Not Supposed to be Here (600 words)

The concrete under Landy’s boots was still warm from the collapse, radiating a dull, fevered heat through the soles. The air was eerily still with a thick, heavy silence, stained with the scent of burning flesh. She checked behind her. Walls had crumbled and rubble littered the halls. In front of her, the same, with added dead soldier parts strewn about. A groan came from the corner; a man crawling to get to a weapon.

“A-a-ah,” she said in a sing-songy voice as she drew her pistol.  

Riot crouched in a corner on the other side of a newly created hole in the third floor, checking his equipment. Two full mags, still. He thought. Rifle, side-arm, NOGs are good. He checked his boot for “Sally,” his Kabar knife he'd named after the agent that gave it to him before she died. When drunkenly reminiscing, he'd often say “after all the combat we'd seen together, she was taken out by cancer sticks.” 

His boot knife was in place. However, he noticed a gash in the side of his shin. “Fuck,” he whsipered. When he moved to touch it with his fingers, a pain in his shoulder bit at him. A piece of metal was sticking out of his arm and blood covered his hand when he felt for it. More came when he pulled it out. He took out his kit and began to doctor himself. 

“Riot, you ok?” She whispered into her headset.

“I'm good. Took some shrapnel in my right delt. Otherwise, I'm straight. You good?” his voice came through the earpiece. 

She touched her leg and focused her attention back to her equipment as she checked her inventory. “I think some grazed my leg. Nothing sticking out. Bleeding like a son of a bitch.”

“I'm coming.”

She readied her rifle and scanned the area, “Go.”

Riot swung his grappling hook onto an exposed beam in the roof above him. He climbed up the rope and hung. After retrieving his rope and hook, he made his way over the opening between them. He thought back to training, running the crucible, and chuckled. The rope. He thought. “When the hell would we need to do this?” He said to himself in a mocking tone, “fuckin’ Sly.” 

Riot treated her leg with the medkit in his pack. He wasn't a medic, but knew enough to get through a mission. In fact, Landy was the one to teach him. That was her position on the team. But, when it was just the two of them in the field, he was the medic. Neither of them could remember which of them made that decision; Riot assumed it was her. 

She looked at his arm, “you good?”

“Yeah, I'm alright. Anything broken?”

“I don't think so.”

“Okay,” he said, “we gotta get down there. Can you walk?”

“I'm good,” Landy answered.

“Hoorah,” he winked, “let’s go.”

She anchored her grappling hook and they began to descend. Dead soldiers hung from the openings in the building created by the rocket attack. Others were crumpled over further back from the openings, some from windows, all in pieces. Water dripped from exposed and broken pipes and the entire structure creaked and moaned. 

The air was filled with smoke and dust blocked by their decorated balaklavas. Landy's mask displayed the jaw and teeth of a green, fanged monster. Riot's showed the bottom half of a skeleton's face. 

Landy looked up at Riot as they descended, “you doing good, sir?” she whispered.

“I'm good,” he answered, “we’re not even supposed to be on this damn mission!” He whispered back.

The Bunker (500 words)

The bunker smells of sweat-covered cotton and anxiety. I’ve gotten used to it. This has been my base of operations for the last six months. The smell doesn’t bother me much. The halogen lights buzz above my head and ring in my ears. I’ve heard gunfire, explosions…even a man’s last gasp of desperate air. In pitch black chaos, I find myself. In the crucible of combat, I feel whole. Under these lights…it’s like I see them again. The faces. The lights…they get to me.

My gloves feel cold when I slip them on, and my hands welcome them. The initial cold of the fabric makes me feel the stakes of my upcoming endeavor. This mission is a Hail Mary, and I’m the tip of the spear. Some have told me it’s a suicide mission. The beasts outside ravaged the world into a hellish reality. They meet my blade. They feel my rounds. They die by my hand. I’m the best – and they want me to lead. But the lights…they won’t stop.

My vest is heavy on my shoulders; it wraps around me like a comforting hug. It squeezes me, reminding me of my dad before a game. He loved watching me as a Running Back and would embrace me around my pads. It was embarrassing. Now, before every mission, this is my thought.

I strap on my boots while thinking of him. He didn’t want this life for me. He wanted me to be a doctor. I kind of am. I’m a field medic of sorts. My medical bag is on the table, and I hook it to my flak vest. My rifle feels like an extension of my arm. The smooth grip feels like a pillow on my fingers. I just cleaned my gear, so my magazine is shiny and full. It slides in easily with a satisfying click. 

