that better, everybody listening and doing what they’re told? Have to confess, Junior was a bit concerned you boys might cause trouble when you rolled up. Your keys, please.” Daddy did as he was told. Leroy grunted when he took the keys. His focus never left Daddy. It was as if he was waiting for some unheard signal. El silently prayed that, whatever the signal was, Junior would never hear it. “But I knew better. You boys were a gift. Ah, here it is.” Checkers retrieved a white cloth from a small nook under the countertop and began to wipe down the pistol grip. When he had cleaned off every last inch, the man in the checkered shirt moved the cloth to the gun’s snubbed muzzle and offered the grip to El. “Take it.” El glanced back to Daddy who was staring down the shortened barrel of the two bullet chambers trained on him. Leroy readjusted his grip. Despite a tremor in his hands, El took the gun. The weapon was heavier than he imagined something so small could be. “See, it feels good,” the short man in the checkered shirt said. “That’s what power feels like. Why, with that little bit you could turn on me and punch my ticket, save all these little nobodies.” The man waved his hand in what El thought was dismissal towards the rest of the cowering people in the diner. “I wouldn’t suggest that, though.” Junior snorted. “Ahh, so much to do, so little time,” Checkers said, checking his watch. “Here’s what I want you to do…” he kicked the downed woman, digging the tip of his black snakeskin boot between the ribs. The woman screamed anew, writhing, before collapsing into a mewling, blood18

soaked heap. “Shoot her.” “What,” El stammered. “But she’s—” “Uh, uh,” the man said, wagging his index finger back and forth like an elementary school teacher chastising his second grade student over an incorrect answer. “Time’s ‘a wasting.” El stared at the woman. His hand trembled as he aimed. Her side was smeared with blood, her stomach oozed a continuing tide of red. She was clutching the wound with both hands, trying to stem the flow. Her lips were drained, on the verge of turning blue and working incoherently as the waitress spoke a hushed, wordless litany. El thought she was crying. “While I’m young, please,” Checkers mentioned before snapping his fingers. “Oh, wait,” he ran his hands back through his thinning gray hair, “too late for that.” He laughed. El took a deep breath, failing to steady his nerves. It was all he could do to keep the gun trained on the woman as the trembling in his hand threatened to crawl up his arm. “I—” “What’s that?” the man asked. “Speak up.” “I—” El straightened his arm, his knuckles going white as he tightened his numb, shaking fingers on the grip of the gun. He lowered his arm. “I can’t do it.” The man snickered. “Pity.” He reached out and gently cupped El’s hand in his own like a father teaching his son how to swing a baseball bat. El tried not to react to the man’s touch. It felt like worn down sand paper was grating directly against his nerves.

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Checkers raised El’s hand, pulled back on the finger still hovering over the trigger, and fired a round into the woman’s skull at point blank range. The bark of the gunshot was accompanied by the slosh of fluid sprayed against the rear wall of the diner. The back splash from the entry hit El’s cheek. In one of the back booths, a man stood up and started running for the door. Junior idly placed a round into the man’s neck. No one else moved. El reached for his cheek, touching the wet spot with his free hand. It came away red, near liquefied grey mass mixed with blood. El became aware that he had slumped to the floor. The old man smiled down at him. His lips parted and nearly split as he displayed many more sickly yellowed teeth than should have fit in his mouth. “Junior, you know what to do.” Junior nodded, advancing on Daddy. “Hey, man,” Daddy murmured as he backed into the booth. Leroy moved faster than El expected, slamming the butt of the shotgun into Daddy’s head. Daddy fell, still conscious and clutching his head but unable to react as Junior turned around and began to execute the rest of the patrons in a quick methodic fashion. In the growing haze of his mind, El noticed that Junior looked more like a janitor doing a particularly dull and repetitive chore than anything else. Checkers strolled through the improvised charnel house towards the exit, El saw him stop at the door while Junior finished off the last of the patrons. “Pleasure doing business with you, boys.” He nodded in El’s direction, then walked out into the burning late autumn heat. El’s last conscious thought before his mind went blank was that he was going to be sick. …

When El came to he didn’t recognize where he was. It was dark. All he could tell was that he was lying in something that pricked against his skin. The sensation reminded him of when he was a little kid and how the leaf piles his dad raked up always scratched and itched when he dove in. He snorted. It had been years since he had thought of that place. He groaned as he propped himself up. Everything hurt. He could feel the dried, salty remains of sweat and bile and something thicker that he wasn’t as familiar with clinging to his skin and crusting on his tank top and jeans. A small part of his mind noted just how tired he was. He welcomed the exhaustion. It dulled the pain and blurred the lines in his head, made it easier to forget things. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he started to make out a few details in his surroundings. He was laying in what he could only describe as a pile of hay that had been swept or brushed or whatever it was people did with hay so that it stayed put in the corner. A cold wind was blowing outside. He could hear it whispering against the old wooden planks at his back where age had opened gaps in the wall. Overhead, a rotted loft was held up by metal braces and oiled support beams that gleamed in the weak moonlight leaking through a hole in the roof. He could see loose straw and hay poking out over the side of the loft. “Unfamiliar ceiling.” El was too tired to feel surprised at the hoarseness of his voice. From somewhere to his left a familiar voice spoke. “You back?” El could just make out the other man’s silhouette by the pale light of the moon. “Yeah,” he croaked, grimacing as the words clawed at the raw nerve ending in his throat. “Think so.” Daddy moved closer until he was crouched at El’s side. “You were out of ANTEDILUVIAN

