This was to be my contest entry. Now it’s just a short story. 😛 Read and enjoy!

There are probably grammar and spelling hiccups, I’ve been over it twice but something always manages to slip through. Anyways, don’t forget to comment!

 

“The Timeless Sands”

 

Sheriff Justice Law squinted against the glare of the setting sun. His steel-gray eyes swept back and forth across the featureless sands of the desert, and found nothing but stout cacti and sun bleached rocks. A breath of wind stirred the arid plains, and Law blinked against the fine dust, pulling his hat down to shield his face.

“Sandstorm’s coming. If not tonight, then tomorrow morning.”

His words were addressed to a gold-colored chameleon that sat upon a flat sandstone slab to his left, soaking up the last rays of the day. Its previous owner had named it “Nav”, perhaps short for “Navigator”, or some unpronounceable Iroquois word. Law had renamed it “Nug”, short for “Nugget”. The odd critter had accompanied him on his last four journeys, and always seemed to fare better than its master. This, the last of the long missions, was no exception.

“You look right comfortable there, lazy fella. Guess you deserve it, you work harder than I do.”

Nugget didn’t even bother opening its eyes.

The Sheriff sighed, leaning forward to stir the metal pot in front of him. The last of the dried meat had gone into that soup, as well as a day’s worth of water. Under normal conditions, he would have felt guilty about wasting so much on a single meal, but that was before. Now, it really didn’t matter. This night would be the end, one way or the other.

His eyes went again to the desert, and again saw nothing. His quarry had not yet arrived. Unusual. On previous occasions, Law had been the late one. Never too late, thank God, but still…

His mind strayed momentarily to preparation. His enemy would come armed. There was no strategic advantage here on the flat, dead plains. The distant mountains seemed tiny against the edge of the sky, sharp teeth of black upon a backdrop of blue.

“Wonder if we missed him, Nug. Perhaps he has been and gone, and here we are in the desert, waiting for nothing.”

The lizard moved from its perch, crawling through the sand and up Law’s pant-leg. Law barely twitched as the tiny claws nipped at his skin, offering his hand to the small chameleon.

“Maybe Meta’s smarter than both of us. Maybe he knows we’re waiting for him. The doctor didn’t tell us much at all. Well, he might have told you, friend. What are the odds we missed our mark?”

Nugget curled itself in his palm, lifting its head to look him in the eye.

“Odds are less than one percent. Jump was precisely timed and calculated based on over four million factors,” it said. “Meta must arrive at this point within the next twenty-four hours, otherwise his objective will be nullified.”

Law blinked at the chameleon, then moved his hand up, allowing Nugget to crawl over onto his shoulder. “Never will get used to hearing you speak. How on earth did the doctor do it?”

The lizard spoke again, its voice an odd, gender-neutral hash of tones. “I could answer, but it would take me forty-nine minutes to state the requested data in a form you would understand.”

Law shook his head. “No sense in that, my friend. So… we shall finally meet the enemy, face to face. Enough of this hide and seek.”

The sun was below the horizon now, it last frail glimmering turning the western clouds to fire. The dunes still radiated heat, but already Law could feel the creeping chill of the desert night. He reached forward, giving the soup another swish of the ladle. It was beginning to bubble, the tiny fire beneath finally bringing the water to simmering temperature.

“Don’t suppose you want some broth?”

Nugget did not reply.

The Sheriff sat back, reaching into the saddlebag beside him for a bowl. The horse the bag belonged to, Marie, had remained behind. Nug could only move a certain number of living objects, and Marie was one too many. Law had left her, just as he had left his wife, and family, and town, and…

A jolt of pain shattered his thoughts. His ankle had begun to ache again. Meta’s last “surprise” had broken it, or at the very least badly sprained it. Nugget had coughed up the materials for a splint, but even the lizard’s miraculous abilities had limitations.

A brilliant flash lit the distant mountains, and Law was instantly alert. Lightning from an otherwise clear night, in the middle of the desert. Unnatural and out of place.

Meta.

The Sheriff squinted into the darkness, drawing a Smith & Wesson six-shot revolver from the folds of his jacket. Six bullets, no spares. Back home, he had something of a reputation as a marksman, and even had a small silver medal from a shooting competition he had won at the fair, but the darkness was on Meta’s side. The sands ate up all sound, leaving a dead silence that set Law’s hair on end.

“Will you shoot me, cowboy?”

The voice was male, oddly accented, like nothing he had heard before. The speaker seemed to struggle with words, pronouncing cowboy as “co boay”.

Law drew back the hammer on his revolver, keeping his voice even as he replied. “I don’t shoot my friends, only my enemies. Which are you, stranger?”

The man laughed, stepping from the gloom into the ring of light cast by the fire. “I am… friend indeed, friend. My name Masakatsu Ishida. Good to meet you.”

Law followed Ishida with the gun barrel as the oriental man took a seat across from him. Ishida was dressed for cooler climates, his clothing thick and decorative. Red-colored wooden plates, presumably some form of armor, covered his chest and arms, clacking together as he moved. Two swords, both of foreign design, hung in ornate scabbards at his side.

Ishida saw him eying the weapons. “Do not need to worry, Mr…?”

“Law. Justice Law. I was… am the county sheriff where I come from.”

“Ah, lawman. Good cowboy. No need worry for my swords. Both are blessed by monk, never can cut good person.”

The sheriff coughed out a laugh. “A bunch of hokey, that. Met an Indian once, said he had enchanted feathers in his headband. Supposed to protected him from everything. Ended up dying of an infected cut, from his own knife no less. Superstition will not serve you, my friend.”

Ishida smiled. “Yet you here, talking to lizard, waiting for man who can kill you with shining magic from another land.”

Law blinked. “Different matter there. My gun would likely seem like death magic to those from another time. Meta’s got gadgets and gizmos from the future, but they’re still just machines someone designed and built. More to em than you can see, is all.”

The samurai shrugged. “Maybe more to your Indian friend’s feathers, too. Would you let have food?”

“Oh, of course, sorry. Have all you want. I’ve had plenty, and Nug won’t eat the rest.”

“Nug?”

“The doctor’s lizard. He’s around here somewhere. Must’ve run off when you showed up.”

Ishida nodded, accepting the bowl and ladle the sheriff offered him. For a short time, the only sound was the samurai’s eating and the occasional crackle of the fire.

Eventually, Law broke the silence. “Well, I’ve got a thousand questions for you, mister Masakatsu. Let’s start with how exactly you ended up here. It’s not exactly an easy spot to find.”

“I get here same as you. Little lizard show me the way.”

He gestured, and for the first time, Law saw the red chameleon resting on Ishida’s shoulder. Its color matched the armor perfectly, blending in with the carvings of dragons and serpents. The firelight shone in its eyes, black orbs that watched the sheriff, unblinking.

“I used to be Samurai. Brave captain, many victories. Then fighting stop, and I became wanderer. No place for warrior in time of quiet. I find odd jobs, walk many miles. Was at peace, though. Then Naz came to me, with note from… doc-tor.”

Ishida drew a paper from a side pouch, holding it for the Sheriff to see. A quick inspection showed that the note was written in Masakatsu’s language, unreadable to the English-educated.

“What’s it say?”

“It say, ‘Lizard name is Naz. It take you to good man who need help. Broken leg, stop him from doing what he need do’. Naz also translate for us, lets us speak. It learn as we talk. Getting better, yes?”

“What, at speaking? I guess, sure.”

“So, now we wait for… May-tah.”

“Meta, yes.”

“You fight him before?”

The Sheriff sighed, moving the soup pot from the fire to the cool sand. “No. Not yet. I always miss him. Nav… Nug can’t track him properly. We always arrived late… except this time.”

“This time, you first.”

“Yes. Nugget says it’ll be any time now.”

“And what you do when he get here?”

Law’s forehead wrinkled briefly in a frown. “I’ll put a bullet in the bastard’s skull.”

Ishida nodded solemnly, scraping the last of the food into his mouth. Then, setting the bowl aside, he undid the tethers holding the swords at his side, setting them across his lap.

“And you sure that Met-ta needs, ah, bullet in skull?”

Law lifted an eyebrow. “Dr. Marigold did not explain it to you?”

The samurai shrugged. “I know what doctor say. I want know what you think.”

“You think Marigold lied to us about Meta? I’ve seen the bombs. I’ve seen what they’re made of. I’ve seen what Nav can do, what he’s capable of, and he’s just a tiny bit of nothing where he comes from. If I make a mistake, if even one of the explosives makes it through, everything will be gone. Everything.”

“But not for you, yes?”

“Not for me, no. I’ll be sleeping in my grave before Meta’s contraptions go off. But those thousands of lives will be on me. Every one of them.”

Ishida considered for a moment, partially unsheathing one sword. The blade glittered in the firelight, reflecting the rapidly-emerging stars in its mirror-smooth surface.

“Meta’s bombs, they kill people in the future. Hundred, thousand year after you die. But what if people bad? Did you ever think that maybe bombs good thing?”

The sheriff scowled. “I’m starting to think you’re a pal of this Meta fella. That’s not a good way to be, friend.”

Ishida laughed carelessly. “I am on only one side, and that mine. I come because you hurt and need help. That is all. However, I do not like it when a man acts without thinking first. That is all. Two thoughts. Maybe Meta like you, a lawman. Maybe he want good, not bad. Bullet to bad man’s skull, but not bullet this time, just… bomb.”

