QuartermasterThe quartermaster was a wiry, dark-haired Latino veteran with rumored scars on his chest that nobody actually got to see. On the left side of his neck was a barcode tattoo with the text "PROPERTY OF MARINE CORPS", while his upper arm on the same side bore the symbol of lieutenant rank. This was matched by the patches sewn onto his dark tan T-shirt, which was often tucked into his MARPAT trousers, bloused at the top of his black leather boots.
He'd lost his right arm half-way up from his elbow and wore a prosthetic that he often violently cursed when it failed to emulate his natural appendage. As a result he couldn't do any heavy-lifting, and spent most of his time directing his two assistants about the inventory as they worked quickly to keep up with his efficient organization.
Behind dark brown eyes was the brilliant mind of an expert quartermaster. The system he orchestrated was fast and effective, based on an almost triage-like distribution of supplies determined by a combination of
Interview with a Zombie Hunter"Weren't you glad to leave the wasteland, though?" she asked. The patient's answer was delayed by murky contemplation.
"What do you mean?" The man took a deep breath.
"All my childhood I longed for war, wanting to be the hero fighting for good and making a real difference. I wanted to be the savior, the medic, the guardian angel. I wanted to do real and permanent good by combating evil. All that shit. But when it came down to it, I ended up how I'd always feared and knew I would. The bad guy. A monster. The necessary evil, sacrificing my sanctity so others may retain innocence. That was my fate, that was my destiny. My duty, and my doom. I wasn't the medic, as I'd trained to be. I was the assassin I'd been born to be." His eyes lifted from the low spot on the back wall to meet the therapist's gaze.
"And I loved every minute of it."
Her DreamThe breeze was refreshing and cooled her skin as quickly as the sun warmed it. The air pushed waves through the endless field of golden grain as distant tree lines rushed against the light blue sky dotted with large clouds.
"Oh, hi Sammy." John was sitting at the base of a lonely oak tree in the middle of the field as he had in the hospital, covered in white bandages from which clear tubes trailed with different liquids. She walked over and sat beside him, and he put his arm around her, smiling warmly as the sun shining overhead.
Then there was a sudden crack through the calm air, causing hundreds of crows to explode from the distant trees and rise into the darkening sky. A tall figure stood with his back to the burning field whose black smoke became storm clouds as the wind picked up. Sammy stood to face the stranger and screamed as she saw it was John, his flesh covered in open scars, the plain uniform soaked in blood, and in his hand a knife that gleamed as brightly as his twisted g
A LetterYou were bullied a lot, weren't you? Not by a single tormenter, but by the world. And so you feel the need to respond with just as much hate as you feel you were subjected to all your life. Completely emotional, you lash out against everyone at once for fear that they will somehow hurt you unless you hurt them first. It's more than revenge, though, your anger is internal.
You're angry that it's so hard to be recognized for positive things--doing good--so all you ever do is what you've always done; attract negative attention because it's better than being totally ignored. Much like the sick Stockholm-like syndrome of the bullied who love their tormenters for acknowledging them. All you're after is attention.
In the end, you're just a parasite. A waste of oxygen. A lone cancer cell unable to spread despite your best efforts. So you're not even a disease. You're pathetic. You don't contribute constructively to society, but you reap the benefits greater people have given you without repayi
The soldier on the doorstepThe resonating emotion buffeted by silent words muffled behind walls of glass
The rolling storm of crushing rain pouring relentlessly down with unstoppable force
The blasting cold piercing cloth and Kevlar to slash against tenderly numb skin
The dragging current pulling down deeper and deeper into the wide black abyss
The crushing pressure pounding on the foggy thoughts of a domed blast furnace
The horrible realization of cold, hard, unforgiving fact striking hard where it hurts most
The man who'll never come home
An unearthly call that echoes through the endless space surrounding him as he runs. His bones are purpose-built, muscles task-dedicated, mind specifically trained for this. With great strides his boots pound into the ground, one after the other, propelling his gear-laden person forward. Faster and faster he runs, a slow thumping pound in his ears.
He reaches a wall with poor means of scaling, and no way around. Furrowing his eyebrows and pressing his lips, he throws himself against it, clinging to the few niches as he struggles against his heavy vest, pouches, and packs to pull himself up to the next. Without looking down, he reaches the top and drops over, tumbling across the ground to continue his sprint. The pounding continues, steadily increasing in frequency.
Suddenly he stands at the bank of a rushing river, the opposite bank impossibly far away. Taking a deep breath, he wades in as the water rises higher and higher towards his chin. Struggling to keep
Aelita's Escape"Status on Commando."
"Drop point reached. Standby."
"Commando Alpha dropping in."
"Roger that. Good hunting."
Doors on the bottom of a large hovering craft that materialized from air open to drop several heavily equipped soldiers in black with glowing rectangles of blue. The cords that broke their thirty foot fall disconnect the moment their boots hit the gravel rooftop, allowing them to move in unison over the edge and down the stairs.
The bar door bursts open as several ghosts storm inside. A man in a dress shirt, tie, and rimless glasses yells at a woman with short, black windswept hair in a white shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes. "Run Aelita!"
With inhuman speed and agility, she darts through the small panicking crowd, flying through the door as the commandos rappelling down the facade reach it.
"Hot mobile northbound!"
Inside the bar, the man in broken glasses is forced to the ground by an armored officer and rea