it for a while. Wasn’t sure what was up. Lot of bad stuff, you know?” “Yeah.” “Man, we got out of there just in time. Cops swarmed the place, must have been the whole station.” “Took long enough.” Daddy shrugged. “Wouldn’t have helped any.” El’s head snapped toward Daddy, his neck muscles protesting the sudden movement. He couldn’t exactly see where Daddy’s eyes were in the darkened barn, so El had to make do with glaring in the general vicinity. “You fucking kidding me?” He hissed, ignoring the pain in his throat. “You saw what that bastard did!” “I saw,” Daddy failed to respond to the heat in El’s words. “I saw what he did and I saw how he looked when doing it. That’s why I know the cops wouldn’t have helped. That guy…” Daddy trailed off as if searching for the right word. “His screws weren’t loose. They were ripped out and replaced with lit firecrackers. Men like that aren’t men anymore.” He sighed, his shoulders deflating as he sank to the bed of straw near El. “Cops couldn’t change that. If they got there sooner our brains would be splattered on the wall, just like the rest. They’d get into a standoff, try and get him out, free the hostages. You know, cop stuff. See, that’s the problem. They’d go in all predictable. I know it, guessing the old guy did too. Unfortunately for everyone, the old guy is firecrackers. So what if he’s surrounded, it doesn’t matter, everyone still dies and he still walks out smiling. Only difference is that instead of driving off and leaving us to take the fall, he’d be walking into a hail of bullets, a regular lead halo. Hell, that was probably his plan up until we showed.” El was silent for a while. Outside he could hear an owl hooting over the drone of the wind. “This is messed up.”

Daddy grunted. “You think?” Right as El thought that Daddy was about to say something else a light started to shine underneath the unlatched barn door. Daddy sunk lower into the hay, tossing a bit of straw over himself and El while he brought one index finger to his lips. El was about to start to brushing more loose straw over his legs but was forced to freeze when the door started to swing open. He instinctively held his breath, heart pounding in his chest as a small figure entered. El couldn’t make out any details of the person masked as they were by the glare of the flashlight sweeping back and forth across the barn floor. “Hello,” the figure carrying the flashlight called into the dark. “I heard you talking. You can come out. I won’t hurt you.” The voice sounded young, feminine, a little girl. El couldn’t guess an age, maybe elementary school, younger even. He half expected his heart to stop when the beam of light fell on him. “There you are!” the little girl exclaimed as if she had just won a prize at a carnival booth. She skipped over, until she was nearly standing on El’s partially buried calf and knee. The girl flicked the light up catching Daddy’s face full on in the beam. “Oh, there’s two of you.” Daddy shaded his still dilated pupils with his arm. “I’m Jesse. Who are you?” Up close El could start to see part of the girls face when she turned the light away. Her hair was auburn and fell to her shoulders where he could see the top of a too large white tee shirt that went all the way to her ankles like a dress. The skin around her face was pale and still had baby fat in her cheeks, further emphasizing her youth. He thought she had freckles but it was too dark to be certain. “Hey, little girl, you shouldn’t be here. Just go back to… wherever, okay. Forget we was here.” “Mister,” The girl said ignoring Daddy while leaning in close to El. She ANTEDILUVIAN

sniffed then scrunched her face waving her hand in front of her nose. “You smell funny” “Listen to me.” Daddy got up from his spot in the hay. “You need to get out of here.” “Mommy always says I need to take a bath when I get smelly.” She reached out, taking El’s arm in her impish fingers. “Mommy’s inside and so is Papa and the bath, too! They were watching TV but it was confusing and they told me that it wasn’t for good little girls and that I had to go to bed. There’s a really tall tree really close to my window. I climbed it. Mommy won’t like that. Mommy says I need to stay in my room at night, but you’re really smelly.” She tugged at the crook of El’s arm. “Come on,” Jesse said. She stopped tugging when Daddy put his calloused hand on her shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me?” It was too dark to see, but El could imagine Daddy’s stained hand leaving a filth and grim crusted print on the little girl’s shirt where his fingers dug into the fabric. “I told you to leave.” Jesse looked up then cocked her head to one side. “Wow, you’re really smelly, too.” With her unoccupied hand she reached to the stained hand on her shoulder. Her fingers only long enough to curl around three of the taller man’s digits. She pulled on both men, leaning back while straining as if to drag the two out. El stood and winced from the pain and stiffness that plagued his back, then stooped low so the little girl could keep her grip. Daddy refused to budge, glaring at the girl. El watched as a not-quiteshadow, a darkness that appeared separate from the night, descended across the shadowed outline of Daddy’s features, jaw set, brow furrowed. “Hey, Mister.” She began to squirm under his grip. “You’re hurting me.” “Daddy!” El barked. His voice sounded harsh and quick to his ears, like the bristle at the end of a lash. The raw nerves in his throat protested at the sudden speech. He clenched his teeth, willing the pain to pass before 24