Law leaned forward, his gun still in his hand. “Alright, out with it. You didn’t get all this yourself. Who have you been talking to?”

“Asked Naz. Asked to see future, see where he come from. He show me. Maybe you ask Nug. Then you see.”

After an uncomfortable pause, the Sheriff turned to Nug.

“Nugget, can you do that?”

“Explaining the events occurring between now and the year of my origin will take approximately three million sixty-”

“No, don’t explain. Show. Just a small piece, right before you came to me. Can you show me?”

Nug’s head ticked a notch to one side. “Yes. Estimated time of transfer, two minutes.”

“Then… do it.”

The last thing Law saw was Ishida’s face, curling into a small smile… and the world broke apart as memories of the future were force-written into his brain.

Had Nug not paralyzed his motor functions, he most likely would have injured both himself and Ishida with his sudden flailing. As it was, his struggle was only in his mind. Surges of knowledge pulsed blue through his neural pathways, sometimes pictures, sometimes sounds, sometimes just a knowing that came of reasoning and not direct stimulus.

Light, of all spectrum, visible and invisible.

A great room of shining metal that Dr. Marigold occupied; his “laboratory”.

“Time travel, at least through the past, is simple enough. Just look at these equations…”

Four Navigators, living time machines, ate pellets from a jar and conversed with the men that made them.

The passage of time, not long, but days at least.

Meta was there. Law jerked at the memory, seeing his adversary for the first time, knowing what was to come, powerless to stop it. Meta had no form, a great living blackness that sprang from the shadows, consuming Dr. Marigold.

More time, longer.

Meta was in Marigold, and Meta was Marigold.

The bombs were made, designed by Marigold, but made for the shapeless monster within.

The Navigators were finished, Nav, Naz, and Nal. Nax, the fourth Navigator, died. Its master shed a tear, even as Meta forced him on.

The time came. Meta prepared his strike. In that faraway land, man had built such defenses that explosives would be defused and stopped before they could do damage. Detonating from within the city was impossible. But if the bomb was planted in the past… if it were to go off in the city’s foundations… from the bedrock underneath, where no man would think to look…

A random thought wave, Meta’s. An image of the city in ashes, all life silenced under a black cloud of death.

The monster was discovered! Meta panicked. Marigold took command, wrestled free.

A note, scrawled to a man Marigold would never meet, tied to Nav with wire.

“Find someone to give this to. Choose a time, choose a place far away. Stop me, Nav. Stop Meta!”

The sound of time folding as he, the Navigator, began to move.

The wheels of space made a bridge, pulling Nav to the man he had picked; Sheriff Justice Wite, also known as “Law”. One of the most honest men history had record of. A clear, logical choice.

And for a brief second, as Nav slipped through a crack in time, Law looked back and saw the City. Saw into it, saw what it was.

The shock shattered the transfer; he was back in the desert.

“How was it?” smirked Ishida.

Sheriff Law rose to his feet, barely noticing the pain in his leg, and vomited into the sand. His breathing came in ragged gasps, his entire body shaking.

“That city… heaven help us, that city…”

Ishida’s customary smile faded. “Yes. That is what we become. Evil, good sheriff. The only word for it is evil. You struggle to save the great cesspool of injustice that is our very future. I have said before, I care only for myself. You, on the other hand… you consider yourself fair. Do we not deserve this end? Does Meta not bring a fitting sentence to it all? Who knows; perhaps from the ruin, new life shall flow.”

Law returned to his seat upon the sandstone slab, digging weakly in his pack for a water pouch. Finding it, he took a deep drink, taking care not to choke in the process. Then, setting it aside, he sat back, staring up into the stars.

His words were slow in coming, slower still in delivery. He spoke his thoughts to the samurai out of time, to the lizard that was a machine in disguise, to the blackness of space and the great wasteland that was that prehistoric desert.

“Do we deserve it? That is what you ask. If one were to look at that… monstrosity we become, they would say a right proper yes without hesitation. But to end them all? To sentence the few for the darkness of the many? Any other man you ask, they would see the City and say yes. But I say this. As long as a single light shines in the night, another light may grow from it, till the light is again greater than the dark. I do not fight for the City. I fight for the Choice. The choice of Man. The freedom to chose, till their dying day, to live in black or in white.

“They choose to be evil, or they choose to be good, but either way, they choose. Meta takes away that choice. It wants to force its way upon us, to make us slaves to what it decides is right. That makes him just as bad as the others.

“The men of that time follow the laws of their time. Sick, twisted laws, but laws they made. Justice they chose. Nav has brought me here, to a land before man, to make a choice as well. I have made it three times before, even at some cost to myself. Here, I reckon I am the law, and I say this. Until they fall to their own wickedness or until they find the error of their ways, until they run their course and the final judgment is upon them, let nothing take from them their choice. And that means I have to do this. I have to win. Good or bad, I choose to save them.”

And he took another drink from the canteen.

Ishida was silent for a good while, his gaze following Law’s to the heavens above. The sand around them shifted, rolling in the wind-swept night. The dwindling fire shuddered, but in the end persevered, snapping a spent log in two with a feeble crackle.

“You have clear judgment, cowboy.”

“Where I come from, I have to. Very often, my word is life or death for those accused of breaking the law. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to confirm a suspicion of mine… Nugget, what is the true identity of the man before me?”

“Identifying. Masakatsu Ishida, born 1587, Kanto region, Japan. Occupation: Samurai and bodyguard to local Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu.”

Ishida raised an eyebrow. “What did you think, cowboy? I do not-”

“Further: Ishida is also currently host to a parasitic non-entity currently termed ‘Meta’. No existing data on parasite, aside from the extreme danger he represents. Caution is advised.”

“Thank you. And now, Mr. Masakatsu, or should I say, Mr. Meta,” Law brought the gun up, pointing it squarely between Ishida’s eyes, “If you’ll kindly put your hands where I can see them, and move away from the swords.”

The samurai laughed, more from amazement than amusement. “By heaven, Sheriff. You should have done that to begin with. It would have saved you a great deal of time.”

“Oh, I had a good idea it was you all along, even without Nug to confirm it. What did you do with Dr. Marigold?”

“He fought me from the start. I would not have hurt him, but he took control while I was placing the second bomb in 1586, and threw us off a ravine. I had no choice but to seek out a new host. Masakatsu was the first I came to. A surprisingly good choice; he is much more willing to assist me.”

The fire was beginning to dim, more ember than flame. Law squinted in the growing darkness, his gun never wavering. Ishida hadn’t moved since Nug had revealed his identity, neither lifting his hands in compliance to the Sheriff nor making a move to strike.

“What are you?”

“No man shall know. I was here before time, set as a watcher to guard this world. Some say I am a stranger from a distant planet. I am not. Some say I am a spirit, a demon cursed to wander this earth. I am not. I am he who keeps order. I am he who keeps mankind from extinction. I watch, I ponder, and if I must, I act.”

Ishida’s body had grown hazy; the inhuman revealing itself through the human. Meta was blacker than the night, a silky shadow cast on a dimensional plane outside the bounds of reality, a thing beyond Law’s comprehension.

“I am tasked to preserve humanity, but there came a time when I asked myself, ‘How can I protect them when they kill each other? How can I keep them safe when the they are their own worst enemy?’ So I said to myself, ‘I will destroy all but a few.’ And so I began.”

The phantom sighed through its borrowed mouth.

“I made a mistake. I did not anticipate that they would have grown to posses the ability to detect me. Clumsy from many millennia of inactivity, I tried to end them with their own weapons. I was stopped, but I made use of my host’s knowledge to dive through time. Setting the bombs in the past seemed logical. They would not think to look there, remaining unaware until such a time as I returned to trigger the explosion. The city would fall, taking with it the blackest third of humanity. But… something drew at my mind. Was borderline extinction really the best solution? It was the only one I knew, but… I needed more options.”

The truth slowly dawned on Law. “You chose me. To made the decision for you.”

“Yes. Marigold wrote the letter. I sent it. I knew Nav would be able to track me as I set the bombs, so I moved quickly. I take it you have disarmed them?”

Law shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly hard. They weren’t complex, really. An, ah, rather advanced on-off switch, but still simple with Nav’s help. The fail-safe on the last one knocked me off a cliff, but that was my own darn fault.”

“I am sorry about that. I could not remove it from Marigold’s design.”

“So… he made the bombs?”

Meta nodded. “For a war that would have… will destroy half the planet. That was what prompted me to act.”

Law still kept his gun up.“So… do you agree with me?”

“I do.”

Meta rose from his seat, his feudal clothing flaring in the intensifying wind. Sand stung Law’s face as he, too, stood as best he could.

The storm was coming.

“I will go. This man longs for his time once more, as I am sure you do. Nav will carry you back to your home, but it must return to its place as well.”

Law released the gun’s hammer with his thumb, tucking the weapon back inside his jacket. Nugget curled itself on his shoulder, its tiny lizard eyes closing. Law knew from experience that it was preparing for the jump through time, conserving the necessary energy.

“The last bomb, Meta. Where is it?”

Meta held out his hand. Something like shattered porcelain fell from his fingers, turning to dust as it fell, joining the sand swirling in the whistling wind.

“You need not fear it any longer.”

Meta turned away, facing the oncoming sandstorm. His Navigator crawled into place on his shoulder, assuming the same position as Law’s.

“Meta…”

The being turned one last time.

