James Hancock: Author

Some published and some not.

Final Trick

Trick. Slang. Prostitution term, meaning ‘client’ or ‘the act of sex’. To turn a trick: Engage in sex for money.

Mindy was understandably on edge. She chewed the skin around her stubby fingernails and fought to take her mind elsewhere. But it was no use; the cause for worry was right in front of her. Through the storm and hidden away in a seedy room. After years of seedy rooms, Mindy knew what to expect before she’d stepped inside. But you never know ‘exactly’ who you’re going to get.

Angel leaned in close, moved a golden lock aside, and gently kissed Mindy’s cheek. A swollen cheek, thick with blusher, concealing the yellow of fading bruises.

“One more trick, and then we’re out. Okay?” Angel whispered into Mindy’s ear.

Her attention fixed on the motel, Mindy nodded and tried for a smile.

Angel checked herself in the rear-view mirror, opened the car door, and climbed out. “I won’t be long.”

She pulled her coat collar around her neck, slammed her car door shut, and moved with haste as the rain hammered down. Twenty awkward paces in high heel shoes, and she stood in cover by the door of motel room six. She waited, watching Mindy shift seats to the driver’s side; and then a faint orange glow as a cigarette was lit.

The rain thrashed and bounced against a blue pickup truck parked nearby. The only two vehicles in sight. A cold and miserable night on the dismal edge of a forgettable town. The shitty end of nowhere, with more of the same as far as the road takes you. Somewhere there was sunshine. Beyond the map of familiarity. But not here.

The motel walls were piss yellow, with a dozen faded red doors in a line and chocolate brown curtains closed across every window. Curtains don’t shut out the darkness, but they hide it well enough.

Angel knocked on the door and waited.

“Yeah?” came a gravelly deep Southern accent. “Who’s that?”

Angel brought her mouth close to the door. “Angel.”

The door opened. You don’t judge a book by its cover, but if the pickup truck was the cover, this book fitted it perfectly. Cowboy boots, jeans, denim shirt, and hat to match. The outfit wrapped perfectly around the gift inside it, and the gift was called Bret. God’s gift, if you asked him. He looked Angel up and down, nodding his approval.

“Damn!” was all he could muster.

Angel was half Korean, half American, and all beauty. Stunning. If she was an actress or singer, her face would decorate teenage boys’ walls all over the US. But she wasn’t. She was a hooker.

“Full of eastern promise.” Bret had moved on to sentences.

Angel didn’t wait for an invitation and walked through the doorway and into the motel room. Bret shut the door behind her. And locked it.

Double bed, bedside table with phone, wall TV above a chest of drawers, and another door leading to the bathroom. Everything in shades of brown and cream. Basic, practical and without personality. Like so many rooms before it, Angel’s office was impressively unremarkable.

“You wanna beer?” Bret moved over to a bottle he’d already started.

“No thanks,” she replied.

He swigged his beer and stared at her. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“I can do what I want, right?” He looked serious, as if unsure of something. “Five hundred and I get to do whatever I want.”

He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a folded bundle of twenties.

“Within reason,” Angel replied, looking at the rings on his fingers and a line of five beer bottles on the chest of drawers. She knew the type. Liked to be in charge, yet often lost control of themselves in the heat of the moment. Bottles, knives, fists with big solid rings; she’d seen some of the other girls after a night with a wild mustang. Not her.

Bret held the money out, then pulled it away from Angel as if teasing her. She didn’t bite. Some girls were desperate, but she wasn’t.

“Hold on now. I’ve hired the room all night, and I wanna get my money’s worth. Okay?”

“You won’t be disappointed,” Angel said, staring him in the eyes. He grinned and placed the money on the bed.

“Good. ‘Cos I ain’t payin if you ain’t playin.” He took off his hat and dropped it beside the money.

“I’m going to freshen up.” She walked past him, towards the bathroom. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.”

“Hell yeah!” Showing his excitement, Bret slapped Angel’s ass as she passed him. Too hard. She didn’t let it show, but that was a warning right there.

She stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.

Bret unbuttoned and removed his shirt with impressive speed, displaying muscles, tattoos, and several bar fight scars. He leaned over the bed and lifted up a dirty old duffle bag. Throwing the bag onto the bed, he unzipped it. Out came his toys: a coil of rope, handcuffs, blindfold, pocketknife, bottle of bourbon, and a zippo lighter. He flicked open and lit the zippo, running his hand over the flame to test his pain threshold, then snapped it shut. He pulled his jeans’ belt free in one fluid whiplike motion and wrapped it around the knuckles of his left hand. The leather creaked as Bret squeezed a tight fist.

“Come on, girl!” Bret was getting himself fired up. He was ready. “Let’s get the party started!”

The bathroom door opened. Angel stood facing Bret with a revolver aimed straight at him. Bret’s pumped up excitement deflated, and his grin dropped. He was expecting sexy lingerie, but Angel had done nothing more than remove her snubnose special from concealment, check it one last time, and get ready for business.

“What the hell’s that!” Bret’s tone had gone from cocky to nervous. “Hey! Don’t point that at me!”

Angel glanced at the bed. “I thought we were bringing toys to the party. Was I mistaken?”

Bret took the belt off his hand and threw it on the bed.

“You used a similar selection of toys last week, if you recall?” She took a step closer to him. “On my friend, Mindy.”

Bret shook his head in denial, held up his hands, and was about to blurt a pathetic lie, but Angel wasn’t done… “On her face.” Angel lowered the pistol to point at Bret’s groin. “Nine stitches and a broken jaw.”

“Now hold on there! I paid her well. She knew what I was buyin…” Bret had more to say, but his defence was cut short by a flash and thunderous crack from the pistol. He buckled and collapsed, grabbing his bloody wound and squealing in pain.

