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Magda McFarlin (part two)

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The Magda McFarlin posts are written by Bruce Arbuckle, posting as BritInFrance, on the RPG Project Zero on writingforums.org

Click here to read Part One

Magda turned away from the notice and almost collided with someone. A young man, in his early twenties, was standing beside her, reading the notice.

“Excuse me,” she said. He looked up. He had a strange facial expression. Magda had seen something like it once before. In Afghanistan, when visiting one of her colleagues in hospital. The man in the next bed had had the same wild stare as this guy. A mixture of determination, satisfaction, and… hunger. It had scared her. And she wasn’t easily spooked.

The door of the bar, across the road opened, drawing her attention away from the strange young man. The military guy walked out. A General, if she was not mistaken. She saw him remove his weapon as the door closed behind him. There was a flash of something green – a trick of the light? – and then he closed the barrel and the gun was back in his holster.

She weighed up her options: follow him, or introduce herself? Their eyes made contact, as he glanced over to the notice board. Her decision was made. She cleared her throat, and crossed the street, aware of the eyes of the man by the Town Hall burning into her back as she did so.

“Excuse me, Sir?” Magda said.

To read the next instalment click here

Please read the whole story here: http://www.writingforums.org/showthread.php?t=58906

Magda McFarlin (part one)

Bruce2 Comments

The Magda McFarlin posts are written by Bruce Arbuckle, posting as BritInFrance, on the RPG Project Zero on writingforums.org

Something has escaped from a Military Base in Colorado. The nearby town of SnowPeak has been isolated. Magda (formerly in the British Army, currently employed in a private security firm) has received worrying emails from a former colleague. After loosing contact she makes her way to the town.

Magda McFarlin (posted 9th January 2013)

Magda sat on the edge of the bed, wondering how it could be colder than in the forest. SnowPeak was as she had expected: a small town, covered in snow with locals making her feel as welcome a syphilis in a brothel. There was just one motel in town. She had checked. Twice. It was dirty and uncared on the outside. To the owner’s credit he had tried his hardest to keep the same theme throughout his establishment. And, as she saw, when he eventually came to the desk, he had extended this to his personal appearance.

“You a reporter?” he said, after she had asked for a single room for a week.

“No,” she said. “Why?”

He gestured to the TV on the desk behind him. It was tuned to a local channel, there was a reporter standing in the snow in front of a roadblock. The sound was turned down, but the headline read “Bigfoot on the loose in SnowPeak?”.

“Na, didn’t think so,” the man said scratching his backside, before reaching round and plucking a key from a hook, behind him. “You ain’t pretty enough to be a reporter.”

After fiddling with the radiator, Magda managed to get it lukewarm. She decided to take a look around the town. Not trusting the owner, she took her backpack with her, leaving nothing in the room.

The town was not exactly busy. It was ski season: she had expected a few tourists, even in a place like this. More worryingly was the lack of military personnel, or police. It seemed either nothing was going on, and one of her closest friends was playing a joke on her, or that Joe Kirk was right: the people in charge seriously underestimated the threat.

She went into a store and bought herself a Coke. The man behind the counter, looked her up and down as he dropped the change into her waiting hand.

“You ain’t from round here, are you darling?” he said. “You a reporter?”

“No,” Magda said. “I’m not pretty enough.” The man nodded, sagely. “I’ve just come in for a bit of skiing and hunting.” She gestured to the rifle, hanging from her backpack. “I’m meeting up with my cousin, Joe Kirk. He works up at the military base. You know him?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Don’t know no one from up there, and don’t care to, neither. Say, where you from? You talk funny.”

“I’m from Dublin,” the lie came easily. No one knew where Belfast was, any way. And everyone loves the Irish.

“You don’t say,” the man said. “You come all the way over on the Greyhound bus?”

Magda looked at him in the eye. He was serious. “That’s right,” she said.

As she left the store, she saw a man in uniform pinning something on the notice board of, what she assumed was, the town hall. She watched him walk away, and saw him enter a bar across the road.

Checking no one was watching her she walked over and read what was written:

…..Looking for Volunteers; Skilled both in Combat and Tracking, or are willing to Learn.

Oh, dear God. What kind of amateur operation are they running here?

*

To read the next instalment click here

Please note: any text written in red, or in bold has been taken from another players posts. Please read the whole story here: http://www.writingforums.org/showthread.php?t=58906

The Great Fire of London

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The Diary of Samuel Pepys
1st September 1666

It is almost eleven o’clock as I write these words, with a shaking hand, by the light of a single candle. They surround us. We are trapped. I can see no way out. I do not know if I will finish this account of this terrible night. Nor, if there will be anyone left alive to read it. But write it, I must.

The bells of St Magnus-the-Martyr announced six o’clock in the evening, as I hurried through the church yard. I was late. I quickened my pace and reached the doors, just as the church warden began to close them. He handed me a hymn sheet and showed me to a pew, where I was greeted by the Lord Mayor of London, Sir Thomas Bloodworth.

He shook my hand. He looked weary, older than when I last saw him.

“What are your thoughts on these reports of the plague, Mister Pepys? Of the dead rising from their graves?”