The sound takes me from my father’s love to this harsh reality, reminding me of where and who I am now. Not the star running back with a 3.8 GPA. Not the classically trained pianist with a talent for the trumpet. The soldier that was created when these beasts began to roam. They fed on the living. Then, the living started fighting back. We were formed. I was formed. It amazes me what society has become since the fall. Thoughts of the old days flood my mind. But the lights…they’re constant.

My unit was the first of its kind, made up of the best soldiers the government could find. Some of us had seen combat, some of us simply had potential; I was the latter. I’d never fired my weapon until my first day in this unit. I shot a wraith and the man that was controlling it –  a monster and the beast he commanded. 

It is we who will fight these wraiths and we who will secure our people. It’s up to me to lead these soldiers through this impossible mission. We have to survive. The Death Walkers.

Tek: Coming Home (300 words)

 I step over the threshold of my front door as the dawn breaks through the night. My cigarette is down to its last puff. I extinguish the cancer stick on the ash tray next to the door; this is the reason it's  there. I  always smoked as I returned home. It was like a  bookend to novels of my life, each containing what  I did that day. Who I saved. Who I killed.

She greets me with a kiss on the lips, her lips soft like baby skin. I taste the lip balm I like. “Berry Berry.” 

“Welcome home,” she says. She kisses me and takes off my coat. It’s as if she was raised in the 50s in a posh family. 

“Hey, Doll,” She hangs my coat and I pick her up in a bear hug. She likes these. She would hit me if I hadn't waited for her to finish.

She lets out a sigh and hugs my shoulders, “How was your night?”

“Good enough”

“Uh oh. Trouble?”

“Nothing I couldn't handle.”

I walk to the kitchen, remembering the night – what I did in the dark. The bodies of my enemies. Dead civilians. Silenced witnesses. I told Ronnie not to do this shit. I told him at least thrice. Now there are bodies.

Red told me to handle Ronnie. I knew his intent. I couldn't. He reminds me of my brother with his will and gumption. The pure determination  to do as he pleases. But what pleases him puts the company at risk. I'm supposed to kill him. He’s supposed to die.

“Another Time, Boss. Give him a chance. I'll take care of him when I have to.” When I said it, Red’s glare was directly on my pupils. He will kill me over this man. He's safe.  

Jagger (600 words)

She’s sitting on the couch in her “lounging garb.” Her coffee steams her glasses as the cup lingers on her lips. She always pauses mid-drink while she’s thinking. She stayed up late last night and woke up at the crack of dawn, and in the summertime, that’s ridiculously early.

I just got up, my first sight was my beautiful wife on the couch sipping coffee and wearing the PJs I bought her. The pink and white flannel garments hug her body in all the ways I want them to. They match mine, but mine are baggy and black. She notices me staring at her, and her head slightly tilts to the side with a sweet smile. 

“Well, you’re finally awake,” she winks and sips from her cup.

I usually wake up when she does, I go to work before the sun comes up in any season. However, it’s not only Saturday, it’s my birthday. I’m forty-three, I work hard all week, I’m an active father, and the shrapnel in my leg has been bothering me. It has been since two nights ago. The real reason I’m off from the Agency today. I’m on “psych-leave.”

“I needed some sleep, I guess,” My cup warms as I pour the coffee, and I feel slight excitement. Coffee in the morning is very important to me.

“I made your favorite. Hazelnut,” She walks sexily when she comes over. I can never tell if she does it on purpose. “Even the brand you like – the expensive one.”

“Nice,” an elongated hiss, “is this my present?”

The phone rings. It’s my mom.

“Hey, Junebug,” she’s loud enough for Jana to hear. The pet name makes her giggle.

“Hey, Mama.”

“What are you doing for your birthday?”

“We don’t know yet. Jana’s been up, maybe planning something,” Jana shakes her head and flips me off.

“Did you get birthday love?”

“Mom, I don’t want to -”

“Well, on your father’s birthday, I - “

“Okay, Mama! La la! Stop.”

“Nothing planned, Mrs. Jenkins!” Now, Mama knows Jana can hear.

“Oh my,” I can hear her blush, “I didn’t know she could hear me.”

“She hears everything,” another middle finger. It makes me chuckle.

“I’m sure she has something planned.” 

I doubt it. She’s been distant for the last week. My instincts tell me something is off – and they often save me. Our kisses haven’t been the same. Her voice is dead during “I love you.” She’s been out late and extra vigilant about her phone. The coffee could very well be my present.