Angel scooped up the money and knife from the bed. Bret twisted in agony, crying and mumbling unrecognisable pleas. A headless snake writhing at her feet.

Affording herself a final moment with her prey, Angel crouched beside him.

“She wasn’t for sale.”

Bret was a twitching mess of cold sweat and hot blood; his hands locked around his groin, attempting to slow the flow and ease the pain. He was failing on both counts.

“There’s a hospital twenty miles down the road.” Angel stood up. “If you’re quick, you might just make it.” She stepped over him, unlocked the door, and left the room.

Out in the rain, she calmly yet purposefully walked to Bret’s pickup, opened the pocketknife, and stabbed it into the driver’s side tyre. Tearing it free, a satisfying hiss followed as she repeated the act on the rear tyre before walking back to her own car.

Helpless and alone, Bret’s fading screams were lost in the storm.

Five hundred would ease Mindy’s pain, but defusing Bret was the objective. One final trick.

“It’s done,” Angel said, and gently kissed the scratch on Mindy’s lip. “New town. Fresh start.”

Mindy smiled and started the engine.

Task complete, the car pulled away and drove into the night. To better things. Off the map and towards the sunshine beyond.

Gelatinous Garganti

Gelatinous. Adjective. Having the consistency of jelly.

Think of a thick, wobbly jelly of any colour. Now imagine it has six tentacle-like protrusions. Two on each side, serving as arms, and two on top like antennae-esque eye stalks. Now picture it big. Really big. Huge! Weird, right? Not for the gelatinous garganti of planets Tempori One and Two. It’s normal for them. However, us humans, with our spiderlike digits on the end of gangly limbs and our screaming noise maws below freakish glaring eyes, are enough to give gelatinous garganti the willies. They don’t have willies; they’re hermaphrodite organisms. They have… I don’t want to know. Anyway, they made non-binary fashionable long before earthlings decided it was a thing. A bit like earthworms, if the earthworms were the size of a car and flailed squidlike appendages about as they wobbled along.

Due to almost everything being different between them, humans and gelatinous garganti—let’s call them gel-gars—were fascinated with each other. Not in a good way. In an ‘I don’t understand it, so it’s probably best I fire every missile in my arsenal at it’ kind of way. Both species decided universe-sharing wasn’t really their bag, and war would be considerably less complicated.

Diary Entry: Vixen McQueen. 08.08.2096

Note: The war lasted four weeks, six days, and fourteen hours.

A sonic boom echoed through the afternoon sky, quickly followed by a cloud-busting flash, and it was there! Chrome Seven: the fastest ship in the federation, commanded by the fearless and notorious Captain Chuck Armstrong.

Blue and silver lights zigzagged the wet sands below as it descended, rippling shallow waters with the force of hot air and engine fuel. Landing gear down, it settled with the precision expected from a veteran pilot of over a hundred intergalactic missions. Seconds later, the under hatch swooshed aside, polished chrome stairs unfolded, and Chuck ‘Ace’ Armstrong took casual, yet powerfully impressive, steps towards the surface of Tempori One.

An orange glow lit a perfectly chiseled jawline as Chuck sucked a manly cheekload of smoke before flicking his cigar aside. “Looks like the welcome committee forgot to show,” he growled, raising an eyebrow, scratching his rugged chin whiskers and surveying his surroundings. Blue, lilac and yellow vegetation grew over clean white sand, and a stream of gold flowed into one of the planet’s great lakes. Red blossom was in full bloom, and the air was crisp with a hint of star honey.

“What a dump,” Chuck announced before pulling his blaster from a hip holster. “It’s safe,” he added.

Lieutenant Vixen McQueen cautiously descended the stairs after her captain. A shapely blonde, wearing a size too small silver jumpsuit. She produced a wand-like instrument from her pocket, held it up and waited as orange lights ran from top to bottom.

“Two bodies in the thick.” Vixen nodded at the nearby undergrowth. “They must have fled the wreckage and died shortly after.”

“That’s what happens when you steal from the federation.” Chuck flashed Vixen a dazzling white grin and threw back his head to flick a curl of jet-black hair from his eyes.

“What is?” Vixen lowered her detector wand and rolled her fingers on a hip.

“Bad karma,” Chuck added.

Vixen shook her head, unimpressed. “Or maybe, bad pilots. Didn’t know what they were doing because the ship and cargo they stole was a Killion class vessel. And then they crashed it into a planet we’re at war with. Met hostiles and were mucused.”

Chuck squinted as he stared into the thick undergrowth. “Either way. Bad for them.”

Vixen stepped up beside him. “Can we do it quickly this time, please? Get the cargo back, torch the ship, and fly out of here before trouble finds us.”

“Leave the thinking to me, sweet cheeks.”

Another mission where the ‘better plan’ would be pushed aside for something Chuck could tell his pilot buddies back at the outer edge space station.

Vixen huffed her frustration, longing for the day when she could fly solo and get things done with speed and ease. “Let’s just grab the crystals and punch it back to HQ before bedtime. I’ll run you a nice hot bubble bath. Just the way you like it.”

Chuck continued to stare at the thick foliage ahead of them. “There’s something there,” he whispered.

“Nothing showed on the sensor.”

“It showed on mine.” Chuck put a finger to his temple. “I’m telling you, something’s there.”

Vixen leaned close to Chuck. “Play it cool and…”

“Show yourself, blob!” Chucked bellowed and aimed his blaster pistol towards the plants and bushes.

“Switching to audio manipulate.” Vixen pressed a button on the collar of her jumpsuit.

Keeping his aim, Chuck quickly did the same with his free hand. “Come out with your hands up!” His voice distorted and altered as he spoke, bending into a series of slurps and clacks. “All six of them!”