“I am sure you are better informed than I, Sir Thomas. I assumed they were stories, designed to scare people away from the plague pits. To stop people stealing from the dead.”

“One would think The Black Death frightening enough,” he said, shivering, despite the warmth of the evening. “Whatever their source, the rumours have certainly caught the imagination of the average man.” He looked around him. “The church is almost empty.”

The rector climbed up to the pulpit and began the service. As the light began to fade, the congregation dwindled further. The church warden lit lamps and candles to ward off the encroaching darkness.

There was a crash.

“Help us!”

I looked to the back of the church. A woman stood in the doorway. She began to scream. She held a small bundle in her arms: a boy.

Before I could reach them, the boy fell to the floor. His mother dropped to her knees, beside him. I pushed her aside to examine the child. With horror I saw he was missing an arm. Blood was weeping gently from the wound, together with a strange, stinking, yellow puss. The flow began to ease, and then stopped. The boy was dead.

Sir Thomas was at my side. He pulled the weeping woman towards him, away from the child’s body. She began to hit out, screaming into Sir Thomas’ face. The church warden came to help him.

I stood up. Taking a lantern I went outside. I could see nothing in the twilight. There was a noise. A shuffling sound. I could not locate it’s source. I heard a cry that could have come from a dying, or tormented, beast. Out of the shadows a man came. He moved like a drunkard. I watched as he stumbled into a gravestone. I almost called out, but something stopped me. There was something very wrong about how this man moved: he was not merely drunk. There was a terrible odour. A smell of death, the stench of the plague pits. He came nearer. In his hand he held something. As I watched he brought it to his mouth. In the still of the evening I could hear teeth ripping into flesh, and with horror I realized it was a child’s arm. I gagged, and vomit splashed onto the ground in front of me.

The man-shape turned slowly towards me. It paused for a moment, as though sniffing the air. Pale of face , it looked more dead than alive. Yet, it moved.

A shiver ran through my body. The creature was within ten paces. Now I could see it was not alone. I wanted to run. I was paralysed.

A hand gripped my shoulder. I cried out in terror. I turned. Sir Thomas Bloodworth stood beside me, his face white with shock. Attracted by my cry the creatures advanced towards us: I counted five, no seven. Their white watery eyes bulged horribly in their pale, scarred faces. If they had once been men, there was no humanity left in their gaze now.

Sir Thomas pulled me inside. We slammed the heavy doors shut, and leaned against them. For a moment we simply looked at each other, unable to understand what we had seen. It was Sir Thomas who regained his composure first as the doors began to shake.

“We need to barricade this door,” he said. The church warden bolted the door with a thick piece of oak. I helped Sir Thomas drag a pew over to the doors. We began to construct a rudimentary barrier.

The door continued to shudder. Amongst the pounding on the door we could hear the unnatural, guttural moans of the creatures on the other side.

As we moved the pews, I counted nine of us: the rector, Sir Thomas, the church warden, two women, three children and I. The body of the dead child had been moved to the side of the church and covered by a cloak.

We lifted the last piece of the barrier into place.

“What in Heaven’s name do you think they are Mister Pepys?” Sir Thomas whispered in my ear. An image of the creatures came into my mind, and I shivered. Those creatures had nothing to do with Heaven, of that I was sure.

Before I could formulate a response, the rector, Robert Ivory joined us. He took the arm of the Lord Mayor.

“I think the time of the apocalypse is upon us,” the rector Ivory said. He spoke softly, glancing at the women and children, huddled together on the floor. “We need to gather together and pray.”

As he spoke, I heard glass breaking. Sir Thomas looked at me. We ran towards the sound. Past the tower, at the back of the chancel we saw a window, with shards of stained glass at the base of it. A shape climbed through the aperture. Sir Thomas grabbed a long pole which leaned against an oak wardrobe. He held it like a spear, and advanced towards the intruder.

“Sir Thomas!” I shouted, as the man stood up. “I think he is human.”

The man bore none of the characteristics of the creatures I had seen earlier. He moved fluidly and had colour in his face. He wore the clothes of a night watchman, although these were torn and stained, with blood and other substances, I could not identify. He bent down and retrieved a mace, from the floor: the evil spikes dripped gruesome matter onto the stone floor.

“Help me,” he said. He turned back to window and took a swipe at a white arm as it clawed through the window. The mace crushed it against the wall of the church. Undeterred, the creature continued to advance. It was missing half its face, and had but one milky eye. Its teeth were visible through a hole in its cheek. I could smell its putrid breath from where I stood riveted to the ground.

The watchman swung the club, smashing the head into a sticky mess.

The creature was not alone. Two or three others were behind, clawing and biting its body. I could not tell if they were feeding on it, or tearing it apart to get to us.

Sir Thomas ran to the watchman’s side, jabbing at one of the creatures with his staff as the watchman swung his mace at another. I searched for a weapon, but in the pale lamp light, I could see nothing other than a walking cane. An idea came to me. I opened the wardrobe, and pulled from it some robes. I ripped them into shreds and began wrapping them around the end of the cane. I blew out the flame from a lamp and poured the oil onto the cloth.