“For what it’s worth… I’m sorry. About us, about mankind. We may seem awful to you, but you wait and see. We’ll get better. Just… give us time.”

The ghost of a smile played across Meta’s face.

“I know.”

Nav’s voice rose above the wind, its close proximity rattling Law’s eardrums. “Chronometric energy at 100%. Start point; Saharan desert, prehistoric era, year twenty thousand before B.C. End point; Boulder City, Nevada, 1840 A.D.” It paused, and opened its eyes. “Launch.”

Time stretched and deformed, folding over slowly until two points touched. The Sheriff became a pattern of energy, swirling through the juncture in the time plates. The soup pot, saddle bag, and the two used bowls whirled after him, following in his wake.

The samurai affixed his blessed swords to his side as he was drawn through a similar aperture, separating him from Meta in the process.

Meta stayed behind for several minutes, watching as the sandstorm rolled over the campsite, blanketing the dying coals, partially burying the rocks the two men had sat upon. Meta did not need a Navigator to pass through time; It was one with time, all-seeing, anchored in one place but able to move though the stream at will.

It could already hear the war, hundreds of thousands of years ahead. It could feel the men dying, feel children turning to ash, animals burning, trees stripped to nothingness by mankind’s death machines.

And there as well, a single tiny voice, calling out for peace. And others listened.

Meta had no face, but in its own way, it smiled.

“Looks like you may be right, cowboy. Only time will tell.”

The empty sands settled, and silence ruled once more.

Just in time for summer, it’s a… Christmas story… yeah…

Half of you will remember this from back when we still did those group contests. I just wanted to get it on this site before I lost it. 😛

Plus, it is kinda cool… 😉

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

December 20^th

11:56 pm.

New York City, Apartment Complex.

 

The operation lasted three minutes and thirty seconds exactly.

No mistakes would made; the team was the best of the best. They had never failed, not in twenty years. Tonight would end no differently.

They sat in silence as the black van maneuvered into position. There was no need to check equipment; it was all in place, every aspect of the mission planned, down to the number of steps they would take once they entered the apartment complex.

The van rolled to a halt. The team was on the go in a heartbeat, stepping from the vehicle’s rear exit in perfect coordination. The building’s glass doors fell to pieces under a hail of silenced gunfire. Booted feet ground the fragments into the carpet as the entry team stormed down the hall.

A security guard saw them coming, grasping at his gun and opening his mouth to shout a warning. He was dead before he could get the word out, hollow-point bullets crashing through his neck, forehead, and left eye. Two of the soldiers caught him before he hit the floor, dragging him into the bathroom. The rest of the team continued on up the stairs.

One minute.

Residents peered out their doors as the back-clad men ran past. The citizens were no threat, and thus they were ignored. The white block letters on the team’s uniforms spelled out “SWAT”, but they certainly were not. The uniforms served another purpose; no one would think to call the police, as the group of people clad in body armor were clearly in charge of whatever was going on.

Third floor. The dilapidated hallway would have frightened away all but the most poor of tenants. That made it easier. The only civilian on this floor was their target, a Mr. Elric Jing. The man was well-known to the CIA and FBI, a terrorist wanted for supplying several of America’s most wanted criminals with weapons smuggled into the USA. Two days ago, the operatives tracking him had reported that he was in possession of a nuclear weapon, and was only waiting for the highest bidder to claim his prize. There would be no such claim. Tonight, Mr. Jing would die.

“Four. Lights.” the leader grunted. ‘Four’ was a nickname in this case; their members had no real names, only numbers. Names were a sign of weakness, a sign that the individual in question possessed some aspect of humanity. And humanity only got in the way.

Four nodded, already disassembling the electrical control box beside the staircase door. In exactly five seconds, the level three entry hall went dark. The only sound was the click of night-vision monocles sliding into place.

In a barely audible whisper, the leader said, “Breach in five. Mark.”

“Orders on contact?” whispered someone. It was only a formality, they all knew their orders.

“Target is armed and dangerous. Shoot to kill.”

Two minutes.

“Breach-”

Someone was singing.

The team froze, listening. The tune was a familiar one, a common Christmas jingle, yet sung in a voice one would associate with a funeral dirge.

“…he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good…”

The singer was inside the room, moving towards the door. The soldiers brought their weapons to bear, waiting in the dark. If the target entered the hall, they could shoot him without the tedious process of breaking down the door, saving a whole four seconds.

“…so be good for goodness sake…”

The singer paused, as if listening. The team leader lifted a hand, signaling for quiet.

For a heartbeat, there was complete silence.

Then the door opened.

The man within seemed completely unsurprised to find an armored SWAT team on his doormat. He made no move to run or grab a weapon. He just stood there, a half-smile playing across his face.

The profile matched; white beard, neatly trimmed. A forehead too smooth for his apparent age. Blue eyes that seemed to shimmer from behind a pair of round-rimmed spectacles. All striking features, but they expected that. It was his outfit that caught them off-guard. A long red coat, tethered about the waist with a wide black belt; a red hat, a rather iconic one at that, perched atop greying hair. The costume, coupled with his face and general demeanor, gave the strong impression that Mr. Jing was…

“Santa Clause,” said Twelve. It was meant as a question, but it came out as a statement; when faced with something unexpected, rationalize, then execute. One of the many directives drilled into the soldiers’ heads.

“Indeed, gentlemen,” said Mr. Jing, and smiled. It was a smile that would have cracked the ice off the heart of the most soulless man alive, but the soldiers were not soulless. They had a job, and that was to eliminate any and all threats to their country, their unit, and their families. It was this sentiment that allowed the leader to drop his hand; the signal to shoot.

The clatter of silenced gunfire was still loud enough to rattle the windows of the neighboring apartments, shaking a painting off the wall at the end of the hallway. Mr. Jing was thrown back, twisting like a rag doll. Even as he fell, a sudden wind rushed through the room, rattling the floorboards and buffeting the soldiers.

“Get down!” shouted the leader, a split second before the entire team was buried up to their knees in heavy snow. Freezing air blinded the group, cutting through their uniforms, driving the sudden flurry into their faces.

Then it was gone. The snow, the wind, everything. The apartment was as it had been before the bizarre storm, with one crucial difference.

Mr. Jing’s body was gone.

Three minutes, thirty seconds.

The team got slowly to their feet, checking their weapons for melting flakes, brushing at uniforms that were surprisingly dry.

The leader touched his radio. “Command. Jing’s on the run.”

“Just as expected.”

“Yes. As expected.”

“You get him?”

“Yes. Fifty shots, twenty-one passed through, seven lodged.”

“Good. Where did he go?”

“Tracking data is loading now.”

“Very good. Proceed as planned.”

“Yes sir. He can’t run forever.”

There was no reply.

The team left just as quickly as they had come. All that remained in their wake was the broken glass, the bullet-riddled apartment on floor three, and the dead security guard slowly bleeding out in the bathroom stall.

 

 

 

December 22^nd

6:50 pm.

Vermont, Cabin outside St. Albans.

 

Jason Murray blew lightly on his coffee, then took a tentative sip. Finding it too hot to drink, he set the cup back down on the stand beside his armchair. The table squeaked slightly under the weight, leaning dangerously, and he grabbed for his cup to keep it from falling. He missed the handle, but fortunately for both him and the rug, the flimsy stand remained upright.

Taking the cup gingerly in his hand, he stood, walking to the small kitchen area near the front of the cabin. The log structure itself was brand-new, and still smelled of fresh-cut pine. It had been built as a summer cabin, but he had (wisely) had it sealed and insulated against winter weather. The process had cost him an additional twenty grand, but it wasn’t like he needed the money. The cabin, plus the mountain it was perched on, had barely scratched the surface of his sizable fortunes.

A small fire crackled in the hearth, tossing shadows across the walls and floor. That and an electric heater kept him warm and dry, safe from winter’s icy clutches.

A gust of wind howled past outside, drawing his attention to the cabin’s picture window. Still white as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t too far, considering the virtual blizzard that now assaulted his tiny shelter.

A soft beep from his cell phone reminded him that there were other things to be about. With no reception in the storm, his business calls would have to wait. The paperwork, on the other hand, wouldn’t. His employer would want the contracts all written up and ready to be faxed the instant phone service resumed, although judging from the snowdrifts outside, communications might not return until Christmas.

With a groan, Jason sank back into his chair. He had only wanted a short vacation, a few days to clear his head. Well, from the looks of things now, there was no way he would be able to make it back home in time for the celebration. His mother would kill him.

One last time, he considered trying to find his way through the storm to his car, parked about a mile away at the base of the mountain. The idea had hardly crossed his mind before it was joined by thoughts of wandering endlessly through the snow, of wolves tracking him until he was too weak to fend them off, of freezing death in the bleak winter night…

He took a drink of his coffee, selecting a book at random from the shelf. ‘The Once and Future King’, by Ian Campbell. Looked like a decent read, and he certainly had the time. No sane person would go out in this weather. Not if they had any will to live.

There was a knock at his door.

At first, he thought a tree branch had blown down against the entrance. He listened, setting his coffee on the wobbly stand.

The knock came again, definite and purposeful. Jason lunged out of the kitchen and down the front hall, throwing the door open.

A blast of icy air struck him in the face, so cold and sudden that he lost all pretense of assisting whoever was outside, falling back a step into the warmth of the entry hall. The door slammed shut, almost severing the arm of the old man as he darted inside.