Chuck looked at Vixen. “It is six, right?”

“Four.”

“All four of them!” Chuck corrected himself.

The lilac and yellow of a timpi tree shifted as a green gel-gar slid from hiding and held up four arms and two antennae.

“Please. Don’t shoot me. I am just a timpi berry gatherer going about my day and not at all interested in the human craft which has crashed into my forage site.”

“Likely story.” Chuck scowled. “Any more of you blobs back there.”

“No, it is just I. Please, I have three dependants and a pet gnargh to provide for.”

Vixen held her wand at arm’s length and surveyed the surroundings in all directions. “There’s something strange about that stream.”

“Okay, bogey-boy, face down…” Chuck paused. “Lay down, and no funny business.” He glanced at his copilot whose attention was fully fixated on the nearby golden stream.

“Thank you,” the gel-gar said in an upbeat tone as it reformed with its arms out rather than up, stretching itself into a longer and flatter shape.

“I think we should call in backup,” Vixen lowered the detector and slowly reached for her comm-unit.

Chuck placed a hand on hers. “Easy there, twitchy. Keep calm. Everything’s under control.”

“It’s so nice to meet a reasonable man,” the gel-gar announced.

“Man?” Chuck glared. “Someone needs a lesson in manners. Don’t you recognise this ship? Don’t you know who I am?”

“Please, Ace. Let’s not do this again.” Vixen could see Chuck was looking for any excuse.

The gel-gar became nervous. “An important man, no doubt. Err, a pilot, and, err. Please sir, I only meant that you seemed reasonable for a human.”

“Enough of your backchat! I’m a captain in the federation. A goddamn war hero, you dirty son of a…” Chuck squeezed the trigger and a beam of black energy cut through the gel-gar…

“Nooooooo!” Vixen pushed Chuck’s blaster aside, ripping its beam through sand and plant as the gel-gar exploded, showering the area with green chunks.

“Slorg!” Wide-eyed, Vixen pointed at the stream.

Chuck’s jaw dropped. The stream erupted into a huge golden wave, which held mid-air, and reformed itself into a colossal elder. The largest of all gel-gars. The mighty Slorg.

“Holy shi…” Chuck’s surprise was cut short as Slorg roared an eardrum-bursting screech and discharged a wave of golden mucus over the federation captain. Vixen threw herself backwards as Chuck’s horrified face took full force and instantly melted into his torso. Legs buckled, arms popped, and intestines spilled. Vixen vomited.

Slorg gave another mighty roar and turned its attention towards lieutenant Vixen McQueen.

“I SURRENDER!” Vixen yelled. But it was too late. Slorg showered her with a blast of golden death. She screamed, gurgled, and bubbled into a steaming puddle.

Slorg gave a powerful victory roar and turned its anger towards Chrome Seven as a dark shadow loomed from the heavens…

“Zark, it’s time.” A voice interrupted.

Yugg, a large, blood red gel-gar looked down at Zark, its smaller, tan-coloured sibling.

Zark sighed and put down the toy it held in each of its four arms: the mighty Slorg with roar pull cord, Chuck Armstrong and Vixen McQueen action figures, and their ship, the impressive Chrome Seven.

“Just ten more minutes. Please.” Zark wiggled its antennae optimistically.

“I can’t. Parent said it’s time for your hakacak lesson.”

“But Slorg was about the melt the Chrome Seven.”

“Slorg will have to melt it later.” Yugg waited, arms folded.

“Okay,” Zark said, disappointed. Its antennae drooped. “Did you know that Captain Chuck Armstrong was an actual person?”

Yugg nodded.

“He was a real villain,” Zark added. “He’d melt anyone he met with his blaster, and… and not even care if they had a family. He even killed birthlings.”

“You’ll give yourself nightmares again,” Yugg said.

“Vixen McQueen said we looked like giant earthworms and a pudding that human children ate, called jelly.” Zark’s body rippled as it wobbled over to its sibling’s side.

“Come on,” Yugg said, putting two arms around Zark’s back. “That’s something you can tell your teacher all about on Human Remembrance week.”

Stretched

Doc Dianne’s chat show was all the rage ten years ago, but like most things, she became old and stale. Her prime time slot moved further into the obscure hours and her guests were C-listers at best. Ted watches through sleepy eyes as Doc Dianne explains the miracle of childbirth to three pregnant nobodies. He watches and wonders what authority she has on the subject: leathery smoker’s skin, hairy upper lip, in her seventies, never married, and no kids. How much are her guests being paid to smile and nod along? Bobble heads. Ted is a lazy researcher, but if needs must, he can do better than this.

Click! The TV turns off.

Facing the screen is Ted. Wild-haired, unshaven, and the wrong end of forty. He sits in a worn, bolognaise-stained armchair, wearing off-white Y-fronts and balancing a plate of chocolate cake on a round belly. He drops the TV controller onto a grubby cream carpet, slides a slice of cake from the plate and stuffs it into his mouth. Crumbs fall, clinging to chin whiskers and chest hair.

Ted finger hooks chocolate icing from his bellybutton, adds it to the overload of brown muck he is working on and stands up. The plate of cake is carelessly discarded onto the armchair, and he walks across the drab and untidy living room of a carefree bachelor. A slob. He supports his belly with both hands. A pale and chocolate crumb speckled belly, covered in a wiry black fuzz of hair, and considerably larger than it should be compared to the rest of Ted’s frame.

He waddles out of the room, tears rolling down his cheeks. Once again, he is the victim of unexplainable emotions. This is not a midlife crisis. This is not just a man who has given up and let neglect rot in. This is something entirely different.

Overly tired, and still chomping cake, Ted takes his belly to bed. The end of a typical evening.