The church warden arrived. He began to push the heavy wardrobe towards the window. Sir Thomas stood back, now weapon-less. His staff was stuck, protruding from the eye socket of a monster climbing through the window. The watchman swung his club at it’s head and it fell back. The pole clattered to the floor. Sir Thomas grabbed it and returned to the side of the watchman.

I took another lantern from the wall. I advanced towards the window and called to the others to move.

I lit the end of my makeshift torch, and threw the lantern through the window. Oil spilled over the creatures. I thrust the torch at them, driving it into their evil faces. My stomach turned at the abhorrent smell of cooking, rancid, meat, as their heads burned.

“Enough Mister Pepys!” Sir Thomas pushed me away from the window The watchman and the warden pushed the wardrobe to block the window.

We leaned against the wardrobe, exhausted, panting hard. It continued to move, as it was battered by the creatures behind it, but it held its position.

“Thomas Farynor,” the church warden said, offering his hand to the Watchman. “Welcome to our church.”

“Sorry about the visitors.” the watchman said, between breaths. “London is full of them. The Black Death has become something new, something worse: the dead have risen from the plague pits, thousands of them. And they are coming for the living.”

“May God help us all,” I said. “The rector is right. The End of Days has come.”

A scream, from the other side of the church, brought us to our feet. We arrived to see the rector Ivory holding his cross before him, the women and children sheltering behind him. The barricade was intact. It took me a few moments to work out what was wrong. The Rector Ivory was looking over to the side of the church where the covered body of the dead boy lay. The cloak – or rather what was beneath the cloak – moved.

The warden, Farynor, took the pole from the hands of Sir Thomas. He walked slowly over to the body, accompanied by the watchman. Sir Thomas and I moved closer, blocking the view from the rector, the women and children.

A stride away from the body, Farynor used his pole to flick the cloak off the body. The body was small, bloody and broken. It twitched. At first I assumed it was a vile trick of nature, like a hen that continues to move after its head is cut off. But to my horror the child – what had been a child – opened its eyes. Using its one remaining arm it raised itself up.

The watchman lifted his mace, the cruel spikes still glistening with brain matter. There was an ear-piercing scream. One of the women pushed past me. Still screaming she grabbed hold of the watchman’s arm. Farynor grabbed the woman and pulled her away. The child-thing lurched towards the watchman. Its teeth closed around his leg. His grip loosened on the mace but he did not let go. With a cry he raised the mace high and swung it down onto the head. I looked away, but too late. The skull split in two and the watchman was splattered in red and grey matter. I heard the thud of the mace as it hit the floor.

The woman fainted. Farynor lifted her onto his broad shoulders and carried her back to the rector Ivory. The watchman pulled the clock back over the corpse. He picked up his mace and limped away from the group. Sir Thomas and I followed.

We found the watchman back by the wardrobe. He had rolled up his trousers and was examining the wound. It was already yellow around the edges, and it oozed a foul-smelling pus. The watchman looked up at us, fear in his eyes.

“Don’t let me become one of them,” he said. “Use this,” he gestured to the mace, beside him. “You will need to smash my head.”

Sir Thomas picked up the mace. He wrinkled his nose, as he examined the putrid substance that coated the spikes.

“That, I can not do,” he said, his voice unsteady. He put the mace down, and touched the watchman on his shoulder.

“My friend,” I said, looking the watchman in the eye. “It seems you have to be dead before this plague takes hold and transforms you into,” I looked away, unable to look into his terrified face. “Into whatever they are. You are not dead yet. We have need of you.”

Footsteps approached. Mr Farynor joined us.

“I need to speak to you, Sir Thomas. I must go to my family. I need to know they are safe. And if they are not,” he looked away from the watchman. “If they are not, I need to give them peace.”

Sir Thomas looked at the warden. “You are the Kings baker, are you not? Thomas Farynor of Pudding Lane?”

“Yes, Sir Thomas. It is but three hundred strides from here.”

“Mr Watchman? How do you rate our chances of reaching Mr Farynor’s bakery?” The watchman looked at Sir Thomas as if he had lost his head.

“Not good, Sir Thomas. I barely made it in here. The church will be surrounded by now. If there were another way out, perhaps they could be distracted.”

“And these creatures, they are all over London, you say?” The Watchman nodded. “We can’t hope to kill them all with a mace on the head.” Sir Thomas, patted the watchman on the shoulder. “But I have another idea. I will not pretend that you will survive this. But I think there is a way you can serve your City and your fellow man. Come with me.”

We followed Sir Thomas back to the small group. The rector Ivory was continuing to comfort the dead child’s mother, who let out a whimper when she saw the watchman approach carrying his mace.

“Rector,” Sir Thomas gestured for him to join us. “This Church has a subterranean passage that leads into it’s crypt, does it not?” The rector nodded. “And where does it lead?”

“Into the crypt in St Margaret’s Church, New Fish Street, Sir Thomas.”

“Just round the corner from your bakery, isn’t it Mr Farynor?”

“Fifty or sixty strides, Sir Thomas.”

“Good. Then I have an idea.” As he told us his plan, I wondered if he knew how desperate it sounded and how unlikely it was to succeed. Seeing no alternative, I kept my silence.