speaking again. “Keep it together.” Daddy shook his head. “What…” He let go of the little girl’s shoulder, taking a half step back. “What was I…” El watch Daddy’s chest heave as the taller man drew in his breath then slowly exhaled, the outline of his shoulders sagging in the moonlight. “Thanks.” El grunted. Still holding onto Daddy’s three fingers the little asked if Daddy was El’s father. “Huh?” Daddy fumbled with his words. “Course not. El’s my bud, my friend, pupil, whatever, not my kid.” “But he called you Daddy?” she persisted. “It’s not like that. Daddy is just a nickname.” Jesse leaned forward, pulling slightly on the two men’s arms. “Are you sure?” Daddy sighed. “Yes, I’m sure. He’s too ugly to be my runt.” From deep in his chest a chuckle crept from El’s lips, reverberating of the wooden rafters. Soon the chuckle had grown to a full out laugh despite the pain. “Shut it, you,” Daddy grumbled. Both men followed the little girl as she led them out of the barn. Jesse was still clutching him and Daddy as she brought them into the farm house. The inside of the house was simplistic. Scuffed hard wood clicked with fall of each boot heel on the floor. He didn’t see any wallpaper or hanging pictures, just a uniformly whitewashed wall that was nicked and scratched, showing the drywall beneath the paint. ANTEDILUVIAN

A hazy Polaroid photo was framed on the rickety foyer table near the door. El turned to look at it as he was led into the next room. He recognized the little girl dressed in a blue sundress but the older couple he didn’t recognize, they were probably Jesse’s parents. “Jesse,” her mother called as El and Daddy were lead into the room. “What did I tell you about sneaking out after dark? You remember the last time when…” She trailed off as she turned around, her hand going to the ruffled collar of her night dress. “Jesse… who are your friends?” she asked, backing into the table she had been leaning over. Not willing to meet the older woman’s gaze, El’s gaze flit about the room, picking out the cracked ceramic sink and smeared refrigerator humming in the corner, tall pantry doors set against the inside wall. Behind the woman he could see the balding top of a man’s head pocking over the edge of an armchair facing into another room. A loose haze of pipe smoke hung in the air over the seated man. He could barely make out the sound of the radio. The volume turned so far down that he had trouble distinguishing the voice of the speaker from the hum of the machine. “This is Daddy,” the little girl said, tugging on Daddy’s hand. “But he’s not actually a daddy.” She startled tugging on El’s arm. “And this is…” The ridge above her eyes scrunched, her lower lip pouting. “Hey Mister,” she said to El. “What’s your name?” “El,” he said. It felt easier to speak, less pain than when he woke. “And this is Mister El,” Jesse quickly replied to her mother. El noticed that the hum of the radio had cut off. He could hear the clink of a pipe set in a ceramic ashtray and the rustle of paper as he watched the man in the armchair start to get up. “I found them outside in the barn. They were really smelly and smelly people need to take a bath. Right?” Before the woman could respond, the man from the armchair placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned to him and he shook his head. El watched as an unspoken conversation passed between the two, unsure what the minute facial expressions, the flick of an eye or the set of the 26

lips, might mean. The woman sighed then turned back to Jesse. “Come with me young lady, we need to make a quick trip.” “But Mommy, I want to stay,” she pleaded, tightening her grip on the two men. “Mister El and Mister Daddy just got here.” “No buts,” the woman said. “Off with you.” She approached her daughter, gently guiding her out from between the two men. El noticed the nervous energy that seemed to gather in her shoulders. “Your Father is going to have a talk with the two nice men. You’ll be a good girl and leave them to it, right?” Jesse pouted but allowed her mother to guide her from the room. As she and her mother were about to turn the corner out of sight the older woman looked back to the two men standing alone with her husband. El tried not to think of the waitress’s face. The man from the armchair nodded to her. She bit her lip, closed her eyes and continued ushering Jesse out of the room. “Sit,” the man said, speaking for the first time. His voice was rough and his tone clipped, like a man who’s grown tired of language. He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat. Daddy and El followed suit. “Wyat,” he introduced himself, the thick tanned wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he looked both men over, a judge weighing the word of the condemned. “Why’re you here?” Daddy cleared his throat then wiped his arm across his lips, clearing off the spittle. “Name’s Daddy, that’s El,” he said jabbing his thumb in his friend’s direction. Wyat continued to glare. “Just, uh…passing through.” It sounded more like a question to El. He didn’t expect Wyat to buy it for a second, and if the sweat beading on Daddy’s forehead was any indication, neither did he.