***

Ted begins his morning ritual in the same way he has the last few months. Head in toilet and violently heaving up last night’s junk food. Brush teeth. More vomit, and then stroking his balloon belly. He admires his side profile; running his hands over angry pink stretch marks. She’s a beauty.

None of Ted’s clothes fit properly, and everything is uncomfortable now. Tracksuit again; the same as yesterday. He checks his phone, grabs his keys and the pregnancy test, and leaves his flat. This is it. If doctor Patel won’t listen, Ted knows what he must do. Keep calm and carry on. There’s always his best friend, Ollie. Ollie will be the rock he needs if all else fails.

***

Doctor Patel’s office is much like any other. Chunky desk with monitor supposedly showing Ted’s notes, if he cared to look and attempt translation. A bed covered with blue paper towel sheets. And other things which would be easily forgotten should they ever be acknowledged in the first place. Ted stares at the pregnancy test on the desk. Positive.

Doctor Patel holds up a medical book showing the female anatomy. Womb, ovaries… Doctor Patel’s lips are moving, but Ted can’t take it in. He is distracted by movement and pressure against his bladder. There’s every chance a memorable addition to the office decor is minutes away. He fidgets, manoeuvring his sweaty and partially numb rump over the hard blue fabric of the patient’s chair. Why is everything blue, white, or grey in here?

Still holding the book for Ted to see, Doctor Patel points at a detailed pencil drawing of a woman’s body, shaking his head and emphasising something with a waving of his hand. More grey on white. Ted wants to grab the book and ram it up Doctor Patel’s arse.

Doctor Patel puts the book aside and continues his speech as he picks up the pregnancy test. He shakes his head some more and makes a definite ‘no’ hand motion.

Ted blurts a forceful yawp. The death gurgle of a frustrated camel: long, loud, and directly at Doctor Patel. Doctor Patel stops talking, stunned by the sudden interruption.

Ted gets up, pushes a palm against his semi numb and painful lower back, pulls the pregnancy test from Doctor Patel’s hand, and walks out of his office. Doctor Patel sees Ted’s camel impression and matches it with wide-eyed fish.

***

With the big day drawing ever closer, Ted stares at his prepared goods whilst munching from a jar of pickled gherkins: maternity clothes, sanitary towels, Vaseline, baby formula, nappies, and a bottle of whisky in case things become too painful. He’s not sure what to expect, but thanks to Ollie’s last-minute work trip out of the country and Doctor Patel’s closed-mindedness, Ted knows he’ll be going it alone.

If Ollie were here, he’d… he’d remind Ted of his blasphemous remark about Mary and the virgin birth. He’d remind him that some comments are heard and get a reply. Ted realises the probability he has pissed off God. Shit! No, this isn’t some kind of twisted punishment. This is a miracle. A blessing. This is his destiny. The fates came together and chose him from billions of candidates. He’s special.

A painful kick to the lower abdomen pushes thoughts of ‘why’ to one side and turns Ted’s concentration to ‘how’. How he is going to deliver said predicament into the world.

He considers the limited options for an exit point and pours himself a large whisky.

***

Screams carry through the night. Ted is propped up on his bed with the help of half a dozen pillows, dressing gown open and legs spread wide. Sweat pours, tears flow, Vaseline is generously applied, and whisky is drunk. Ted’s thoughts are brief and dashed with each overriding surge of agony. Are there special breathing methods? He should have bought a tens machine. There’s not going to be enough whisky. How the fuck do women do this? Arghhhhhhh!

Three long and excruciating hours of blood, sweat and a brown jelly substance later, Ted pulls something free and lifts it from the swampy sheets. An egg. Ted has given birth to an egg the size of a honeydew melon. Exhausted, he pops it on his chest and laughs hysterically. The laughter turns to tears. The ordeal is over.

***

Ted considers the likelihood he’ll never walk the same way again. Certain parts of the body shouldn’t be stretched to such a size, and all prayers of having it snap back into shape have fallen unanswered. Four sanitary pads jammed between his cheeks and held in with elasticated maternity knickers. The only comfortable garment is a flowery dress he picked up from a charity shop for a fiver. Bargain! A little tight around the waist, but he is carrying post-egg belly.

He waddles through the park with his legs wide apart and an arsehole that feels, and probably looks should he ever brave it, like a burst balloon. The healing process is going to be long and uncomfortable. He makes a mental note to add more E45 cream to his next shop. And more whisky.

He gets funny looks from those walking past, but he smiles in return, whistling a jaunty tune as he pushes Shelly along in a pram. The proud father.

In the movies, people stop and admire the baby. Ted has encountered no such people.

***

Shelly’s corner of the bedroom is decorated with animal stickers on the wall, cuddly toys, and a fluffy clouds mobile hanging over a Moses basket. More charity shop bargains. The egg rests inside the basket, atop a baby blanket, wrapped in a nappy, and doing very little. As expected.

Ted rolls his fingers and makes peekaboo noises. Disappearing and reappearing for the amusement of his egg. He stops and frowns. He stares at the egg, waiting for something. Anything. The egg… the egg does nothing.

Ted had heard wondrous things about the joys of parenthood, mostly from Doc Dianne, but he wasn’t getting anything from it. Apart from the seeping, an angry rash, and difficulty in sitting, things are mostly how they were before. There is no inner glow. There is no strong bond. Doc Dianne is full of shit.

Shelly needs a personality. Something Ted can attach to. He raids his pens and crayons tin, digs out a sharpie, and goes to work. Two big black circle eyes and a smiley mouth above the nappy’s waistband. Humpty Dumpty comes to mind, but it’s better than nothing.