A short while later we were ready. Sir Thomas now wielded the mace. Thomas Farynor (the churchwarden and baker) had emptied all the oil from the lamps. We had soaked more rags and tied them to the staff and my cane. The rector Ivory had armed himself with a large iron cross. The watchman had no weapon.

We made our way down the stone steps into the icy chill of the crypt. We all looked around nervously at the sarcophagi, half expecting them to open to reveal more of those creatures. Reaching the end of the crypt we halted before a large metal gate, which blocked our progress. The rector chose a rusty looking key from a large ring, hanging from his belt. At first I feared it would not turn, but eventually the gate swung open with a screech.

Each of us took turns to shake the hands of the watchman (apart from the dead child’s mother). The gate swung closed and the rector used the key again to lock it. As we began our walk down the narrow passage it struck me: I did not even know the name of the man on the other side of the gate.

I do not know how long we walked. Dank water dripped upon our heads. Rats scurried around our feet. I could hear them squeal and occasionally I could feel a body crunch underfoot. Finally, our path was blocked by a gate identical to the last. This time the rector left it unlocked, and open. We feared what might be awaiting us in the church above.

The church was quiet. Our footsteps echoed loudly, as we crept through the nave. Mr Farynor and I went ahead, with our torches throwing light into the recesses.

Mr Farynor helped the rector Ivory pull the doors open. Outside, there were few stars in the sky. In the distance we could hear shouting, and the occasional scream. But of the unnatural sounds of the creatures there was no sign.

We crept through the church yard, holding our torches before us. Thomas Farynor led the way, out onto the narrow street. Sir Thomas was at the rear, and the rector Ivory and I protected the women and children on either side.

The bakery was in sight when they came for us. Three creatures lumbered out of the shadows. Two of them may have once been women, but I could not be sure. Their appearance was as unbearable as their stench.

Sir Thomas moved quickly, and clubbed one of the creatures in its head. It fell into the arms of another. Staggering briefly, it flung the inert corpse to one side and rounded on Sir Thomas. The rector swung the cross, embedding it in the skull, with a sickening sound. Mr Farynor kept the the other at bay with his torch, until Sir Thomas swung his mace into its face.

There were others coming toward us now. We ran to the the bakery. Thomas Farynor hammered the door.

“Open quickly, in the name of all that’s Holy!” The door was opened by a timid girl: a maid.

“Oh Mr Farynor, sir, thank Heaven you’re safe,” she said. Sir Thomas and I remained outside, pushing the women, children and the rector inside. Sir Thomas gestured me in. I threw my torch at the head of the nearest creature and threw myself through the doorway. I turned to see Sir Thomas swing the mace, before entering. The blow glanced off the creatures head.

“Close the door!” Mr Farynor shouted at the maid, as Sir Thomas ran past. She stood in the door way, frozen in terror. The creature lurched forward and pulled her towards it’s horrid face. The maid’s scream turned into a gurgle as it sunk it’s teeth into her throat. Sir Thomas pushed the two writhing bodies out of the door, and followed them. I heard two thuds. Sir Thomas returned, blood spattered and grim-faced. He bolted the door shut.

Mr Farynor sent for his workman, an earnest young man, covered in flour. Sir Thomas spoke to him in hushed tones, before giving him a note, hastily written on paper ripped from my journal. The workman left “the back way” (climbing through the second floor window into the neighbours house), with the heavy mace for protection.

As I write this I can hear them outside: their strange guttural moans, and the noise as they hammer the doors, and the windows.

I am thinking about the poor Watchman, left alone in the other church. And of the task that awaits him.

The bells of St Margaret’s are ringing out, now. They are answered by others, all across London. The signal: the city is ready to fight. Sir Thomas’ plan is a bold one, but I fear I will not live to finish this tale.

The Diary of Samuel Pepys
5th September 1666

The fire has been raging for days, but it begins to wane now.

Thomas Farynor set a good fire in his ovens and the fire spread quickly. London is a crowded place: one house leans against another (which is how we were able to escape “the back way”, into the neighbours house). The only thing Londoners fear more than fire is the plague.

The watchmen of London worked day and night to round up and lead as many of the plague creatures into buildings before they were burnt to the ground. Our Watchman played his part. When the church bells rang all over London, he opened the doors of St Magnus-the-martyr. As many as eighty creatures entered the church, before the church took fire.

It was the second church to be burnt to the ground, St Margaret’s being the first.

Sir Thomas visited me on the second day. He stood with me and looked with pride at as building after building succumbed to fire.

“It will take more than a woman to piss that out,” he said, patting me on the back.

Sir Thomas and I were summoned by the King, today.

“My advisers can not tell me how the plague changed or what it has done to the brains of the dead,” he said, stroking his moustache.

“It seems, however, that whatever it was it has been contained to London. I have ordered that all victims, or suspected victims, of the plague have their heads crushed before burning.” We nodded our agreement.

“I am concerned that should news of this outbreak spread it could trigger unrest. It is just six years since I returned to the Throne. I can not – and will not – allow this country to return to civil war.

“I therefore command you Mr Pepys to write another version of what happened that night. Sir Thomas will tell you what must be written.”

My King has commanded, and I must act.

But can I bring myself to destroy the truth of what happened that night?