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The man brought his hands out from under the table and deposited a well-oiled revolver onto the space in front of where his now crossed arms rested on the table’s edge. “Hey now,” Daddy said, glancing between the man and the gun. “No need for that, we’ll leave.” The man didn’t move. He ignored Daddy, his gaze fixed on El. “Going to return the favor?” he asked. El blinked. “What?” Wyat continued to stare, not saying a word. Confused, El started to raise his hands. “I don’t understand. What are you…” He stopped talking when he got a good look at his hand. The fingers of his right hand were clenched around the grip of the snub-nosed pistol, his knuckles had gone white. “Oh.” It was difficult to open his hand, the finger were numb. When he managed to pry them open he was assaulted by a sensation that made his entire forearm feel like a pincushion. The sight of the pistol didn’t seem to faze the other man. He sat in silence as El worked the feeling back into his limb after leaving the weapon in the center of the table. “This isn’t what it looks like,” Daddy said. El watched the growing sheen of sweat on his friend’s forehead, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. “We’re not going to start nothing.” Wyat closed his eyes, chair creaking as he leaned back. “Know about you boys,” he said. “So does the Missus.” “Whatever you heard,” Daddy said. His hand balled into a fist at his side. “It ain’t true.” El saw Daddy glance at the guns. They were close. Daddy 28

wouldn’t even have to lean over the table to reach. When Daddy spoke again his words came slower. “What’re you planning?” he asked. The cords of muscle in his arms and shoulders tensed. El felt like he should say something but the other man beat him to it. “No plan,” Wyat said. “It’s your business, not mine.” He opened his eyes, this time focusing on Daddy. “Keep it civil and you can stay the night. Tomorrow I’ll drive you into town.” El found it difficult to relax. Nobody was that nice, everyone had an angle. He heard Jesse and her mother talking as they came back down the stairs and went out the front door. Soon a car engine revved outside before driving off. El closed his eyes and forced the nervous energy in his gut to wind down for the moment. If those two were leaving, it explained the situation. Wyat wasn’t being nice he was buying his family time to escape. That made sense. It crossed his mind that they might go to the police but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Next to him he noticed Daddy slump back into the chair, the wooden frame groaned in protest. “Thank you.” At that moment Daddy looked older than he ever did. El never wanted to look like that. … When El woke the next morning his body still ached but the pain wasn’t as bad as it was the previous night. He left his blanket rolled up on his makeshift bed behind the couch and walked into the kitchen. Wyat and Daddy were already up and seated at the table. Daddy hunched over a steaming bowl of hot cereal, picking at the congealed mass with the tip of his spoon. He still wore the same clothes from the previous day just like El. The house wasn’t heated and an early morning chill filled the room. He half expected to see an icy haze on the outside of the kitchen window. The cold felt good.

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Wyat was reading the newspaper in between sips of coffee. He glanced up when a loose floorboard creaked under El’s weight. His eyes were bloodshot, dark bags starting to form beneath his eyelid. “Food’s on the stove,” he said. “Eat up.” After he finished eating El watched Wyat set his paper aside and stand up. The older man rolled his neck back and forth eliciting a series of pops from his joints. “Best be off, then.” Wyat led them outside to a well-used carriage house set back from the main house and barn. The grass crunched under El’s feet as he crushed the thin sheet of frost that coated the ground. His breath steamed, creating little white clouds that dissipated quickly. Daddy shivered, arms wrapped tight around his chest. El could see the gooseflesh poking up the hair on his friend’s arms. It reminded him of a cat he had stumbled upon in a back alley, out of place, uncomfortable, and too proud to admit it. Sunrise had already passed but an edge of pink still stained the cloudless horizon. The rusted iron hinges squealed as Wyat swung open the double doors into the carriage house. He walked in leaving Daddy and El to wait outside. A minute later he drove out in what El considered to be the oldest working machine he had ever seen. The hood was dented. Black paint, that might have been shiny once, was falling off at the edge of the wheel well. The passenger side door was bowed in, only held in the frame by zip-ties, duct-tape and a liberal definition of a ‘door.’ Daddy whistled. “Nice,” he said. “Don’t see many pickups like this anymore.” As the engine sputtered, rattling the chasse, El rolled his eyes. “Go figure.” “Naw,” Daddy replied. Wyat opened the driver side door and stepped out, motioning for the two to get in. “The old girl might be a little rough around the edges but she’s genuine Detroit steel.” 30

They both climbed into the truck. Daddy took the front passenger seat while El squeezed into the rear seat in the back of the cabin. Wyat got in behind the two then started to steer the car away from the house along the frozen dirt driveway. “There’s a bus station in town. Not sure of the hours, though,” he said. “How far?” Daddy asked. Wyat shifted his shoulders. “Not far, couple minutes.” He eased up on the gas as they approached the end of the driveway, then rounded the corner and sped up once all four wheels were on the asphalt. The air in the car started to warm as the engine heated up. El leaned into the side of the cabin, listening to the hiss of air sneaking through the gaps on the passenger door’s seal. El drifted off after they left the farm, the hum of the engine lulling him to sleep. He wasn’t sure how long he was out when Daddy’s frantic shouting woke him. Daddy thrust his thumb into the glass. “Stop the car,” Daddy shouted, his face glued to the window of the passenger side door. “Damn it, pull over!” “Calm down,” Wayet said, trying to soothe the other man. “You calm down,” Daddy snapped back, his voice rising in pitch. “It’s that bastard. He’s there, right there!” He punctuated the last two words by slamming his other hand onto the dashboard. El looked out the back window and saw what had riled Daddy. Receding into the distance behind the pickup was an old brick and mortar gas station, half of the pump handles covered with plastic bags. The unlit neon sign by the roadside listed to the right, dented at the base where a red convertible had plowed into the metal frame. Steam billowed from ANTEDILUVIAN