***

Ted sits uncomfortably on a cushion in his kitchen doorway. He laughs theatrically and makes several whooshing noises as he gives Shelly a little bounce in a baby doorway bouncer. He remembers his mother’s photo album and seeing the smile on his face as he sat in his doorway bouncer. As far as thrills go, this is the baby equivalent of bungee jumping and a rollercoaster all in one. The best of the best.

He bounces his egg with a little more gusto in the hopes of a response, but nothing. He pulls the bouncer low and twangs high with an excitable whee! The egg comes loose and gives flight. Ted’s beaming smile drops and he gawps in bewilderment as he watches Shelly, catapulted at the optimal angle, slow-motion overhead and across the living room. Crack!

Ted rushes to Shelly, lifts the egg in his arms, and thick yolk oozes over the living room carpet. Long slippery dollops slide through his fingers. Failing to keep hold of Shelly’s juices, he falls to his knees, screaming. Why? Why wasn’t he more careful? Why didn’t… he stops and looks at his yolk-coated hands. Lost in thought for a moment, he wipes a sleeve across his tears and allows himself a brief nod of inner agreement.

***

Ted sits in his armchair, watching Doc Dianne share her pearls of wisdom with an audience of middle-aged nodding heads. Once again, he relaxes in his off-white Y-fronts and ketchup-stained dressing gown. Atop his pale fuzzy belly rests a plate filled with a mountain of steaming hot scrambled egg.

Ted slaps the bottom of a ketchup bottle, spilling a generous dollop over the egg. He shovels a fork in and eats.

Twelve Shells

Ride hard, Death’s dark mare, and collect those of poisoned heart. Fuelled by rage, the beast of pain and suffering carries souls to the gates of hell. And the name of the beast is Vengeance.

You can’t be in two places at the same time. I was out on a trap collect on the night they came. The night my life turned inside out. I should have been home. Home, a funny word for a rundown shell of what once was.

Where to start? Let’s go back to the beginning. Not the very beginning, but the beginning of the end, if you will. Population booming and pollution destroying vegetation meant one thing… a lack of food. A serious lack, which moved from starvation to conflict. It got so bad that the so-called peacekeepers of the planet were bombing the shit out of their neighbours for extra soil in which to plant their crops. What does a bombed country do? They fight back, and use whatever they’ve got. Biological weapons. The last thing a dying world needed. Needless to say, things went from bad to catastrophic to apocalyptic in less than ten years.

Fourteen billion earthlings reduced to ten million. That’s less than one survivor in every thousand. What was left was a world of disease and toxicity.

Over time, people came together and pooled resources, knowledge, and plans for a better future. But some didn’t. Some came together with the like-minded approach of take what you can and fuck anyone who tries to stop you. Crazies and scav dogs hunted in packs; hunted the new-worlders. People like me. I was a third gen; those that knew little of the world before. The first gen were the survivors. The second gen were their offspring; rich with tales of ‘life before’. The third gen were those that knew little of the old ways, and whose life expectancy wasn’t great. Not that anyone’s was. If the diseased earth didn’t starve you, and the toxic water didn’t poison you, the scav dogs and crazies would end you.

Scav dogs: scavengers. Hunters of anything and everything. Crazies: cannibals. Psychos that would happily reduce their number rather than starve. Both were bad. Real bad!

Mother Nature had a way of playing the crap hand the humans had dealt her, and she provided as best she could… for the animals. Rabbits became as common a meal to a third gen as a loaf of bread to an old-worlder.  Out of the weed-covered buildings and burnt out roads, into the urban wild of gardens, back streets, and abandoned industrial estates; that was rabbit country, and that’s where trappers like me would gather our resources. That’s where I was when the crazies came knocking.

Home, once a shopping mall, and now a broken shell of what it was. Memories of laughter, family, prosperity, greed, all wiped away. All that remained were the brick walls and smashed out glass windows. Wife, daughter, maker, stitcher, finder, reader, and cook; seven of our eight were at home in the old mall when the enemy crept in and changed my life.

I returned to scraps. The red aftermath of a frenzied food party. Just enough left to tell the story, but not enough to bury. Some bones taken for broth, or to be fixed and fashioned into something. Was my daughter’s skull now the head of a crudely made club? Did her beautiful green eyes bob atop a bubbling pot? Horror of all horrors.

Through tears, I growled and ground my teeth in an uncontrollable rage. I only had one thing left now, one thing to live for. Revenge!

I prepared for death. Hatchet through belt loop, hard jacket fastened to the neck, and gun in hand; a shotgun, sawn and rusted, only to be used if really needed due to the limited supply of cartridges, and the unlikelihood of ever finding more. Twelve shells. If there was a god, I had only one prayer… let me live long enough to fire them all.

Trappers know tracks and I followed the crazies with ease, all the way back to the outskirts of town. A rundown school, covered with graffiti and abuse. Smashed windows, collapsed walls, and large sections of roof missing and replaced with sheets of corrugated iron. The ruin of what once was. Fire pits glowed and flickered in the half-light of dusk. Voices boomed, cackling laughter, and a scream. A woman’s scream. It was the scream of someone I knew. My stitcher, Cassie. If I hadn’t let my anger override my grief, I would have made the puzzles into six people and known that one was missing.

Cassie had been moved here as fresh meat.

She screamed again. My mind ran wild with what they’d be doing with long knives and big hooks. No time to scout and plan. No time for anything anymore.

I crouched low, and using it as cover, passed the stripped carcass of a long-forgotten car, past what remained of a broken school gate, and hurried into the hornet’s nest through a hole in the wall where the main reception doors once lived. The lobby area. Once upon a time, children would line up here and have their heads patted as a teacher counted them into assembly in the adjoining hall. Now it was the common room for ten cannibals.

The crazy in the entranceway was wearing a coat of skin, threaded with long pieces of bone to make armour. Waste not, want not. Crazies find a use for most things.