***

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (December 2012)

This is a work of fiction. It may have happened like this, but I seriously doubt it.

***

Notes on the “official version” of the Great Fire of London.

The fire was started at Thomas Farynor’s (also spelt Farriner) bakery somewhere between midnight and two in the morning on 2nd September 1666. The family escaped by climbing from an upstairs window into a neighbour’s house. The maid died in the fire, because she was too scared to attempt the climb.

Thomas Farynor, a former Church Warden, was buried in the middle aisle of St Magnus-the-Martyr (in a temporary structure ) in 1670. The church was rebuilt between 1671 and 1687 under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren.

Sir Thomas Bloodworth, the Lord Mayor of London, was blamed for the spread of the fire as he refused to demolish houses to halt the blaze. He was said to have remarked “Pshh! A woman might piss it out!”

St Margaret’s Church was the first church to burn. It was not rebuilt but a monument stands on the site, commemorating the Fire.

The Rector Robert Ivory remained rector of St Magnus-the-Martyr until his death in 1710

The fire destroyed 13,200 houses, 87 churches, St Paul’s Cathedral and many other public buildings.

Samuel Pepys, his diaries and his account of the Great Fire of London, are renowned throughout the world.

Bind Him To Me

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“Can I tell you a secret?”, he says. He looks me in the eye and dips his hand over the side of the boat, rippling the surface of the lake with his fingers. It is early morning. Not yet truly light, not quite five o’clock. We are surrounded by grey shadows. I am at one end of the rowboat, he is at the other. It is so quiet here, we could be the last human beings in the world.

“Can I tell you a secret?”, he repeats. He takes his hand out of the water, leans forward and takes hold of my hand. A shiver runs through me, it is not because his hand is cold from the lake.

“The problems with secrets”, I say, squeezing his hand. “Is once you share them they are no longer secret”. I am thinking about the secret I shared with him. Although, as it turned out it wasn’t much of a secret: he knew I was in love with him. But he told the others what I had said, word for word. For two years afterwards, my life was hell. It wasn’t the taunts, the name calling, or the occasional beating. He no longer talked to me.

“I know you can keep a secret.”, he is looking at me intently, now. “You are a good friend. Better than I deserve”. I shake my head. He looks away, his hand still holds mine.

It is true: I already keep a secret for him. He told me he had just been experimenting. It was normal, he said, everyone does it. I’m not like you, he said, I’m not like that. He would kill me if I told, he said. But it is an easy secret for me to keep. It is our secret, not one to share with others.

The sky is lightening, and the shadows are retreating. I think there may be tears in his eyes. I place my other hand over the top of his. I hope the sun does not come too quickly: it might destroy the magic of this moment.

“Do you remember Amy Twyford?”, he looks me in the eye again, and I nod. Everyone in this town remembers Amy Twyford. “Did you know I was seeing her?” I nod again, although I didn’t know. He blinks twice and I am now certain: I can see tears in his eyes. I am jealous, I suddenly realise, of a girl who has been missing for over a year. He wipes his eyes with his free hand and breaks my gaze to look out over the lake towards the dock, now visible in the weak light.

“That night, we met here. I wanted it to be special, romantic. So I placed candles around the edge of the dock. You could see the flames reflected in the water. ‘Like ghosts dancing on the bottom of the lake’, she said”, he returns to look at me, and I can see the blue of his eyes. “Everything was going so well. We talked, we drank, we kissed” – it is my turn to break eye-contact – “and then suddenly- I can’t even remember how it started – we were arguing. We were on our feet yelling at each other. The next thing I know she was in the lake. She must have slipped. I didn’t push her. I swear, I didn’t punch her.”

I look back at him, but he is staring at the dock, eyes-wide. “I tried to pull her in, I grabbed at her clothing, at her hair. There was blood. Quite a lot of blood. She must have hit her head on something as she fell. I panicked, I let go of her and she lay there, floating, drifting. After a while I got my head together. I went back to the boat house and grabbed the old anchor and some rope. I tied one end to her legs, the other end to the boat. I put the anchor in the boat and I rowed out to the middle of the lake. I untied the rope from the boat and retied it to the anchor and then I heaved it over the side. And Amy followed it down.”

He is sobbing now. I move carefully, so as not to upset the boat. I take him in my arms and I hold him. I watch the sun rise through the trees, it makes shimmering patterns on the lake’s surface. I think about what lurks beneath the surface, beneath where we sit. I wonder what she looks like now, the girl at the bottom of the lake.

The sun is above the trees and I row him back to the dock. He has come back to me and I am happy. Now I share his secret, it will bind him to me.

***

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (November 2012)

This story was entered into the Weekly Short Story Contest on http://www.writingforums.org/ (29th November 2012)

Theme: The Secret

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Ladrón Mentiroso (part one)

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The Ladrón Mentiroso posts are written by Bruce Arbuckle for the writingforums.org Role Playing Game: A New World. Part I. The First Sand.