the crumpled hood of the car. “What in god’s name got into you,” Wyat growled out through clenched teeth as he swung the car onto the grassy shoulder next to the road. “That’s the car.” Daddy pried at the door handle. “That’s our car!” The passenger door refused to budge. He swore then climbed over Wyat and out the driver’s side before the farmer could protest. Wyat swung around to look at El. “You follow’n him?” he asked. El nodded. “Fine. Let me get out of the way first.” He slid out the already open door then pulled his seat forward for El. “Going to explain?” “No time,” El answered as he took off after his friend. El caught up with Daddy half way to the gas station. They ran until they reached the edge of the building. El couldn’t see the men inside. “This is a mistake?” he whispered as he tried to catch his breath as he and Daddy leaned against the side of the redbrick building. “So what if that’s the same car? Those two are probably long gone and if they’re not, then what? What happened to all that talk of being lucky?” “I’m a hypocrite. Sue me.” Daddy slid the snub-nosed pistol from the back of his jeans. “I’m going to make them pay. Just be ready.” El blinked. “I left that thing back at the farm, how’d you get it?” Daddy shrugged. “Procured it.” A shotgun blast rang out from inside of the building, followed a second later by another shot. “It’s them alright.” He pushed off of the wall, checking the gun’s safety while breathing slowly. “On three.” El nodded. Sweat beaded on his forehead and shiver ran up his spine. His mouth felt dry, like he hadn’t seen water in days. “One.” 32

El swallowed, forcing down the rising lump in his throat. He was hot. Even though he saw his breath turning to mist in the early morning air, he felt hot. The pounding in his chest seemed far louder than he could ever remember, like the frantic beat of a drum. “Two.” A bell chimed as the door to the convenience store opened. Daddy charged around the corner, gun arm extended, El right behind him. The giant from the dinner was in front of the store, shotgun in one hand resting at his side, the limp form of the clerk dangling from the other. Next to him, the old balding man was lighting a cigarette. “Hey, asshole,” Daddy shouted. The giant’s head snapped up, his dull eyes tracking the intruder as he swung the shotgun into position a second too late. “Remember me!” Daddy fired. The first two shots went wide, shattering the gas stations front window. The third clipped the giant in the shoulder. He bellowed in pain as the fourth shot took him in the sternum. The shotgun fell and Leroy dropped, landing on top of the clerk’s corpse. “Don’t move,” Daddy said pointing his gun at Checkers. El didn’t know how, but Leroy was still alive after being shot in the chest. He didn’t want to take any chances so he crept up to where the giant’s shotgun had fallen and he kicked it out of reach. Checkers took a long drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing like an ember, before he blew out a ring of smoke that hung in the air. He drew on the cigarette until it burned down to the filter and then he dropped it, crushing the butt under his heel. “Thought I’d see you boys again.” He said turning to Daddy. “And you even brought my gun back.” Checkers grinned. “How kind.” “What the hell is wrong with you?” Daddy shouted. He readjusted his ANTEDILUVIAN

grip on the gun. “I said don’t move.” El wasn’t sure what happened next. One second the old man was standing still, heedless of the giant’s blood creeping across the blacktop, then El blinked and the old man was nose to nose with Daddy, one hand holding his friend’s outstretched wrist. “It’s too bad, though,” Checkers said. “Now I have to punish you.” He clenched his hand around Daddy’s wrist. El heard a sickening crunch as Daddy cried out. The gun fell from his limp fingers. “You bastard!” El screamed, rushing the old man. Checkers didn’t even step back when El swung at his head. He leaned out of the way, El’s fist grazing the side of the man’s cheek. Checkers lifted Daddy of the ground by his shattered wrist and shoved him at El. The two collided then fell onto the asphalt. Checkers stood over them, still grinning. “Patience, boy,” Checkers answered. “It’s only proper that I kill him before you.” El pulled himself out from under his friend. Daddy was curled over his wrist, the fingers of his good hand digging into his other arm while he cradled his injured limb, bone splinters poking through torn and bloodied flesh. Out of the corner of his eye, El saw Leroy’s shotgun lying only a few feet from where he had fallen. He scrambled over to the weapon then tripped and fell when he reached it. He could feel the asphalt scraping open his palm but ignored it and locked his hand around the grip. He spun around, not taking the time to stand back up, and found that Checkers had at some point retrieved the snub-nosed pistol, the guns clipped barrel pointed straight at his chest. “My, oh my.” Steam from his breath billowed from his gaping jaw, and 34