By the time he’d seen me, it was too late. He’d failed his watch! My hatchet came down hard on his forehead and split it like a ripe melon. Crack! He didn’t have time to cry out and alert anyone, but the noise of his skull splitting had alerted them anyway.

The nearest crazy was sitting on an age-old chair; once a red-cushioned masterpiece of craftsmanship, now a faded, torn and urine-soaked arse rest, as some called a proper seat. The crazy’s eyes widened, and he was about to shout a warning, but there was no need; both barrels from my gun went off and his face redecorated the wall of the school’s library corner.

I stepped in, loading as I did, and looked around for my next target… two big men dropping an old cooking pot and pulling shanks from belts.

No sooner had I clicked the gun shut, I’d brought it up and pulled the trigger. The first crazy flew backwards as his chest exploded. The second turned with the impact of shot thumping into his shoulder. He cried out and steadied himself for the advance, raising a crude knife with his good arm. My hatchet was on him before he could decide whether to charge or retreat. His knife hand was removed, and he squealed like a pig. My second strike was into his face, swiftly ending his screams.

The school hall erupted with life as the remaining six crazies jumped up from their idleness, left Cassie hanging on a length of hook and chain, and reached for the closest weapons to hand.

I reloaded and fired off two shells. One missed peppering hall wall, but the other found its mark in a crazy’s neck. He collapsed, gurgling and struggling to breathe as he clutched his throat, attempting to win the battle for survival. He would lose. It would take a good long and agonising minute, but he would lose.

I ran past the hall entrance and down a corridor lined with classrooms. The crazies shrieked and roared as they made chase. Half my shells gone, half the crazies down, I turned and fired at the fastest of my enemies as he closed behind me. Thrown into a wall, he dropped and bent double, no longer a threat. His struggle would be long and forgotten, bleeding out from a mortal wound to his lower abdomen.

My second shot spat, flared, and hissed to nothing. A dud! My gun had failed me, and the closest crazy threw himself onto me like a possessed animal, dragging me to the ground and snapping out with sharpened teeth. You can’t bite your way out of a hatchet fight. My weapon found its mark and split his head wide. So deep was the blow that my hatchet became his hatchet. No returns. I gave up trying to pull it free and rolled through a doorway and into a classroom before the next savage could join the melee.

I kicked out and shut the classroom door with my foot. A door… such an underrated thing. A lifesaving thing. If there was a god, I owed it thanks for that small gift.

I didn’t have time to block the door, or get some weight in the way to hold it shut, but I did have time to click open my shotgun, let the shells fly free, and push two new ones into place. Boom! Both barrels at once into the crazies as they broke through and into the classroom. The first shrieked, fell, and rolled around in agony. He’d brought up his arms to protect his face, and his ulna, radius and forearm muscles were shredded.

The second crazy was forced back into the last. The last… a huge beast of a man, so hairy and fierce he was more bear than human. He threw the dead crazy out of the way as I loaded in my last two shells, snapped the barrel shut, and had my hand stamped on with force and precision.

The bear crazy roared with rage. Broken fingers, I cried out in pain. The bear crazy landed on me and brought down an axe, meant for my head, but meeting floor instead. I turned, wriggled, and tried to roll, but the force of my opponent was too much. I grabbed my shotgun with my good hand and brought it round to fire as the bear crazy smashed his axe into my clavicle. The pain was a blast of intense white heat. My shoulder was split to the bone. Boom! Thank God the shell was good. The barrel of my gun had touched the chin of the berserking bear when it went off, and I was blinded by the spray as his face burst and scattered.

His weight winded me, and my injuries made removing him a task, but I broke free, staggered to my feet and held my bloody and broken shoulder.

A downed crazy is not an out crazy, and the torn forearms of my previous enemy had hampered but not fully retired him. One shell left. Too good for him. I applied the boot and ended him like the dog he was.

On to Cassie with haste and see what good she could do for my wounds.

My ‘luck’ had finally run out. Cassie hung lifeless on her rusty hook. Holes where holes shouldn’t be, she’d bled out into half a dozen buckets placed under her.

Sorry, Cassie, this wasn’t a rescue mission. This was goodbye the darkest and most brutal of worlds. A cruel and unforgiving world of horror.

There was only one thing left for it. I sucked barrel and squeezed trigger. It flared and flamed, but didn’t finish. Another dud. My lips and cheeks were split to a crisp, and several teeth were shattered, but I lived. Why? Why had number twelve not concluded matters? The pain was excruciating, but I held on to consciousness. Barely.

I spat blood and teeth, stepped close to Cassie as she hung before me, and I thought… I thought for the first time during this frenzied episode of madness. Was there a god? Did it have plans for me? Why was I still alive?

I pulled Cassie’s needle kit from her pocket, staggered, and sat in the arse rest.

I would fix up and restart. It would take time, but I’d find a new path; a path that forgot the life of a husband and father. I would embrace the darkness that had enveloped me. Sick of rabbit, I looked at Cassie and the crazies; there was enough meat here to last a month.

If there is a god, I’ll show it crazy. An unusable arm and a torn face, but a gifted extra life. I’d done good and respectful; now it was time for savagery. Depending on the god that kept me, I would either delight or disgust them. There would be no half measure. Rage and hate would be my fuel. I would become a relentless hunter of men. I would become death.

Zaggamung

The fire dies.  Your cold skin numbs.

Down the chimney, the Zaggamung comes.

I sit and rub my throbbing ankle.  I feel torn ligaments burn, and watch as fluid swells and puffs.  Many eventualities prepared for, but not this.  Goodbye familiar bones.  Hello inflammation.