The year is 1557. In a world where anything is possible, a group of adventurers have set sail to open new trade routes to the East. But what they have discovered is a New World, with new rules. After 7 weeks at sea and 4 deaths the adventurers have landed and are ready to explore…


Ladrón Mentiroso (known as The Reverend) – Part One

Ladrón Mentiroso sat on his trunk, leafing through the large book. He hoped his farrowed brow, and thoughtful expression, would lead others to believe he was finding inspiration within it’s pages. In fact, he was watching Antonello carefully, as he walked from one group of men to another. Ever since the blacksmith had his little “accident”, Mentiroso had made it his business to keep a closer eye on all the men. Luckily most of them were The Maker-fearing idiots who would swallow any nonsense as long as it came from a man wearing a clerical collar, but he didn’t intend to take any more chances.

“Reverend?” He looked up, quickly removing his instinctive scowl at having his thoughts interrupted, and replacing it with the caring regard of the “reverend”. It was one of the kitchen boys.

“Yes, my boy?” Mentiroso said. The boy held out a plate and a mug of ale. “Ah, thank you, my son. The Maker be with you.” Mentiroso made a vague form of a cross with his right hand before taking the plate and the mug. “And do thank Chef, for me,” Mentiroso said, nodding in the direction of the large man by the fire. If he had known all the little extras afforded to a Priest, he would have considered joining the Church for real, a long time ago.

Of all the men under Columbus’ command, Antonello seemed the best judge of character. And therefore, the one to be most careful around. Columbus himself, like most men in his class, was easy to manipulate. Columbus was a pompous ass, full of his own self importance, and a fair bit of rum too, if Mentiroso was not mistaken. Antonello was another being altogether. Clearly intelligent, sure of himself but did not immediately assume that people respected him because of his rank. Yes, it was important to ensure Antonello remained a friend and not a foe.

He was close enough to hear Antonello speak to a young man, Jemsey-something-or-other.

“Jemsey, you’re coming with us! Up, up, up!” Mentiroso, successfully covered his smirk, by taking a huge swig of ale, as the young man jumped to his feet, as if someone had hit his privates with a hammer.

“Lead the way, sir,” the young fool said. That one would lay down his life for a better, as soon as take a nap. Certainly, he would ensure no harm came to one of The Maker’s chosen ones.

Mentiroso put down his now-empty plate and mug. Picking up his cane, he strolled over to Antonello, trying not to over-emphasise his limp.

“Mr Antonello, I wonder if I could have a word?” he said. He waited until he had Antonello’s full attention.

“Perhaps it would be beneficial for me to come on your, eh, ‘scouting party.’” Mentiroso said. “Always useful to have The Maker on your side, don’t you think?” He paused, and looked around him, “And I really could do with stretching my legs.”

***

Written by Bruce Arbuckle

Published (as BritInFrance) on writingforums.org on 9th November 2012

To read the whole thing (including all the other characters story lines) visit writingforums.org

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This Strange Day

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I felt a tingling sensation in my forehead. A few microseconds later a Call came through. It was The Manager. He wanted to see me. I stepped away from the production line, and signaled to Employee 87L000/SP5. He looked puzzled, but took my place without missing a beat.

I strode past my Section, over one thousand of us. I felt… concerned. I had to search for the word. It was an unusual feeling to have. The last time I had been ‘concerned’ our rations had been cut in half for one month. We had not met our targets. That had been over a year ago.

What the Omigos give freely, they can also withhold.

It took me 25 minutes to walk the two miles across the factory floor to see The Manager. I passed 4 other Sections. No one looked up, as I passed. This factory was smaller than my previous home. I had lived here for 3 years.

There were two Security Officers at the entrance to the elevator. I knew then, that there must be Visitors. Security is not needed here. There is never any trouble.

There were four of Them in the office. Four of Them, and The Manager.

“Saviours”, I said. I bowed as low as I could.

The Manager initiated a Call. He informed me that only one of these beings were Omigos: the large man in a suit, sitting behind The Manager’s desk. The others were Tourists. Tourists were not Omigos – they looked like Omigos, but they weren’t. I wasn’t sure what they were, but they did not wear Crowns, so that made them not human. The Manager informed me They had come to review something called “Human Rights”, and they wanted to ask me some questions. The Call lasted less than 0.1 of a second.

“No, no! Please do not bow to us”, one of the Tourists said. His voice sounded strange. “Please”, he said again and pointed to a chair. I looked at it, confused. Did he want me to move it?

“He would like you to sit down”, said the Omigos. He laughed as he said it. I was not sure if I was meant to laugh too. I decided not to. I sat down.

“What is your name?”. One of the Tourists was female, and it was she who now spoke.

“I am Employee TwentyThreeLFiveHundredForwardSlashENThree”, I said.

“That is a rather long name”, she said. “What does it mean?”

I shrugged. “It is my Crown name”, I said.

“Your Crown name?” she said. She looked puzzled.

“It is the serial number on his Crown”, the Omigos said. He sounded tired.

The female tourist did not acknowledge the intervention. “Do you have a shorter name?”, she asked. I shook my head. “Are you married?”, I nodded. “Then what does your wife call you?”, she asked.

“Husband”, I replied. I heard the Omigos laugh again. This time I thought it would be impolite not to join him.

“How old are you?”, it was the first Tourist who spoke. His voice was gentle.

“It has been 21 years since my Day of Crowning, My Lord”, I said.