pooled in the air around him like soot. “You are difficult.” El swallowed. He couldn’t feel the gun shaking in his hands or the prickle of hair on his exposed hands and neck, only a numbing dread that seeped into his bones and sapped at his strength, an artic fox cowering before an angry grizzly. They squared off, neither man moved. El forced himself to keep breathing, keep watching the old man. A car sped down the open stretch of road, horn blaring as it passed. El pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “What the…” “Junior was a bit overeager, must have forgot to reload.” El didn’t remember dropping the shotgun, only the barrel of the snubnosed pistol pressed to the center of his forehead. Even as he felt tears start to pool in his eyes, he couldn’t look away from the reaper. “Goodbye.” The crack of the gunshot stung El’s ears. He blinked. Above him the old man was staring at a growing red splotch that had bloomed on his chest. An odd expression clouded his face, somewhere between incomprehension and amusement. Prodding the splotch with his free hand, the man’s fingers came away wet. His blood steamed in the cool air. From the far edge of the road, Wyat stalked into view, gun arm still outstretched, muzzle smoking. El watched as the farmer fired two more rounds. Each shot gouged a new bloom in the old man’s chest. The old man snarled lips splitting as he bared his teeth. Heedless of his wrecked torso he turned and aimed the snub-nosed at the farmer. He fired. His shot struck Wyat in the shoulder. Wyat jerked. El heard him cry out but watched as the farmer kept walking. Wyat’s face set into a grim mask ANTEDILUVIAN

that El had not previously imagined from the soft-spoken man. His next shot punched through the old man’s chest. Checkers sputtered, blood ran from his mouth. El could feel the sound reverberate deep inside his chest. “Damn you,” he growled. Checkers swayed on his feet. For a second El thought that the old man was about to collapse before he steadied himself. “Damn you all!” Checkers leveled his gun on Daddy’s prone form. “I ain’t going alone.” El didn’t have time to think only react as he flung himself over Daddy. From the safety of the adrenalin induced haze gripping his mind, he watched as Checkers pulled the trigger. He heard the impact before he felt it. He watched as Checkers collapsed, eyes glazed before he hit the ground. Then the haze was wiped away by a flare of white hot pain burning at his senses. In the distance, a siren wailed, muffled by the trees. It sounded a million miles away as he closed his eyes and laid his head back, tears flowing down his cheeks. He heard Wyat’s footsteps. The heel of the farmer’s boots clacked against the blacktop. Somewhere someone was shouting. He thought it was Daddy but it was too hard to tell, too hard to think. “Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me!” The voice kept speaking but seemed to fade until El could no longer understand the words. Something cold touched El’s forehead. He opened his eyes and looked up. It was raining.

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The Taking Part One of the Tale of Araxis Gregory Klynne

Thick wood smoke hung like lazy wisps of gossamer gauze over the small peaceful valley below, the early morning sun barely penetrating the glistening dewy haze. Aðalráður paused upon his huge black war mount and peered down at the quiet scene below. A momentary memory of a past long buried and purposefully forgotten flashed within him as he held his black gloved hand high to halt the cavalry line’s advance. The horses snorted, belched and pawed as they uneasily drew to a complete stop on the ridge line, their hot breath creating a bank of rising steam before them. “Why the hesitation Aðalráður?” Nikodemus asked in apparent frustration. Aðalráður did not answer as he sat high in his pitch black saddle seemingly absorbing the serenity of the blissful village below like a sponge, his massive long sword sheathed at his side. Long, uneasy, and lingering moments passed as the horses and riders in the line grew increasingly restless, the riders working tenaciously to prevent the agitated animals from turning circles and trotting off in various directions. Below, in the vale they saw people leaving their huts, emptying night water and stretching, oblivious to the dark line of death that had crested the hill above them, backed and shielded by the brilliance of the rising sun behind. 38

A girl below happened to look upward, toward the sunrise, and the vision she saw was one of utter terror, a sight she had been raised to fear worse than death itself. The black cavalry of the Skull Legion was flanking her village and even at age eight, this little girl knew what inevitable fate would befall her and all that she knew and loved. Her screams at first went unheeded in the sleepy village but when her still-groggy father followed his daughter’s gaze and looked to the hillside he fell to his knees and pounded the ground. The few young men who had exited their huts to start their day in the fields reacted by grabbing farm implements, rakes, shovels and hoes, and some even produced a knife or an old sword. Above the growing fray an increasingly agitated Nikodemus turned toward his leader, “What is the point of waiting for the inevitable, Sir? We are permitting them time to arm themselves.” Aðalráður smiled slightly as he withdrew his rune-inscribed Vragian metal long sword and held it high and examined the workmanship, with a serrated blade that reflected none of the morning’s golden light. “I wanted to recall what fear was like Nicodemus, what terror did to one’s soul when reality intrudes on hopeful belief. Everything they hold dear below is about to bleed into the dirt they have tilled for generations; to be gutted like a bloated sacrificial goat. I want them to feel it, but I need to feel it too.” “You would be wise to search the soul of your prey as well, Nikodemus,” Aðalráður said, slowly turning to look directly at his lieutenant with his intense emotionless slate blue eyes. “For if you underestimate your enemy, then one day you shall feel the pang of fear that comes with the realization that you will indeed, die today. No one truly contemplates that day yet we all will meet it. They have no weapons or warriors down there Nikodemus, your worries bespeak of your own fears, my friend.” Aðalráður lowered his sword, the tip pointed toward the village and its frantic inhabitants, “No prisoners but one girl, the one there. She is to be untouched and brought directly to me.” The men’s eyes followed ANTEDILUVIAN