The newcomer made straight for the fireplace, kneeling down and placing his hands as close as he could get them without burning his fingers. He was breathing in ragged gasps, muttering to himself in hushed tones. There was no indication that he had noticed the cabin’s owner.

Jason edged around towards the breakfast bar, never taking his eyes off the man. The poor guy was probably some homeless bum who got stuck out in the weather. Probably harmless. Or he could be on drugs, or a mental case…

As quietly as possible, Jason slid his hand under the breakfast bar. His service revolver, left over from his days as a Vermont State trooper, lay on a hidden shelf, primed and ready for action.

The visitor rose, his threadbare red coat rasping on the hardwood floor, and Jason drew his sidearm from its hiding place, training it on the man.

“Hold it.”

The man froze, slowly lifting his hands. “Now, now, Mr. Murray. Is that any way to treat an old friend?”

Jason blinked, then squinted, trying to remember the voice.

“Jason, it’s me. Cole.”

Cole. Cole Ainsbury. Of course. Jason lowered the gun, a look of shocked amazement on his face.

“Cole, what the hell man? I haven’t seen you in five years. What were you doing out in the snow? It’s miles from town. What have you been doing with your life? That coat doesn’t seem very-”

Cole interrupted him with a wave of his hand, laughing. “Slow down, Jason. One thing at a time.”

“It’s just… how have you been? All this time…”

“I’ve been fine, thank you.”

“Just… fine?”

“Yes. Never better.”

“Care to elaborate? I mean, what have you been doing? Do you have a job?”

Cole sighed. “My job remains the same as it has always been. But I did not come here for small talk. I’m in trouble, Jason.”

A feeling of unease coiled in the pit of Jason’s stomach. “What kind of trouble?”

“Well, let’s begin with the small stuff. I’ve been shot. Several times, actually.”

“What?”

Cole pulled up his sleeve. Three red-rimmed holes traced a line up his arm, the wounds surprisingly bloodless.

Jason let out a short gasp. “What on earth…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t… don’t worry about it? It’s a wonder you weren’t more severely injured. That kinda spread is from an automatic, isn’t it? Who the hell was shooting at you?”

“To be honest, I am not sure. Someone from your government. They were dressed as your Special Weapons and Tactics force. Their manner of action suggests they were not.”

“Okay, okay, hold on. Back up. Good Lord, man, I need to get those bullets out of your arm. Is that the only place you got hit?”

“My chest and neck as well.”

Jason, already on the way to the medicine cabinet, froze.

“Wait a minute… just hold the bloody phone. If the shots were to your torso, a full auto would’ve cut you in half. You should be dead.”

“Yes, I should be. Perhaps I should explain?”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, that would probably help. Sit down in that chair while I get a few things. It’s been a while since I treated a gun wound.”

Cole did as he was told, sitting back with some stiffness. Absently, he removed his hat, staring out into the blowing snow. The wind howled over a distant hill, the noise causing the old man to shiver.

Jason emerged from the bathroom, a variety of medical utensils neatly arranged atop a metal tray. He knelt next to Cole, examining his friend’s arm.

“I don’t have anything to dull the pain, but we have to get these out before they become infected.”

“I’ve gone through worse. Do what you must.”

Selecting a small knife, Jason sanitized the blade with isopropyl. “Alright, how about you tell me the whole story. This storm’s not letting up any time soon. We’ve got time.”

Cole sighed. “Not as much as you might think, but I shall tell you everything. Whether you believe it or not is up to you.”

“Try me,” said Jason, and began to work.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

December 22^nd

7:30 pm.

Vermont, Cabin outside St. Albans.

 

“In the first place,” said Cole, “My name is not Cole. It’s Nicholas.”

“Oh? Like Old Siant Nick?”

“Not ‘like’, my friend. I am Saint Nicholas.”

Jason paused. “What, like Santa Claus?”

“Yes.”

“You’re Santa Claus.”

“I do recall saying that you might not believe me.”

With a grunt, Jason returned to his medical efforts. “Okay. You’re Santa Clause. How does that equate to you getting shot?”

“I’m getting to that.”

“Right, sorry. Doesn’t that make you over a hundred years old?”

“One thousand seven hundred and forty two.”

“Oh? Well, you’re in great shape for an old man.”

“Indeed I am. It is due to a rather peculiar… gift, that I have.”

“Do tell.”

Cole winced as Jason swabbed his arm with a cotton ball.

“It was the year three hundred. My work in the church was well underway. I had been granted the title of Bishop, and was happy in the Lord’s work. Through Him, miracles began to happen, and my name became well known.

“It was around this time that I heard of a member of my congregation in need of some assistance. His daughter was of age to be married, but he could not afford a dowry. A dowry is a sort of…”

Jason waved his hand impatiently. “I know what it is.”

“Right. Unfortunately, the man had barely enough to survive, let alone grant money to his daughter. So I, being in possession of great riches, went to his home in the dead of night, and dropped a bag containing a small fortune in gold through an open window. I then escaped undetected.”

“I’ve heard this story! The guy had three daughters, right? And Saint Nick, er, you, gave more money the next night, and then more on the third night. But the old geezer was waiting for you on the third night…”

“Indeed. I heard him making quite a racket in the bushes, and decided to take a more unorthodox route. I climbed a tree, jumped to his rooftop, and tossed the last bag down the chimney. The fire was out, thankfully, and it landed among the ashes. I then attempted to flee, but getting down proved harder than getting up, and in my haste I was spotted by the father.

“The man thanked me with tears of joy, but I told him, ‘It is not I whom you should thank, but God alone’.

“We agreed that this would remain between us, but eventually, word spread of my deed. I cared not for the fame, but the man’s happiness left a mark in my heart. I prayed to God for the opportunity to give gifts to those in need every year. To my surprise, I was granted my prayer. Every year, a large sack of gold coins appeared on my pulpit, and every year I went out and distributed them in secret. Overnight, the gold transformed itself; it became whatever the recipient truly needed, be it a warm bed, a new cart to replace a broken one, or the exact sum of money owed to a debtor. When the people came to me, asking if it was I who gave them the gifts, I told them, “These gifts come not from me, but from my Father in heaven.” And so it was, year after year.

“Then, one year, I found myself in need of finances. Instead of turning to God for help, I kept a single gold piece for myself, hoping for a similar transformation. Instead, the gold turned to coal, and I grew sick with a holy plague, aging at a terrible rate. By the time Christmas came around again, I had grown to be a man of eighty, wracked with pains. The gold manifested once more, and I hobbled out to give it all away. It was only by the grace of God that I did not perish that frigid night, but somehow, I managed to dispense the blessed coins.

“As the last piece fell from my fingers, my youth was miraculously restored, but my curse was not lifted. As long as every piece of the gold was given out, I grew older in number only. I discovered, from numerous accidents, that I could not die, nor did injuries vex me. I felt cold, pain, and hunger, but death ran from me.

“It has been almost two thousand years since then. Seasons come and seasons go, and still I remain, forever suffering for my sin. Ouch,” he added, as Jason drew the fifth bullet from his skin.

“Oh hush, ya crybaby. If you’re immortal, pain’s nothing new to you.”

“That does not mean it does not hurt.”

“I told you it would. So, let’s say I buy your story, which I don’t. How does that get you on the bad side of a hit team?”

“Your government learned of my gift. At first, they were merely curious. They wanted to capture me, to study me, to learn the secrets of immortality. In short, they wanted to dissect me. Then they learned of the gold, and the power it contained. And they were afraid.”

“What? Why?”

“Think of it this way: What if I gave a coin to a terrorist, and it became a machine gun? Or a nuclear bomb? Or a weapon stronger than both?”

“Can it truly do that?”

“No. It cannot. If a person is impure, if he has killed a fellow man, the gold becomes coal in his hands. Only if the person has good intentions will it alter form. A failsafe, to prevent that exact scenario from occurring. But of course, your leaders did not believe me. They seek even now to catch me, to lock me away. Of course, I have other, limited abilities, which until now have allowed me to evade capture. Still they hunt me.”

Jason pulled the final slug from Cole’s shoulder, dropping it on the pan. The wound leaked a single drop of blood, sealing itself with unnerving rapidity.

“Huh. You do heal pretty quick.”

“I have not lied to you.”

“Okay, so, if you’re unkillable, why shoot you up? They must’ve known you’d get away.”

“Indeed. I do not know. Perhaps they are more desperate than I thought.”

“Or maybe there’s another reason.” Jason held one of the bullets up to the light, turning it over. The bullet had something nestled in its core, some kind of circuitry. And he’d seen that circuit before.

“A tracker. They put these things in ankle cuffs. Never seen one this small… Oh hell, Cole! They’re tracing you! They know you’re here.”

“Indeed? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t-”

“Jason, I need you to listen to me. This world has no place for me anymore. The gifts cannot be given to those not truly in need of a miracle. Christmas has become a holiday of greed, of excess. Soon, I will be unneeded, unwanted. I cannot die, but if there is no one left to give my gifts to, I will live for all time in the agony of weakness and old age. The end will come even sooner if I am captured and locked up. I won’t let them take me alive, Jason. I won’t spend the rest of eternity as a lab experiment. I came here for a reason.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I want you to kill me.”

For a long time, Jason stood in silence. After several minutes, he said, almost to himself, “You can’t be killed…”

“I will give you a gold piece. If you want with all your heart to let me die, it will become a weapon capable of ending this miserable existence.”