The first Tourist smiled. It was like his voice, it was warm and kind.

“Please”, he said. “Call me Aarif. You are 36 years old, yes?”. I was confused, but remembered that as Tourists and Omigos are not Crowned they count their age from the date they were Created.

“Yes, My… Aarif”, I said. “I had 16 years to endure, before my Day of Crowning.” I saw a strange look pass across his face.

“Then you were 14 years old when Omigos took over?”, it was the third Tourist, who spoke now. He was also male, but appeared older, his dark hair flecked with white.

“When the Living Gods returned to save us”, I said, thinking carefully. “I had endured 14 years, My L… Aarif”, I said.

“My name is Zheng Maa”, he said. “You can call me Zheng. It is this man whose name is Aarif. And this”, he said gesturing to the female. “This is Lajita.” I nodded, though still confused. “We are from the Free World Alliance”, he added, as if this clarified matters. I initiated a Call to The Manager, but he did not pick up.

“Do you remember your name?”, the female Tourist – Lajita – said. “From before you were Crowned, I mean”. I shook my head. “Does it hurt, when you are Crowned?”, she said.

“No”, I said. “The Crown is what keeps hurt at bay”. The mantra rolled off my tongue, but it was true. The two inch-wide band of metal, circling my head, had over two hundred needles buried deep in my head. They connected my brain to the circuitry in the Crown. It helped keep us human: without it we became demons. The Crown regulated chemicals, and helped us communicate. One of the many gifts the Omigos gave us when they returned. No, the Crown did not hurt. I didn’t remember it hurting on the Day of Crowning, either.

I felt a tingling sensation in my head. For a moment I thought The Manager was Calling, but when I picked up there was no-one there. It was not a Call. I had had a Flash.

“Mark”, I said. I was surprised to hear the word come from my mouth.

“I’m sorry?”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said.

“Mark”, I repeated. “I think I may have been called Mark”. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the Omigos move.

“Mark”, the Tourist-called-Lajita said. “That is a lovely name”. As she spoke, I had another Flash – a memory – of another woman at another time who had called me by that name.

“I think”, said the Omigos. “I think we should stop this interview”. I stood up.

“No!”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said. I had never heard anyone speak to an Omigos like that. I stood there, waiting for the world to end.

“Sit down, Mark. We want to continue this conversation”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said. The Omigos motioned for me to sit, so I did.

“What do you remember before the Omigos Corporation took over?”, the Tourist-called-Aarif asked. I stared at him. I did not understand the question.

The Tourist-called-Lajita lent forward and touched my arm. “It’s ok”, she said. She smiled, “do you remember your mother and father?”

“No”, I said. Another memory came to me. A Flash: two bodies being loaded onto a large Transporter. “They died”, I said. The Omigos shifted his weight, his chair creaked.

“This Employee is feeling a little worn out, by all your questioning. We should allow him to return to his duties”, said the Omigos. I began to stand. The Tourist-called-Aarif slammed his hand on the desk, and I fell back into my seat. Shocked.

“Mr Snelling”, he said. He was pointing his finger at the Omigos. “We have been appointed by our Nations to conduct a review of Human Rights conditions at the Omigos Corporation. We have been granted free access to all the countries ‘owned’ by the Corporation, and all the factories and those ’employed’ within. We can, and we will continue this interview.”

The Omigos lent forward. I tried not to look at him. “We do not care what Beijing, New Delhi, or Tehran think of us, Mr Abassi”, he said, pointing at each Tourist, in turn. “We think nothing of your ‘democracy’- it is a sham and always has been. It is time you learned this Truth”.

“Truth!”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said. He was loud and it hurt my ears, and my head. For the first time since my day of Crowning I felt scared. I felt strange sensations in my head. The Crown was trying to regulate my brain chemicals.

“The Truth!”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said, looking at the Omigos. “The Omigos Corporation: the richest men in the world, fed up of running governments from behind the scenes! You supplied Crowns to the Armies of the West, designed to improve communication and enhance aggression: no one even guessed at their true capabilities. You started a flu epidemic which killed a million people in India alone, just to ensure your so-called vaccine would kill half a billion people who would have opposed you in the West. And then you activated the Crown and used your armies to enslave those who were left.”

“I’d say that was a fair historical summary, Mr Abbasi,” the Omigos said, leaning back in his chair. “But remember this: the Crowned are happy. Happier than you. Or I, come to that. They have no ambition, no aggression (unless we program them to have it), no fears, no jealousies. They are not hungry, they are healthy.

“In the world before the Omigos Corporation, were there not sweatshops, operated by children, women and slaves? Yes, Mr Abbasi, there were. But they were in India, China, Africa and the Middle East. They provided the West with their computers, their trainers, their toys and designer clothes. Were those people happy, Mr Abbasi? No, they were hungry, desperate and resentful. The people of the old-West cared little for them, as long as they got what they wanted for the price they wanted. Just as the so-called Free World cares little for the Crowned of Omigos, as long as we keep producing the goods. That, Mr Abbasi, is the Truth.”

“Enough!”, the Tourist-called-Zheng said. He put his hand on the arm of the Tourist-called-Aarif. “We are doing more harm than good”. They all looked at me, then. And at The Manager. I followed their eyes. The Manager was pale, shaking, rocking in his chair.