It started after my last assignment. I’d been gone for six months and returned with a scarred mind from the things I’d seen; worse than I’ve seen yet. I’ve seen too much already. I lost a friend and close co-worker. The man who killed him got away. His friends didn’t, distractions to protect him. It worked, and I mourned. But I know him now – “Jagger.” 

 

Mom expresses love and says goodbye. Jana turns, walks to the closet.

“So, I’ve been weird lately,” she says.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

The box she pulled from the closet seems heavy for her; she’s dainty, and I’ve compared her to a thimble in the past. I begin to shake it. She hits my shoulder.

“It could be fragile, Butt Munch!” She exclaims. Was that a clue?

It plops on the counter, and I feel it roll. It smells strange when I open it. I touch it, and it’s squishy with no bounce back. I inspect closer and gasp. I slowly straighten my back. I think it’s a head. It’s…his head. It’s Jagger.

Pimp Wrapped in a Congressman (500 words)

“You want more coffee, Sweetie?” Linda passed by the table, skirt bouncing with each happy step. She was a tiny little thing with black hair and almost ludicrously large brown eyes.

“Sure, Doll,” Mark’s build was hidden by the zoot suit. He had delicate eyes and a strong jawline. Black, tight curls lay under his fedora. Her co-workers said he could be a “pimp wrapped in a congressman.”

Linda filled the cup and sat across from him. He smiled a little. 

“What?” She giggled.

“Nothing…” a sheepish grin and a sip.

“No,” she giggled again, “tell me.”

“Well…” another sip and a slight grin, “...your eyes are…interesting. Your smile is…great.” She found his voice cold, yet soft and inviting.

“Hm…” she leaned forward, “...explain.”

“Well…” he sipped. She thought his eyes sparkled, “...I’ve never seen that color in someone’s eyes before.”

“You’ve never seen the color of my eyes before?”

“Yes…” he smiled, his voice was deep enough to shake a glass of water, “... just not in an eye. It’s a very interesting green. I’ve only seen it on a stone I collected in the Middle East. Maybe,  something simple as green turquoise. But, it is beautiful.”

She blushed, “thank you.”

“Your smile…is warm and overtly genuine.” Another sip.

“Do you always notice things like this about people?” she bit her lip.

“Not all people.”

“Women?”

“...Not all women.” Wink.

They stared at each other.

“Miss? Could I have some coffee?” A voice came from another booth.

“Sure thing, hun.”

He watched her reflection in the metal coffee pot. She came back to retrieve it and winked, “be right back.”

He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. Mark’s ears listened to the hearts around him – the blood flowing and breathing. Linda’s became clearer. Then, it was the only one in the room. He turned to the window and watched her reflection move to the counter. 

“Two Adam and Eve’s on a raft, no bacon,” said the cook.

She picked it up and went to another table. He looked back at his coffee as she approached him once more.

“You gonna eat, hun?” Linda touched his shoulder.

“I generally only go out for coffee. I tend to eat in.”

“Don’t like restaurant food, huh?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he smiled, “I just like other menus. This place is great, but I like it for the coffee,” he took her hand, “and the company.” His voice, still attractively cold.

She smiled, “You do come in every night.”

“I do,” he winked, “maybe we could go for a walk on your break. The river is close.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” she put his hat on her head, “...I don’t know you. You could be a killer.”

He chuckled, “I’m no killer. Just a fan of pretty girls with light in their eyes named Linda.”

“I’ll go clock off,” she kept his hat.

He felt the point on his canines with his tongue and laid money on the table.

“Meet me outside…I’ll be waiting.”

 

Twelve Shadows: Riot and Landy (600 words)

Riot moved in almost complete silence, his steps only audible to his own ears. The water under his feet ran with blood, the stench almost unbearable. His rifle scanned the corridor, using its flashlight attachment to pierce the darkness. The walls were damp from the humidity and the air was thick. The doors along the wall were closed, the openings to alley ways gated. The silence was loud. Water dripped farther in, shocking in the midst of the dead, still air. 

“Landy,” he said into his earpiece, “do you copy?”

Nothing. Blood dripped from his rifle’s bayonet. He left a trail of bodies on his way in. This was his and Landy’s first assignment together. An intricate hit – a perfect job for them to learn to work together. 

Riot and Landy entered the program together, drawn to each other like kindred spirits. In a group of sixty entrants, they scored in the top five. After the grueling exam called “The Crucible," they beat the record time by two days. Only those two that thought to work together to survive the forest. Trainees were dropped at different points forty miles away from the rendezvous in any direction to retrieve a panther's tooth. Riot and Landy agreed to land close enough to find each other. They were given a machete, a bow with twelve arrows, and a cotton sack that held 50 ft of paracord, a food bar, and fishing wire. One month was their time requirement.    