“But…”

“I chose you for a reason, Jason. I know your soul is pure. That’s why you lost your old job. You couldn’t kill that boy, even when he attacked you, a police officer. Even when he shot your partner, and shot you in the leg. You still carry that wound, Jason! You still carry that memory!”

Jason turned violently, placing his face inches from Cole’s. “You’re right! I failed everyone! I couldn’t kill the kid. I saw his gun, I knew he’d pull the trigger, and I still couldn’t put him in the crosshairs. I can’t kill anybody, so why the hell did you choose me?”

“Because you are the only man alive that I trust. It has taken me two hundred years to find a person like you.”

There was a noise outside, different from the rushing wind. Cole stopped, listened. It was the distant roar of an engine, growing steadily closer.

Jason stiffened. “Snowmobiles. They’ve found us already!”

Cole leapt to his feet with a sudden burst of energy, upsetting the tray of surgical tools in the process.

“Now, Jason. You must end this now! Here,” he drew from his coat a small sack the size of his fist. Reaching in, he brought out a single round piece of gold, offering it to Jason. “Wish, Jason. You must wish, you must need me to die. Please. Please let me go. Help me.”

Jason didn’t move, his thoughts in turmoil. Beyond the snowy hills, the snowmobile’s whine was joined by several more, drawing ever nearer.

“Jason…”

“Hold on. Just give me a minute. I can’t-”

“There is no time!”

The blowing snow cleared for a brief moment, and Jason caught a glimpse of one of the machines, black and sleek, skipping through the snowdrifts about a quarter kilometer out from the cabin.

Cole saw it as well.

“It is too late. Goodbye, Jason.”

Before Jason realized what was happening, Cole was already out the door, running into the blizzard.

“Cole, wait, no!”

Jason raced after his friend, snatching up a coat from the rack as he passed.

The outside air was a frigid twenty-two degrees, and the cutting wind did little to make it better. Jason’s ears were numb within a few seconds of exposure, but he didn’t care. He had to catch up with Cole before the old man did something stupid.

A gust of icy air slapped him in the face, and he stumbled in the deep snow, falling to his knees. His fingers sank into a drift, sapping what little warmth remained. He struggled up again, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he looked around desperately for Cole.

Somewhere behind him, wood splintered with a rending crash as black-suited men stormed his cabin. He didn’t care. He had to stop…

There. A flicker of red fabric as Cole ducked behind an evergreen. Jason ran as hard as he possibly could, overtaking Cole as the man leapt a small gully, tackling him to the white-frosted earth.

“Let… me… go!”

“No!”

“Why, Jason? Why won’t you help me?”

“I’m not going to kill you, man. You’re crazy. You need help.”

“I’ve lived a thousand years…”

“You are NOT Santa Claus!”

Cole stopped struggling, looking directly into Jason’s eyes. “Then how can I do this?”

And the world twisted and bent with a sound like thunder, and both men were gone in a flurry of shimmering snowflakes.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

 

The trip took only seconds, but it felt like forever to Jason. His senses were disoriented, spread between a million particles that somehow formed his body. The two men smashed through dimensional boundaries, slipped between atoms, crossed lightyears of space, yet never left Earth.

“Cole!” Jason shouted, but there was no sound, just a thought that became a rainbow of colors before wiggling away into the fabric of the universe.

Then, with an explosion of light and sound, they were whole again, standing in a snowy field.

“What… how…,”

His eyes locked on the nearest landmark. “The Washington memorial… D.C.? We’re in Washington D.C? But…”

“Leave me!” Cole shouted, and they whirled away again. Reality folded itself into a box, then shattered, mixing with snow and electricity in a storm of impossibilities. They were in midair over the Eiffel Tower, then tumbling down the side of a towering mountain. Cole fought against Jason’s hold every time they became solid, but Jason had his arm in a death-grip, gritting his teeth as they whisked from place to place across the world.

Finally, they came to a stop, right back where they had started from. Cole tried to vanish once more, but whatever power he had possessed was spent.

Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Holy… What was that? How did you do that?

Cole sighed in defeat, letting his shoulders slump. “This power was granted to me by God, to assist in the delivery of my presents. I can go anywhere with a thought, pass through walls, become a snowstorm and slip down chimneys. And, on Christmas Eve, I can even bend time. Now do you see? I was telling you the truth.”

“So, all this time… you’ve really been alive for a thousand years?”

“Yes. I have been witness to things no man should ever see. I have watched history unfold, I have seen events that you have only read about in text books. I have been shot, stabbed, crushed, run over by a locomotive, and despite the agony, I survived. Imagine it, Jason. A thousand years of suffering, all punishment for such a small sin. If you do not help me, you will be dooming me to another year of anguish. I can’t go on like this, Jason. I will ask but one more time; will you help me?”

And Cole held out the coin once more.

For a long time they stood together in the snow, oblivious to the howling storm. Jason neither took the gold nor turned away, weighing his options.

“If I touch that, it will change immediately?”

“Yes.”

“And it has limitless ability? It will become whatever I need most?”

“Yes.”

Jason hesitated, then reached out, taking the coin from Cole.

The gold let out a soft ringing sound as it expanded, its colors flowing and shifting as it changed. Jason was left holding a neatly wrapped box, about a foot tall. He tested its weight, tipping it slightly as he examined it.

“Well? Open it.”

He undid the ribbon binding the box together, then lifted the top. The wind tore the lid out of his hand, sending it spinning away into the whiteness, but it was already forgotten as Jason reached into the present.

In one smooth motion, he drew out a long red robe, identical to Cole’s. Dropping the box, he spun the coat around his shoulders, pulling its hood over frozen ears.

Cole was in shock. “A coat. You wished… for a coat?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“There!” someone shouted from the house, and a rifle bullet tore a hole in the tree beside them, missing Cole’s head by inches. The old man sighed.

“I don’t have enough energy to jump again. We need to run, Jason.”

Jason smiled, adjusting his sleeves. “No. We don’t.”

And so saying, he grabbed Cole’s shoulder, and slipped sideways through the planes of existence.

The journey was much smoother than the last, and shorter, too. They stepped from the rift, still in the snow, but miles from the cabin. Jason’s car sat nearby, sheltered from the winter weather by a stand of trees.

Cole faced his friend in confusion. “What did you do? How could you know to do that?”

“Easy. I wished with all my heart to take away your suffering. I wished to become you.”

“But… what…”

Jason’s smile widened. He reached into the folds of his coat, pulling out a set of keys.

“My car’s right over there. I don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore, so it’s yours now. Merry Christmas, Saint Nick.”

Cole caught the keys, staring at them blankly. A thought struck him, and he felt inside his pocket. “The gold…”

“Oh, this?” Jason held up the bag, shaking it to make it jingle. “Don’t worry about it. From now on, I’ll be taking care of it.”

“My power…”

“I have it now. It wasn’t ever really yours, anyway. You’re mortality has returned. If you want to die, that’s up to you, but killing yourself would be pretty ungrateful, don’t you think? Besides, there’s so much to live for. You’re human again. Go live.”

Cole started to say something, then changed his mind. “Goodbye, Jason.”

“Goodbye, Cole.”

The wind whistled past, and when it was gone, there was only one man in the parking lot.

 

 

Epilogue

 

December 25^th

11:59 pm.

New York, the Leuwman Household

 

 

 

James Leuwman, age seven, was supposed to be sleeping. The household had long since gone silent, it occupants, or at least most of them, sound asleep. But James didn’t want to sleep. It was Christmas Eve. And that meant that Santa Claus was coming.

He had heard his parents discussing Santa. They thought he wasn’t real. They thought that Santa was imaginary. They were wrong. Tonight, he was going to prove it. He would meet Father Christmas in person.

Stepping carefully over the squeaky floorboard, he descended the staircase, his footfalls as quiet as he could make them. The Christmas tree in the downstairs living room was brightly lit, throwing colorful patterns across the walls as James approached.

There was a man there, too, clad in a fluffy red winter parka, with a black belt around his waist. He was placing something on the floor, between the gifts that James’s parents had wrapped. Something that looked like a coin of some sort. It must have been a trick of the light, because when the man stood, there was no coin; only a small, neatly wrapped present.

“Santa?”

The big man turned, smiling at the boy. “Well, hello there! You’re supposed to be in bed, my little man.”

“I just wanted to say hi.”

“I see. Well, hello to you too, James.”

James’s eyes widened. Santa knew his name!

“Come here, James. I have something for you.”

Santa held out his hand. James walked over to him, reaching up and taking the small gift from Santa’s palm. He began to unwrap it, but Santa placed a hand over his. “Not yet, my good fellow. You have to wait until morning!”

“Oh, okay.”

“Well, it was nice meeting you, James. I need to be leaving, though. I have a lot of gifts left to deliver!”

“Okay, bye!”

Santa turned, walking towards the fireplace.

“Santa?”

“Yes, James?”

“I thought you had a white beard. Or did you color it black on purpose?”

Jason smiled, stroking his goatee. “I thought it was time for a change of style. What do you think?”

“It looks cool. You look like my dad, except more hair on top.”

With a chuckle, the man who was Santa Claus turned again, stepping into the fireplace.

“And laying his finger aside of his nose

Then giving a nod up the chimney he rose

But he heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight

“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night”.
– Clement Clarke Moore

“This is Madness!”

“Madness…? This. IS. SPARTAAAA!”