The thirty-five mile trek from Kilballie to Glenfyne is one which few take, but for those who do, a land of untouched beauty is there to delight over.  Crisp, pure, and wondrous from every viewpoint.  An artist’s dream brought to life in rich green and blue.  Landscapes to make a poet weep.

Coming down a Munro, and onto thick heather and thistle, I have fallen foul of a hidden rabbit hole.  Halfway through my journey.  Time to rethink things.  I strap up my injury as best I can and put on a brave face.  Slow and careful steps through the excruciating pain.

One mile later, and another hour gone from the day, I realise my fate.  I must rest.

Last night’s winds had been fierce, and my tent was in danger of leaving me on several occasions.  I need to adapt and prepare for the worst.  I make for the shelter of some nearby woods.  A natural wind block.  The sun disappears behind the mountains, and through the light of my trusty lantern, I approach the darkwood.  I shall find a suitable spot just past the trees.

I imagine a moss-covered clearing, with a thick canopy of densely packed beech and sycamore.  A place to rest in comfort and see me through whatever the night has to offer.  And then I see it; through the grey of thick woodland is a light.  A dim yellow glow within the gloom.  The unexpected ignites curiosity, and with branches to grab and steady me, I venture forth.

I am greeted by the front of a forgotten cabin, displayed by the light from a dirty and weather-beaten window.  A hundred years ago, in the warmth of the summer sun, the cabin might have been considered rustic and charming; but not now.  The wood is dark and wet, and the walls lean, reinforced on one side by a high stack of fist-sized stones and thick logs.  No vehicles, no wide path to allow easy access, and no convenient phone line.  The secluded home for someone who doesn’t want to be found.  It screams ‘years gone by’.  It screams ‘visitors not welcome’.

I unbuckle and let my backpack slide.  The thump and clatter of camping equipment is the only noise to break the silence as I stand staring at the cabin before me.  Nestled deep within the thick and guarded by a pack of dark birch and oak.

I knock, but nobody comes.  I call out, but nobody answers.  I wait for a few minutes, realising the likelihood that nobody is home.  I lean on one leg, the heat from my ankle burning, and want only to let myself in.  Thoughts of a warm fire and comfortable chair are the only things on my mind, but respect outweighs necessity.

Grabbing my lantern, I limp away from the door, and along the side of the cabin, breaking out into a small clearing at the back.  Thick and tangled woodland reaches out towards a pile of logs stacked against the back wall and a fat rain barrel with a felling axe leaning against it.  No back door.  No sign of life.  All is eerily quiet, save for the stretching and creaking branches at the edge of the gloom.

And then I see it.  An unnatural shape amongst the thick weeds.  A grave.  Small and worn with age, the line of stones surrounding it are covered with weeds, and a smooth rock headstone is wrapped in lichen.  I limp forward and lean closer.  A faded name is barely recognisable on the headstone of the child’s grave.  Robbie.

A chill runs through me; winds building up and bullying the trees.  I’m reminded of how small I am.  I leave the back of the cabin and return to the front, content I have done everything possible in my search for the owner.  The winds thrash against the branches and I can feel the cold biting through to the bone.  The pain in my ankle has moved from burning heat to cold and stabbing, and I must rest it.  I do the only thing left available to me.

I open the door and enter.

Modern furnishings were not expected, but neither were the sights which greet me.  I have stepped into the cabin of fairy tales.  Quiet, isolated, and with an interior to feed hungry eyes.  Not much to explore, but explore I must.

A crackling log fire glows, flanked by a box of small logs on one side, and a rack of iron poky things on the other.  The plaqued head of a red deer stares at me from the wall over the fireplace.  Its eyes following me as I step into the room and close the door, shutting out the early twilight.

One corner houses a cooking stove and small table for skinning game and working vegetables.  Several shelves of bowls and pots are to hand from there, and all made from wood and copper.  A wooden spoon and iron ladle sit inside a stone sink, below a tap…  a water pump.  Nothing here seems of this century.

Shelves filled with dusty books line another wall; their spines faded through years of sunning damage.  They face the lone window.  The window which sent the beacon to guide me.  Illuminating the room, and the immediate clearing outside, is an oil lantern which hangs from a hook on a ceiling beam.

At the far end of the room is a dark curtain which pulls back to reveal a bed, washbasin, and wardrobe.  The wardrobe houses knitted wool dresses of plain browns, greens, and rustic reds.  A wooden box sits upon a stool in the room’s corner, and a painting hangs on the wall.  The painting of a wee lad, holding a small leather ball in hand, and frowning out a deep-furrowed strop.  There are no words on the painting, but I can feel it anyway…  Robbie.

I place a palm on the bedding.  It is cold.  Had it not been for the oil lamp and log fire, the cabin appears in every way to be deserted.  How long has it been left unattended?

I walk back into the main room and pull up a stool near to the fire.  Taking the weight off my feet, I sit and wait.  And as much as I want to pump some water into a pot and put it to boil, I play the respectful guest and leave things untouched.

After an hour of waiting, all that changes.

The winds outside build up once again, and the room becomes cold.  The fire is nearing orange embers, and rather than let it burn out, I add more logs from the log box.  My mind paints a grim picture of the man who would return, and what he might do with the intruder who pokes and fuels his fire.  But there are dresses in the wardrobe.  This is a woman’s home.

It is time to get a better understanding of the owner.  I stand up and begin my search for clues.

I glance over the books, but there is no handy diary to shed light on matters.  How inconvenient.  More a collection of antique tomes.  Animal anatomy studies, facts on roots and berries, weeds and wildflowers, recipes, stars and moons, fortunetelling, and forgotten fiction.

Under the watchful gaze of the deer head, I make my way back into the bedroom.