the point of their warlord’s sword toward a little speck of brown with a mop of dark hair running frantically toward the woods in the opposite direction. Araxis was raised to be tough. Her father had served gallantly in the King’s Militia for decades before a crushing blow in some long-forgotten battle ended his rise in the ranks, the near mortal injury hardening him into a man of granite insight and unshakeable beliefs. He knew that as the Kingdom withered around his village and his people, the chances for his beloved daughter Araxis diminished. Araxis had never known her mother. All she had been told by her Father was that she was a very special woman, a person of worth and that her relationship with him had to be kept secret for her sake, and later the protection of her daughter, Araxis. Her father had sworn an oath to keep the secret of her parentage until his death and Araxis knew her father would keep that vow no matter what happened. None of this mattered now though as Araxis ran toward the shelter of the dark woods south of her village as fast as her small but powerful legs could move. Her instincts were in charge now, and she wanted to survive and that meant running, and hiding as fast as she possibly could. Behind her she heard the thunder of the massive warhorses’ hooves and felt the earth shake as the dark warriors crashed down the hill toward the only world she had ever known. Stanard had awakened to his daughter’s screams and now stood his ground, a soldier’s long blade gripped tightly in his large calloused hands. He knew the futility of resisting, the inevitability of his death. But the love he had for Araxis demanded that he fight like a demon and so he was. One after another the old warrior used massive thrusts of upper body strength to un-horse the heavily armored black-clad horsemen that drove wildly toward him, then plunging the bloody long sword deeply into the fallen legionnaire’s armored chests, cracking the breastplates open like cracking a crab. Aðalráður was impressed and waved off the archers for the moment as he watched the wizened foot solider best his mounted legionnaires. 40

From a safe distance Aðalráður shouted out toward Stanard, “You fight bravely old man, do you have a daughter?” Stanard stood tall holding the now bright red sword, dripping with the lifeblood of Aðalráður’s men, breathing heavily he turned toward Aðalráður. “Why would I tell you anything, especially with your men’s guts and blood dripping everywhere?” “Because she is in those woods over there and I hold her fate in my hands just as I hold yours,” Aðalráður said, waving toward the dense copse of trees beyond the village. “You hold nothing of mine monster, but, yes I have a daughter. She is fierce and will be hard to find.” Aðalráður looked beyond the old man toward the woods. Two black armored warriors were striding rapidly toward the village, the dark-haired girl slung between them squirming, biting and making every effort to break free of the men’s iron grips. “I have lost enough warriors to your skill today old man. I have a proposition for you: your life for your daughter’s and not one as a slave, I will promise you that fate for her.” “And what if I don’t want to die?” Stanard asked. “Oh, you must die, but I will make it easy, quick and painless, more or less. That is certainly better than the fate of your compatriots which are being butchered around you as we speak.” Araxis was doing everything she possibly could to break free of the two warriors’ grasp. She managed to loosen the hand that muzzled her, “Daddy no, don’t do it, I would rather be dead.” Aðalráður raised his left hand and instantly the waiting bolt was loosened. Its razor sharp point, coated in thick neural poison, shattered ANTEDILUVIAN

Stanard’s skull upon impact, sending shards of bone, blood, grey matter and ooze flying into the air. The effect was instant death. Standard stood momentarily, the bolt lodge through his skull, his now sightless eyes wide in surprise, then he fell like a rock into a crumpled pile, the long sword clattering to the hard ground next to him. Screams of terror and pain filled the sky as the Legionaries completed their work. Men, women, and children were butchered, their bloody, hacked bodies thrown into one large heap and torches and oil set upon it transforming the pile into a pyre. The Skull Legion did not rape, torture or steal, they simply killed as efficiently and mercilessly as possible. Aðalráður rode back to the hilltop followed by a warrior carrying a thoroughly bound Araxis in front. Nickodemus remained below, guiding the men through the process of burning the buildings, barns, and bodies. “You are a monster, a horrible, nasty creature. I swear to you right here that I am going to kill you, rip you to shreds and feed your guts to the dogs, “ Araxis screamed as Aðalráður removed her muzzle. “I understand your hate, I do. We do not kill for the sake of death or revel in suffering, we kill for the terror, the fear it generates when people face their mortality in a vivid, bloody and immediate manner. I take no personal pleasure in the pain, but I was raised to survive, to overcome all odds and any adversary and the use of death, terror and bloodshed cannot be avoided if one lives in reality. I did not make the game or its rules, I but play the hand dealt to me and I play to win.” Aðalráður turned away from Araxis in his saddle and appeared to be examining the few fleeting clouds in the northern sky. “Yes, Araxis, I know you hate me, why wouldn’t you? I destroyed the only world you have ever known,” Aðalráður said suddenly turning to stare at the young girl. “If I gave you my knife you would plunge it with all of your might up to the hilt in my chest with that inhuman strength you inherited from your father it would certainly be a mortal blow. But hear me girl, one day you will understand, I promise you. I feel the 42