Great movie, great movie. 😀 A new post from me! Found this semi/old story concept, re-worked it into a short story, and thought I’d share it with you guys! Expect the usual weirdness, and what I do believe is the best ending I’ve ever written!

So, without further ado, let “Madness” begin!

 

______

[Madness]

 

 

Monarch woke up in a good mood. The hospital bed had been unexpectedly comfortable, and the ambient noises of the goings-on outside his room hadn’t interfered with his sleep. The clock on the wall read 7:30 Am. Two hours left.

He stretched his arms, and felt momentary weakness pull at his muscles. The doctor had said that the pre-op medication would have such side effects. It would be worth it, though. After the operation, he would be pain-free. No more cancer. No more radiation therapy. No more grim surgeons quoting figures and statistics, telling him that he only had so long before the tumor in his brain grew large enough to…

But it wouldn’t matter. In two hours, the procedure would commence. It was a new sort of treatment, something to do with lasers and focused magnetism. It hadn’t been cheap, but the money had already been transferred, so no sense in worrying now.

Monarch swung his legs out of bed, surprised to find that he had gone to sleep fully clothed. It didn’t matter, really. The surgery was non-evasive, and it didn’t matter if he was wearing a lead helmet while they worked, the machine would fix him all the same. A revolutionary device, or so they said. Monarch didn’t really give a darn at this point how or why it worked, he just wanted the cancer out of his head.

To kill time, he walked down to the waiting room. The hospital itself was small, its rooms devoid of windows to keep out the sun. Sunlight was something he had been warned about. The rays would break down the chemicals in his bloodstream, rendering the procedure lethal. He didn’t miss it; the rooms were well-lit with artificial lighting, just as inviting as the warmth of the outdoors.

The waiting room smelled of fresh coffee, and Monarch eagerly poured himself a cup. The bitter brew was the same as the stuff he had at home, and he was quite happy to fill a second one. No solid foods before surgery, just fluids. There didn’t seem to be any food around to tempt him, anyway. No vending machines, no bagels, just the coffee pots and the sugar. It didn’t matter. Monarch wasn’t used to eating that early, anyway.

There were four other people in the waiting room, two women and two men. The women were reading magazines, most likely taken from the reading rack by the door. The men were playing chess in a corner, each wearing the small smile of a person assured of victory. Perhaps a game worth watching.

“Mr. Monarch?”

Monarch turned. A short man in a white jacket stood by the ICU entrance, peering over a pair of round spectacles. His left hand grasped a small clipboard, upon which were affixed a number of important-looking papers.

“Mr. Monarch? Is that you?” He spoke with a slight German accent, barely noticeable.

Monarch nodded in reply. “That is my name.”

“Ah, very good, very good. We may begin early, if you feel ready.”

Monarch let out a long sigh. Finally. It was time.

“Yes, doctor. That will be fine.”

“Excellent. I will have Caroline escort you, if that’s alright. Nurse?”

Something wasn’t right. Monarch felt it suddenly, a weird tingling sensation creeping up the back of his neck. He sensed it without turning, a sudden surge of panic gripping his chest. There was something looming up behind him, something massive, something monstrous. He turned quickly, the sudden motion causing him to lose his grip on his coffee.

The cup turned over once, landing upside down on the white tile. Its contents splattered just inches from the feet of the young nurse who now stood before him.

Monarch blinked in surprise, feeling his face begin to get hot. “Ah, sorry, miss. I seem to have… ah, something startled me…”

He bent down, grabbing his now-empty cup from the floor. At the same time, he shot a cursory glance around the room, but everything was as it should have been. Whatever had startled him, if there even had been anything, was no longer there.

Yet he was sure there had been something…

The doctor adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Monarch? Are you feeling alright?

“Yes. Sorry. I’ll clean this up.”

“Oh, no, no. Leave it. We’ll have our maintenance take care of it. We have to begin now.”

The nurse gestured to a set of double-doors on Monarch’s right. He nodded and smiled, still rather embarrassed, and followed the doctor through.

After a short walk, they arrived at their destination. The surgery room had been designed specifically for the use of a single medical device; the “cure for all ailments”, the TANDEM system. The thing looked a little like a sixteen-legged glass spider, perched on a web of wires over the headrest of the surgery bed. Its “legs” dangled down limply, brushing against Monarch’s face as he lay down beneath them.

“The procedure will take five minutes, Mr. Monarch. It’s completely painless. If at any time you feel discomfort, we’ll shut it down at once. Are you ready to begin?

Monarch nodded.

“Good. I’m going to turn it on now. This may feel a bit funny.”

Something clicked, and the appendages came alive, scrabbling across his face. He jerked in surprise, then tried to relax. This was how it should be. Everything was alright. In five minutes, he would walk out of here a healed man. Five minutes…

The machine stopped moving, its legs having found whatever they were searching for. For a long time, nothing seemed to happen.

Then came the noise, a low electric humming from within the machine above him. Lights traced lines on his face, centering on his forehead. The machine began to move, slowly, steadily, as if it were weaving an invisible tapestry across his head.

The noise ramped up, and a vein began to throb in his left temple. At first he paid it no mind, but eventually it grew to the point where it was starting to hurt.

“Doctor… I think it’s… I think something’s wrong. Little bit of discomfort… in my…”

The doctor did not reply.

“Hey, this thing is…”

“Just hold still.”

Apprehension shot through him, and he turned his head, trying to see the doctor. The machine’s legs came loose, wafting over his face, trying to re-connect. It was in that split second that he caught sight of the doctor, and Caroline…

His eyes widened, and he tried to sit up, but his arms and legs seemed to be tied down. He opened his mouth, but his vocal chords were paralyzed, puffing out little more than a strangled gasp.

“Goodnight, Mr. Monarch.”

Monarch screamed, but only in his dreams.

 

 

Monarch woke up in a good mood. The hospital bed had been unexpectedly comfortable, and the ambient noises of the goings-on outside his room hadn’t interfered with his sleep. The clock on the wall read 7:30 Am. Two hours left.

His head hurt slightly, a quiet pain that waxed and waned as he sat up on the bed. The doctor had said that the pre-op medication would have such side effects. It would be worth it, though. After the operation, he would be pain-free. No more cancer. No more radiation therapy. No more grim surgeons quoting figures and statistics, telling him that he only had so long before the tumor in his brain grew large enough to…

Something was off. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right. A quick search turned up no memory of the day before, or the day before that. His last thought before waking up had been one of contentment as he drifted off to sleep.

“Doctor?”

Receiving no immediate reply, Monarch swung his legs out of bed, surprised to find that he had gone to sleep fully clothed. It seemed odd that the hospital hadn’t given him a gown. It seemed even odder that he couldn’t remember checking in, or who had shown him to his room. He was here for surgery, he knew that much. A tumor in his brain, slowly growing, slowly crushing the soft tissue around it. Perhaps that was the source of his memory loss.

“Doctor?”

Standing with some effort, he walked down to the waiting room in search of medical personell. The hospital itself was small, its rooms devoid of windows to keep out the sun. Sunlight was something he had been warned about. The rays would break down the chemicals in his bloodstream, rendering the removal procedure lethal. How he knew that, he didn’t know.

The waiting room smelled of fresh coffee, but Monarch wasn’t hungry. He ignored the room’s three other occupants, heading for the exit. If he could find the front desk, maybe they could sort things out…

“Mr. Monarch?”

Monarch turned. A short man in a white jacket stood by the ICU entrance, peering over a pair of round spectacles. His left hand grasped a small clipboard, upon which were affixed a number of important-looking papers.

“Mr. Monarch? Is that you?”

“Yes, ah, that is my name.”

“Ah, very good, very good. We have elected to begin your procedure early, if you feel ready.”

Monarch frowned slightly.

“Ah, yes. Actually, I’m feeling a bit out-of-sorts. Is there any way to ensure that the medication is working correctly?”

“Oh, don’t worry. As long as you’ve been staying out of the sun, it should be fine. Are you feeling ill? The compounds have been known to cause minor nausea…”

Monarch almost replied, but in the end, he never got a chance. A very strong sense of deja vu washed over him, as well as a sense of what was about to happen. He whipped around, half-terrified of what he would see, half-crazed with the need to see…

There was nothing there.

“Too soon,” sighed the doctor.

Monarch turned back to him, confused. “What?”

“Hm? I didn’t say anything. The TANDEM is primed and ready, so we should start at once. I will have Caroline escort you, if that’s alright. Nurse?”

“Yes, doctor.”

The nurse was behind Monarch. There had been no one there only seconds earlier, he was sure of it. No one had entered the room, he would have heard the door. Yet there she was, her almost-pretty face expressionless, her eyes burning into his.

“Wait, I need to…”

Caroline placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip like steel.

“Come along.”

Monarch slumped slightly. His head felt foggy, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His feet moved by themselves, pulling him along behind the doctor as they walked. His next conscious thought was the realization that he was now on the surgery bed, the TANDEM dangling over his face.

“The procedure will take five minutes, Mr. Monarch. It’s completely painless. If at any time you feel discomfort, we’ll shut it down at once. Are you ready to begin?

Monarch didn’t reply. His arms and legs felt heavy, his breathing slow and thick.

The machine began its work, appendages whisking about, gripping at his skin. The humming rattled his eardrums, blurring his vision. As the world began to spin, he heard the doctor say, “We’ll have to change it. He’s not following the program. If he remembers, everything will…”

Then there was nothing.