Voices came from an alley. He walked to the wall’s edge and peered around, turning off his light. Three men stood in front of a door talking in the light of a red bulb above. 

“You off for the night?” asked one

“Nah, just on break,” said the one in the middle.

“I don’t know why we’re here, anyway. This place is protected. They’d need an army to get to the commander,” said the one on the left.

“Yeah, if it’s a direct attack. The Twelve are pros. They could get in and out, no problem,” the one in the middle took a drag.

“Yeah, man. He must have really pissed someone off for The Twelve to come after him. How did he know anyway?”

Riot slid his rifle to his back and pulled a bow from his shoulder. He advanced, staying in the dark. The third man almost back flipped from the arrow to his head. The man in the middle turned in Riot’s direction. An arrow flew through his throat. The last man looked to his left at his radio sitting on a stool. An arrow pierced his hand as he reached. Another through his chest. He groaned and fell with heavy, labored breathing.

Riot approached and he looked up in horror. “He knew because we told him we were coming,” Riot knelt closer. He pulled the arrow out of his chest and stabbed it through his eye.

“Landy?” he said again.

Commotion came from behind the door. Riot jumped and put his back against the wall, standing next to the door. It opened, hiding him from view. A shocked guard rushed to one of the bodies. He reached for his radio, but Riot severed his head with his machete. A guard came through the door behind him.

“Hey!” he yelled, pointing his rifle. He froze and reached for his back. He jerked again and fell forward with a knife in the spine. Landy knelt down and yanked her knife out of her victim. 

“Do you take long to shower, too?” She asked.

“Shut up, I had to get through some guys earlier.”

I AM TEK: Diary (600 words)

My emotions strike as if they've been waiting. Like, behind my eyes, is an old reel to reel that switches on in the silence. Memories vie for attention with teeth and claws – evil eyes.

Demons.

My demons.

Ghosts of my past that mark grave mistakes or difficult choices with haunting consequences that I can't avoid. I've seen eyes and watched life drain from them. I've seen the point when the body releases the soul into the deep dark. I've felt final effort, a desperate surge of strength before there's no more left. I've seen bodies with holes in their eyes, chest, or anywhere – most of them from my weapon. I've slit throats, I've snapped necks, I've poisoned, shot, even beaten with bare fits. It depends on the required message. They send me to send them. And I gladly go.

To my lady, I'm perfect. I cook for her, rub her back – I even write her poems and tell her not to speak of it. Now, I advise her on outfits and she listens. She says I'm the perfect boyfriend. She wants to be my wife soon. I've told her what I do. She seems okay with it. She doesn't see the monster. 

It's like there's a switch I flip. The top setting is family. I'm a good partner. I might even make a good husband and father.  I'm loving and supportive. I'm chivalrous, my father taught me women are sacred. I treat her like a queen. 

The other setting…is the beast. There have been  few times when I've had to let him loose. 

Chance sent me last night to a competitor's compound to make a point. I went alone as always. I was to make a big enough spectacle to strike fear into the rest of their organization. When I got there, five guards patrolled or stood guard. They weren't as adept as they likely should have been. Three slit throats and a couple silenced shots. One of them had keys. There were butlers and maids; they died. There were some guards on the second floor that tried to scream when I knifed them in the back.

My target was in his office with his wife; she was to die, too. She was sitting on his lap facing behind him, in my direction, as he faced away from his desk. Her eyes widened with a shriek before my bullet struck her forehead. I was to kill her swiftly. All she did was choose the wrong mate. When he turned, I was on top of him with my brass knuckles. I beat him to the point of a death rattle. I shot him twice in the stomach. It would be a slow death. There was something I didn't expect. A boy.

A young boy stood in the doorway, mouth gaping but no sound. My first thought should have been to kill him. I'd need time to get away. Instead, I said:

“Hey, Kiddo. This looks bad. Slowly walk over to the wall there and sit down.”

He did so.

“Ok, I'm going to go down the hall. When I get to the end of the hall, press this button under the paperweight. Do you see this button?”

He nodded.

“Count to twelve, buddy. Then push the button.”

I stood to walk out.

“If you want to come for me in the future, I'll understand.”

His eyes burned into my memory. His face haunts me. In the night. In the silence. 

My demons.

They're my demons.

Then, come the emotions. The fear, sadness, love, anger, the shame…they attack like they've been waiting.