Nothing more than spare bedding under the bed, I turn my attention to the wooden box on the stool.  A plain wooden box with the initials M M engraved on the lid.  The box is old but in good condition.  I lift the lid.  Tiny bottles, corks, and dried herbs.  Stains of yellow powder, and the faint smell of lavender.  Thoughts of a woodland hermit spring to mind; making brews and poultices.  A druid.  Or a witch.  A shiver runs down my back.

I’d heard tales of the witch, Mary McGregor, who’d summoned beasties to drive back the English.  Rumours and campfire stories.  Don’t let your fire burn out, or the spirit of Mary McGregor will come for you.  None of it with an ounce of truth.  I couldn’t remember the precise details of Mary’s fate, but seemed to recall a burning, and her spirit climbing from the smoke and into a conjured wildthing.  M M.  Surely not.

There is a thump from the main room.  I return to investigate.

A book.  A plain grey hardback rests on the floor below the bookshelves.  I pick it up and look at faded gold lettering.

The Legend Of Zaggamung.

I open the first few pages and realise I am reading more campfire folklore.

Born of smoke, the beast dwelled in shadow.  Tucked into the corners of hidden places, the Zaggamung lived.  Ever watching.  Ever waiting.  When the last fires burned to ash, the Zaggamung would crawl from hiding.  Would crawl from roof or tree.  Would climb through open windows, down chimneys, or peel back roof slats and drop upon the unexpecting.  Long talons would touch and ice the skin to numbness, before the terrified prey would fall to paralysis.  Trapped, as the Zaggamung’s needle teeth bit down upon them.  The beast would feed…

I close the book and place it back on the shelf.

Dark outside, I open the door in the hopes I will hear the cabin’s owner returning, but there is just the wind.  Fierce and relentless.  Tree branches bend and crack as the wind howls with ferocity.  The door pulls away from me, and I quickly shut it before it leaps from my grasp.  Tonight’s storm sees last night’s as a challenge and means to be the unquestionable victor.  The storm grows so violent that my curiosity towards the mystery owner turns to concern.  If they don’t return soon, they may never.

I throw the last few logs on the fire as the wind rattles the window, and looming branches scrape at roof tiles.  As bad as things are getting, had I been in my tent, I would have succumbed for sure.  They say it’s grim up north, but the land I’m in now has all weathers to their extreme.  A country so beautiful and so punished at the same time.  Nature’s playground.

My thoughts are interrupted by a small leather ball, rolling from between the curtains of the bedroom and towards my feet.  I pick it up.  Cold as ice.

I walk with haste into the bedroom, hoping that somehow I missed something, or that I have company at last.  The room is quiet.  Lit in shadow from the main room, my focus is drawn to the painting of the small boy.  No longer cross, he now looks at me smiling.  Staring at me as the deer does.  Always watching.  The ball in his hand is no longer there.  And why would it be?  I hold it in my hands.

There is a thump from above.  Not a book falling off a shelf thump, but something much heavier.  I look up and straight at the hatch in the low ceiling overhead.  The hatch which I have somehow overlooked.  The hatch which certainly wasn’t there, if I care to give it any length of thought, but is very much there now.  There can’t be any more than a foot or two distance from ceiling to roof tiles, so if there is a loft, there’s little room for anything within.  An owl?  A bird?  A squirrel?  No, the thump was way beyond their making.

I pull the stool closer and line it up underneath.  I need to look inside.

I carefully step onto the stool and reach up, lifting the hatch aside, and peering into the darkness.  I can feel the deer’s eyes on me.  I want to throw a blanket over its head, but continue with more pressing matters.

I need light.  I am about to climb down for the oil lantern when a flick of red comes and goes within the darkness.  Two flicks to be exact.  Side by side.  Eyes.  And in a blink they come again, as does a large shape crawling towards me.  Scurrying forward from the shadows and across wooden plank boards.  Startled, I shut the loft hatch and fall from the stool.

I stare up at the ceiling.  Over the scraping and howling outside, I hear the beast move back across the loft and with purpose towards the bedroom.  I slowly stand upon wobbly legs and edge closer, making sure another entrance hasn’t suddenly appeared.

There is a brief giggle of impish laughter as I pull back the curtain.  The boy in the painting is no longer there.

The door flings wide open behind me and the wind rolls in.  I spin around to see a small shape darting into the darkness of the woods.  The shape giggles once more and disappears into the trees.

Shadows frantically flitter and dance across the cabin walls, as the lantern swings in the persistent wind.  I limp over to the door, lean against it, and force it shut.  The calm amidst the storm.

Just me and the wind again; no noise from above.  I look at the fire, which has gone out.  Blasted and extinguished, scattered ash and wood are strewn across the cabin floor.  I walk towards it, picking up pieces to feed back in.  There are still half logs and charcoal lumps which will catch quickly.  I must keep the fire burning.

Then I hear it.  The scraping of something descending the chimney.  The guttural growl of a ravenous shadow beast as it climbs down to find its prey.

I turn and bound towards the cabin door, pulling it open and being knocked back by the force of the storm.  The twisted trees stare and laugh, reaching out with long branch arms, and grinning with deep wood split mouths.

And then the ice charges through my shoulder as a black hand places itself upon me.  Clawed fingers uncurl, and a scream begins upon my lips.  A scream which never finishes, as I fall paralysed upon the cabin floor.

The door slams shut and the monstrous form of the Zaggamung steps over me.  A wicked thing, stretched and blurred, twitching and bending with long darkbranch arms and shadowtwig fingers; its twisted face tears open to reveal needle teeth as it leans down over its helpless victim.  The drawn out pig squeal of pleasure rings through the night, and for the first time in many months it feeds upon its prey.

Face fixed beyond the black curtain, my last sight is a small boy gathering his ball and returning to the painting.  My last sound is the slurping of my blood as I am consumed.  Consumed by the legendary Zaggamung.