 

 

Monarch woke with a gasp, lurching up in the hospital bed. He hadn’t forgotten this time, at least not entirely. He had already undergone the procedure, yet his brain was still running the same thoughts as the day before. Anticipating the treatment, watching the clock, wanting the tumor removed.

He wondered briefly if he even had a tumor. That question brought a sea of others; why was he still here? Why did the doctor keep running him through the same procedure over and over? Why did he have two sets of memories, one insisting that he was here for the first time, the other telling him that he had been here far longer than he could remember?

Whatever was going on, it was clear that they hadn’t anticipated his sudden recall. Otherwise, he had a feeling he would never have woken up. Things were moving forward on a schedule, a schedule that hadn’t changed for days, maybe weeks.

It hadn’t changed, but it was about to.

With a sudden burst of energy, Monarch leapt from the bed, hurrying out into the hall. He knew exactly where to go. The hospital layout was in his head, every room, every hallway. There were only two exits, and the closest was through the main lobby. That was also where the doctor appeared like clockwork every single day. Or was it day? It could have been night, for all he knew. No way to tell. Either way, he had to hurry.

The waiting room had changed. He noticed it as he rushed through, the exit sign shining before him. There were only two people now, down from the three the day before, and the four the day before that. He didn’t stop to wonder what happened to them.

The door was operated by a push-bar. The bar stuck briefly as he pushed against it, heavier than he had expected. Panicked, he struck it with all his strength, actually bending the bar and causing the door to snap open in a rush of air.

He stepped through… into the waiting room.

It took him a minute to comprehend the fact that he was right back where he had started. He turned, staring back the way he had come. The waiting room was there, too. Two identical waiting rooms, except the new one was empty. In the new room, nothing lived, nothing moved. It was spotlessly clean, yet had the air of a place long devoid of attention.

After a moment of indecision, he pressed on into the “new” hospital. They would be looking for him any moment now. He had to move quickly.

Assuming the design was the same, the second exit should have been down the same hall as the surgery. It was down this hall that he raced, feeling as if some great monstrosity were even now at his heels.

As he passed the surgery, he heard a familiar sound: there was a TANDEM on this side, too, droning away as it worked. He stopped briefly, wondering if the doctor had another prisoner here as well. The need to save whoever might be within the surgery overrode his fear, and he tiptoed back, peering in through the glass.

His eyes processed a single image, taking in everything in a millisecond. His altered brain perceived two realities side-by-side, one false, one true.

The false was the strongest. The doctor sat within, monitoring the TANDEM on a laptop; Caroline stood by the bed, holding the patient’s hand as the machine worked; and where a person should have lain, there was nothing. A human-shaped hole in the air, where Monarch’s mind told him that no person existed.

The truth was harder to see, but it was still there. The doctor sat within, his clothes ragged and dusty, his spectacles cracked, his ancient fingers tapping on the TANDEM’s control console. Caroline was as she always had been; a monster, a hulking thing that had at some point been a woman, but was now an over-muscled freak, towering almost to the ceiling.

And on the bed sat not a man but a corpse, a dried, skeletal body, decaying where it lay.

Even as the grotesqueness of what lay before him began to register, the TANDEM finished its work, cycling down with a rattling hum. The crystalline legs drew up into the frame, the blue lights winking out one by one.

The doctor turned, speaking two sentences.

“All done, Mr. Warmine. You can return to your room now.”

To Monarch’s horror, at the doctor’s words, the corpse sat up on the bed. It ran its dry fingers across its face, leaving rents in its paper-thin skin. The withered mouth opened, rasping words through black teeth.

“Thank… you… doctor. I… feel… much… better… now.”

“Indeed you should. We’ve completely cured your liver failure! The TANDEM truly is a miracle of modern technology. One more night’s rest, and you can go home.”

The dead man nodded, its shriveled eyes turning to the door. “It… will… be… good… to… see… Moyra… again. I’m… finally… better…”

It lurched from its perch, tottering to the door. Monarch had enough presence of mind to duck back out of sight, allowing what was left of Mr. Warmine to move past without spotting him. The corpse staggered through the double-doors, presumably returning to its room.

Back inside the surgury, Monarch heard the doctor speaking to Caroline. “Prep the machine for Mr. Warmine’s treatment tomorrow. I’ll go get started on Mr. Monarch.”

“Yes, doctor,” rumbled the behemoth woman, reaching down to type on the computer with disproportionately small, delicate fingers.

The doctor (and Monarch now realized that he didn’t even know the doctor’s name) left the operating room, walking calmly towards the waiting room. Monarch followed several steps behind, his footfalls noiseless. He had to have answers. He had to get the truth, even if he had to beat the life out of the doctor to find it.

The doctor passed through the waiting-room doors into Monarch’s side, stopping just inside. His face registered brief confusion, his hand pulling a pocket-watch from his right front pocket.

“Mr. Monarch? Are you here?”

He turned… and saw Monarch, looming over him, a chair gripped in both hands, poised to strike. The doctor’s mouth formed a wordless “o”, and he fell back, dropping the watch in the process.

Monarch had no interest in hurting the old man, but at that point he was so angry, he wasn’t sure what he would do. He took a step forward, shouting down at the old man. “Who are you? Why am I here?”

“Mr… Mr. Monarch! What are you doing? You have a tumor, remember? We were-”

“Lie to me again, and I will bash out your brains. What is your name?”

“I swear to you I have none! I haf\ve cast aside my humanity, my life, to make the world a better place.”

Monarch brought the chair down, smashing it to pieces beside the doctor’s head. The doctor covered his face with one hand, scrambling away from the menacing figure before him.

Monarch hefted a splintered leg, following the doctor.

“What are you talking about? Explain this to me! Tell me! TELL ME!”

He struck a nearby lamp with his chair leg for emphasis, sending glass shards bouncing across the floor.

The doctor couldn’t get his words out fast enough, his German accent becoming more pronounced in his agitation. “You, you were selected from many others! You had a terminal disease, a tumor in your brain. You were going to die. So I took you from your home. I saved you.”

“Saved me?”

“The TANDEM, it grants, it grants eternal life! It resets the brain, doesn’t let it age! The tumor can’t grow! The machine restores you to how you were the day before, puts your memories back, reverses aging! That and many other good things!”

Monarch frowned, still holding his makeshift club at ready. “So, it just… sets me back a day? Why didn’t it work this time? Why do I remember?”

The doctor pulled himself into a chair, visibly perspiring. “Something wrong.. with your tumor. Because it was in the brain… blocked some of the treatment. Left a… ghost imprint, like a shadow. Memories on top of memories. I thought we had fixed it… tried several times. Seemed to work this time.”

“Several times… how long have I been here? Weeks? Months? Does my family know I’m alive?”

The doctor adjusted his spectacles. “You have been here thirty years, Mr. monarch. I have taken good care of you all this time.”

Monarch stood frozen, the color draining from his face.

“My family… My children…!”

“They do not know you live. They think you died a long time ago.”

It couldn’t be. That couldn’t be right. There was no way.

“And what of that… that thing? The dead man, Mr. Warmine? And Caroline…”

“Caroline is my… how you say…? My wife? She was going to die. She vas so very very weak. So I brought her back. I made her strong. The TANDEM can make you strong, Mr. Monarch, and smart, and fast. As to Mr. Warmine… he was my first client. He wanted… to live forever. So he does. I remake his brain, day to day. He thinks he has a very small liver disease. He thinks he is only forty years old. He is one hundred and ten, and he has been physically dead for fifty years. I do not allow him to see his old body, to see the rot. To him, in his thoughts, he is happy, healthy. As the mind thinks it is, so it is.”

The entrance door opened, and Caroline lumbered through. Monarch turned in terror, raising his chair leg to defend himself.

“Wait, no! She is harmless! She will not hurt a fly. Do not hit her!”

The monster that had once been Caroline cowered back, putting out arms the size of tree-trunks to protect itself from the little man before her.

Monarch had had enough. “How do I get out of here? HOW?”

The doctor rose to his feet, alarmed. “If you leave, you will die. The TANDEM is all that keeps you on this Earth! Without it, you have days, maybe hours before you die. All my work, in vain! I can cure you, Mr. Monarch, but you must give me time!”

“No! No more! I won’t end up like that… that thing! I want to live. I want to be free! This isn’t life! This is perpetual death!”

“A death you vould never know! You would always be happy. Always alive!

“Tell me. Now!”

The doctor shrugged helplessly. “Through the back. Past surgery. It leads to the TANDEM’s heart, and the way out. Stairs that take you up to the world.”

Freedom. Freedom from this madness. Monarch took a step towards the door, then hesitated.

“The other man. Is he the only one?”

The doctor seemed to be recovering from his fright, speaking easier. “No. No, there are others. About twenty. They were all to perish, and I saved them. Some paid me to keep them. Some I go out and get. Most are asleep under their TANDEM, forever to live until we can heal their bodies. I keep them until they rot to dust. Others are awake. They fight it. So I must reprogram them day to day. Like Mr. Warmine. Like you.”

Monarch felt anger curl inside him. “You turn it off, you hear me? You stop this. You let them die. This thing, this TANDEM… it’s beyond evil. Shut it down.”

“I… I cannot.”

Monarch’s eyes grew cold. “Then I shall.”

And he began to run. Down the hall, past the empty surgery. Around the corner, through a large steel door marked “employees only”.