strength within you and with it will come suffering and tragedy but also immense, perhaps unimaginable power and finally, you will gain an understanding of the universe we inhabit, for better or worse.” Araxis looked at Aðalráður with her tear-filled black eyes. “I see you know my name.” “Why do you think we are here, for them?” Aðalráður said gesturing downward toward the burning village. “We came for you. Yes, we know who you are, or rather who you will become.” Araxis lowered her head, her mind swirling. Everyone below had just been massacred because of her. Why hadn’t her father warned her, told her more about who she was? Deep within she felt, a purpose, a strong drive that eclipsed anything experienced by a typical village girl living in the outer rural districts of the Kingdom of Hyrax, where one hoped that a sturdy farmer might appreciate her smile or body and ask for her hand to raise the kids to till the farmstead. Above all else, she was a survivor and within Aðalráður she sensed weakness. He had some misplaced but apparent affection or at least respect for her. He would have to live for now so whatever knowledge he possessed could be gained and used for her advantage. But his fate was sealed in her roiling mind and Araxis was even surprised at herself for the depth and vehemence of the vision of his death she kept conjuring for him. Araxis would show Aðalráður what terror, pain and horror were really about, but for now she would smile sweetly at him and cooperate. His long day in Hell would come.

The Thing in the Closet Gregory Klynne

There was a closet in my room and chilled to the bone it brought me dread and gloom In fear I huddled across the floor and held the covers high so I could see no more For deep within a silent night the closet’s noises would bring shivers and fright My mind would race and the door would squeak and my resolve would soon be weak For when it opened upon its own accord from within I’d see a menacing freak Small as a doll and once painted bright, the faded colors ran into a bloody streak The thing would slowly move around and never did it ever make a sound It would crawl across the wooden floor like some ancient demon of horrid lore I huddled shaking within my fort, hoping to avoid a creature of this sort But the little monster would always see me and I could somehow never flee In trance perhaps or magic spell no matter what the end would always be This crazy creature drenched in red upon my toys conducting a vicious spree As I aged and left my home the thing moved out and began to roam In papers far and wide I’d read of heinous murders and often cried For toys no longer satisfied the fiend as its victims screamed a terrifying keen Even now as I wither and pale my heart will always begin to flail Upon the sound of an opening door or a scratching, clawing upon the rail For I shall never be free of the evil sprite until my soul does pass the mortal veil

ANTEDILUVIAN

CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES

TARYN NOELLE KLOEDEN is a writer and lover of all things fine and feathered (even if they aren’t so friendly). She can currently be found in the Shenandoah Valley of her home state Virginia, playing temporary mom to the adoptable dogs at the animal shelter where she works, chasing down birds (was that a black and white warbler?!), and of course holed up in her apartment writing her YA fantasy series, The Fenearen Chronicles, along with short stories, creative non-fiction, and most recently, a slew of flash fiction.

MICHAEL FARINA is an MFA student with Carlow University’s low residency program. Several of his stories and articles have been published in both California University’s literary magazine, The Inkwell, and the online publication, Writers News Weekly.

GREGORY KLYNNE was born many decades past in a simpler time, one before computers, cell phones and today’s rabid pace of life. An avid reader of fantasy and believer in things magical, Gregory entered the nascent realm of the pre-internet on Compuserve and later America Online and soon found kindred spirits in online games. He became a Sim Master, a designer of online adventures or simulations (sims) and worlds that would be enjoyed by many in real time. This experience would lead to his lifelong ambition to pen a massive techno-fantasy spanning time and space, and exploring the meaning of life and the often misun46

derstood interplay of good and evil. While this goal remains elusive, Gregory and his co-author have written and re-written many times over the first 150,000 words of the initial book in their series. One day, when the omens are good and the time ripe, the tome will be available for all.

R. PATTERSON lives in a cabin in the woods and occasionally makes forays to public libraries to use the â&#x20AC;&#x153;internetâ&#x20AC;?. They enjoy graphic design, fishing, and loud hardstyle music.

ELYSE BK is a digital artist located in Texas. She is best friends with two cats and is excited about the upcoming potential of virtual reality.

MELIE LEWIS mostly likes to draw basketball pictures, but sometimes she draws other stuff, like a skeleton.

GRACE MAE HUDDLESTON is a visual and performance artist from Virginia by way of Florida. She enjoys spending time with her cat and her many cacti, succulents, and other various plants.

ANTEDILUVIAN

ANTEDILUVIAN A Journal of the Weird