The TANDEM’s heart was there, just as the doctor had said; a towering apparatus, all silky strands and multifaceted, shimmering glass, droning like a nest of hornets. Its size gave him pause, but the memory of that awful walking cadaver gave him the strength to do what was necessary.

The brittle machinery caved under the first blow, smashing to bits. The cacophony of breaking glass rattled Monarch’s eardrums as he rained blow after blow on the demonic device, until at last the infernal hum ceased, and the construct lay in ruin before his feet. Something in the mess caught fire, and acrid smoke curled lazily around his torso.

He turned, and saw the doctor and Caroline, watching him. Caroline’s face was blank, staring into the flickering fire grow. The doctor was silent as well, his eyes on Monarch, a single tear rolling down his ancient cheek. Monarch felt only disgust, turning away, walking over the shattered hopes of a twisted old man.

The rest was like a dream. He remembered vaguely climbing a long, long ladder in near-darkness, then the blinding light of the evening sun shining through the branches of an evergreen. He remembered walking a long, long way, through grass and streams and forest, his head feeling as if it had been struck by lightning.

In the end, he found a road. There were few cars at that time of day. None stopped for the stranger by the roadside, standing there in tattered clothes, a broken chair leg in his hand. It was only after he collapsed to the ground that one family did stop, their children concerned about the “homeless man” lying by the road.

The first responders pronounced him dead at the scene. The cause of death; the combination of a sizable brain tumor in his frontal lobe and exposure from days of starvation and dehydration. A month later, he was identified by surprised relatives as Mr. Jarrod L. Monarch, a wealthy businessman last seen preparing for brain surgery at Warren General Hospital thirty-four years ago. According to several astounded doctors, there was no possible way that “the alleged Mr. Monarch” could have survived that long with a deadly tumor in his brian. Yet there he was, almost seventy miles and thirty years from the place of his disappearance.

His death was filed as “suspicious”, and the paperwork was placed in a drawer and forgotten. Eventually, it would be moved to the archives, on top of two other files; one, that of Mr. Charles R. Warmine, a wealthy gentleman kidnapped a long, long time ago; and a second, that of Rueter Deitrick, MD, who vanished in a fire that took the life of his wife, Caroline.

There, in that library, the four names would sit, never to die, forever outside of time.

Forever immortal.

 

A very short story, as promised. Not scary at all. 😛 I just had the idea and wrote it in an hour. So… enjoy!

-Ben

P.S., It was on her shoulder. 😛 [You’ll only understand after you read. 😉 ]

 

“I can’t do it!” exclaimed the Author, throwing up his hands. “My ideas are gone! My fingers won’t type! My characters are flat as pancakes, and my plots are an endless string of cliches. I can’t go on like this!”

“Well,” said the Mysterious Figure, “Your books about me were rather popular. Why not bring me back from the Void of Marvois, where I’ve been locked since the end of the trilogy? You could do a spin-off or something. It really is quite cold in here.”

“Now hold on,” said the Heroic Gentleman, waving a white-gloved hand impetuously, “You were thrown in there for a reason. The world has no use for Mysterious Figures who can’t decide if they want to help the villain or the hero. Half the time, you were helping me find the way to Highland to rescue my beloved, and the other half you were trying to kill me with magically enhanced meteors.”

“You forget,” said the Mysterious Figure, rather irritably, “that I was trapped here by a particularly nasty spell, cast by the High Dark Overwatch in an attempt to trap you. My sacrifice left you free to destroy the Key of the Third Overwatch, resulting in your victory over the forces of evil. And all I got was a pretty marble tombstone with my name on it. I’m not dead, I’m just trapped, yet you opted to leave me here and-”

“Yes, yes, we were talking about me!” interrupted the Author.

“The way I see it,” rumbled the Tower, “You lack originality. Always mimicking the popular trends, copying characters you see in other books. Truth to be told, I think I’m one of the few original characters you’ve written, and all I did was tell Heroic which path to take to the City of Overwatch.”

“And you fell on the Legion of the Dead,” added the late Dark Overwatch, taking a sip of coffee. “Half my army, dead in an instant.”

“Ah! Right there!” The Author leaped from his seat, banging his knee on the desk and knocking over his own cup of coffee. “You only fell on them because I couldn’t figure out another way to kill them. The Heroic Gentleman wasn’t powerful enough, and the Mysterious Figure was busy being mysterious. The whole book hinged on that battle, and I couldn’t think of a way for the good guys to win, so I had Tower lose his perch on the cliff and tumble down upon the horde. A lot of crushing and dying and monsters exploding, but it was all a big show to distract readers from the fact that I, the almighty Author, couldn’t come up with a plan for Heroic and his compatriots. It was all a blasted waste, a bloody farce. Thank you,” he added, as the Dark Overwatch refilled the upset coffee cup.

“You’re welcome. And yes, that whole Tower bit was somewhat too convenient, but it worked, did it not? Anyway, sword-and-sorcery books are out of style these days. You should have added a science fiction element, or some-such. Maybe give me a robotic arm, or have Heroic be a genetic experiment grown in a lab.”

“That’s it!” shouted the Heroic Gentleman. “The future! Do a spin-off where we’re brought back to life in the future! A mad scientist could rescue Mysterious from the void, resurrect me and my team, and pit us against some sort of supernatural alien presence!”

The Mysterious Figure nodded slowly. “Perhaps the scientist could be my descendent. You did hint at me having a son.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Even my cliché ideas have cliché ideas!” lamented the Author. “That’s been done to death.”

“Then why not invent a new genre?” said the Heroic figure, rising to his feet. With a wave of his arm, the plates of his shining armor melted and transformed, becoming the leathers of a wild-west cowboy.

“A Western. How exciting,” sniffed the Author.

“Ah, but there’s a twist!” With a flourish, Heroic drew a curved sword from his side, twirling it with expert proficiency. “Blades instead of guns. And,” he wagged his fingers, conjuring a ball of fire with a flash of mystical sparks, “Magic abilities! So, new territory, yet enough of the old to make you comfortable. Besides, my fireballs are a staple of your books. I would ride a grey horse, an enchanted one at that, who can run faster than a bullet can fly. A white scar will mar my face, placed there by an ancient shaman to protect against evil.”

“And I,” intoned the Overwatch, becoming a skeletal figure clothed in writhing shadow, “Would be the Silent Rider, the Twilight Cowboy, a dark menace that feeds off the gold that runs through the mountains. My presence deadens sound, my footsteps melt the sand, a mere touch from my cloak causes animals to die and cacti to wither.”

“Hmph” said the Author, but his expression had begun to brighten. “You may have something there.”

“I shall accompany Heroic, of course,” said the Fair Maiden, shifting slightly on the couch. “I’d wear my western outfit, maybe the black dress with the blue corset, and an eagle-feather in my hat. A light dress, of course, enough fabric to keep out the sand, but not so much that it inhibits running. I’d have an enchanted scar as well.”

“On your face?” Inquired the Author, dismayed.

“Of course not.”

“Then where?”

“Somewhere else,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. After a brief second the Author caught on, blushed, and pretended to scribble notes on a blank sheet of paper.

The Fair Maiden brushed a strand of deep-brown hair from her brow, her gaze lost in the distance as she thought. “I’d like a supporting role this time around. Maybe a shopkeeper or a chemist, who leaves her job and follows Heroic on his brave quest. Anyway, I’d better not be captured again. If it’s clichés you’re worried about, there’s a glaring one right there. I could use a rifle or something, give Heroic some cover as he fights.”

“No guns,” reminded Mysterious. “If you were a chemist, perhaps exploding potions or something of that sort. The Indian magic sort of things.”

“Not magic, science!” said Maiden, speaking with greater excitement as she warmed to the topic. “Science in a world of magic, something they don’t understand. Something Overwatch, ah, excuse me, something Twilight wouldn’t be able to stop in the end.”

“That’d do it,” said Overwatch/Twilight, shaking the last drop of coffee into his bony mouth.

“Excellent, excellent!” crowed the Author. “And Mysterious? What will you be?”

Mysterious thought for a moment. “Perhaps the ghost of an old Cherokee, dwelling in an ancient dagger that Maiden finds. My songs can bring rain to the dry desert, washing away the foundations of the Twilight Cowboy’s mighty mountain fort with a great flood. And, I suppose, I could sacrifice myself to stop Twilight’s cursed cloak, leaving him open to Heroic and Maiden.”

“What of me?” asked Tower, leaning over several thousand feet to peer down at the others’ heads. “Do I have a part?”

“My dear Tower!” exclaimed the Author, “You will be the Spirit of the Desert, the guiding force that brings the protagonists to the Cherokee’s dagger, the force that leads them across the burning deserts and the rocky mountain ranges, the force that, in the form of a snake, coils about Twilight’s ankle, dragging him from his black steed to the bleak lakebed where the final conflict shall ensue!”

And he set his empty cup on the desk with a triumphant clatter.

“It is good,” said the Heroic Gentleman, sheathing his sword.

“It is good,” said the Fair Maiden, closing her small box of medicines.

“It is good,” said the Twilight Cowboy, drawing low his black hat.

“It is good,” said Cherokee, fading away into the stone knife.

“It is good,” said the Spirit of the Desert, and, drawing the world within himself, became a funnel of thoughts and ideas that whirled into the Author’s mind.

“It is good!” smiled the Author, and began to type.