The interview was ended. They gave us a few minutes, just enough for our Crowns to stablise our brains, and our bodies.

As I left the office, I looked at the Tourist-called-Lajita. “You smile like her”, I said. She raised her eyebrows, and smiled again. “You smile like my mother,” I said.

I had difficulty concentrating on my work, afterwards. Employee 87L000/SP5 had to intervene twice. I wanted tell my wife and children about the interview. The eldest was preparing for his Day of Crowning: in two weeks he would be 16. He was more curious than I, he would be interested in the events of this strange day.

I felt a tingling sensation in my forehead. It was a Call from The Manager. He sounded excited.

“The Omigos were delighted with your performance, today,” he Called. “We are both being promoted. We need to go to the Centre. For Training.”

The Manager was waiting for me at Side Entrance B. The doors opened and I followed him outside. The sun was bright. I blinked: I was unaccustomed to the light. I had not stood in the sun since being moved from the last factory, three years before. It was warm on my skin. It felt good.

I wondered what Training would involve, and how long I would be away from my wife and children. I tried to Call her I could not get through. I shrugged. Any faulty functions on the Crown would be fixed during Training.

The Transporter arrived and I took a deep breath. I followed The Manager as he stepped inside. I noticed it had three words printed on the side: “Disposal Centre (London)”.

I smiled. At least the journey to the Centre would not take long. I should be home in time to kiss my children goodnight.

****

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (November 2012)

This story was entered into the Weekly Short Story Contest on http://www.writingforums.org/ (22nd November 2012)

Theme: Dystopian Fiction

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

When The Storm Came

Bruce1 Comment

“You’re in a bad mood,” his mother said, when he entered the kitchen. “You’re putting me right off my breakfast, with that face-like-thunder.”

She grabbed his left hand and bent back his two smallest fingers. He used to think they would break, it hurt so much, but she knew when to stop.

He felt a tear roll down his cheek, despite his best efforts not to show he was in pain. His mother let go. She made a sound that resembled a chuckle.

He went over to the sink and pulled a bowl from the pile of crockery and gave it a rinse under the tap and a wipe of the towel.

“Giving me the silent treatment, are you boy?” she said.

He said nothing. He could feel her eyes burn a hole in his back, as she watched him pour cereal into the bowl.

“There’s no milk,” she said. He could hear the laughter in her voice and could picture the expression on her face. That one sided smirk, that glint in her eye. She was trying to make him angry again, she wanted the excuse. He wouldn’t give it to her. Not this time.

“You’ll have to go to the shop,” she said. “I need milk for my tea.”

He kept silent. He returned to the sink, and found a spoon, and took his bowl to the table. He sat down and concentrated on eating his cereal. It was dry and tasteless. It took all his saliva and a lot of energy to chew it, and swallow it down. But he was used to swallowing things that tasted bad.

“Don’t make me ask you again, boy,” she said, after a while.

He could hear her unwrapping a packet of cigarettes, but still he said nothing. He stared at the remaining cereal in the bowl, and chewed. He heard her lean back in her chair, heard the click of the lighter and heard the sharp intake of breath as she inhaled. He waited and was rewarded with a cloud of smoke blown into his face.

“Go and get the milk, love” she said, her voice suddenly gentle, kind even. “There’s a storm brewing, and I wouldn’t want you to get caught in it.” He flinched as he felt her hand stroke his cheek. “Hate you to catch your death,” she said.

He raised the spoon to his mouth, but it never reached it’s intended destination. He flinched again, as much at the sound of the spoon clattering against the cupboard door, as the feeling of his mothers hand as it clamped his own to the table.

He said nothing but raised his eyes to meet those of his mothers. He knew what was coming. It had happened before. Many times. This time he wanted to look her in the eye as she pushed the burning tip of the cigarette into the flesh on the back of his wrist. The pain wasn’t as bad as the first few times. But it hurt, all the same. She would bandage the wound later, and he would wear long sleeves. He always wore long sleeves.

She held his stare as steadily as she held the cigarette, as she gave it a final twist before releasing her grip. She left the cigarette, were it was and leaned back on her chair.

“You think you scare me, boy?” she said, reaching for another cigarette. “You think, I haven’t seen that look, before?” She toyed with the lighter, and waved the unlit cigarette at him. “Your father was an evil man, boy,” she said. “And it is my job to see that you don’t turn evil, too.” She lit the cigarette. “I will break you, boy, just like I broke him”.

He said nothing. He stood up. The crumpled cigarette fell to the floor. He picked it up and put it in his bowl. He fetched the spoon, and placed them, carefully, in the sink.

“Money’s in the top drawer, boy,” she said. “Better get some more cigarettes, whilst you’re at it, and a bottle of gin,” she smiled at him. “You’re a good boy,” she said.

The money was there, as she said it would be. He took it. He paused at the open drawer, staring at the thing which lay at the bottom.

The storm came then, as he knew it would. He had felt it building for a long time.

Later, when the rain came, he stood outside.

He lifted his face to the sky and wondered if ten-year-old boys could live by themselves. He stretched his arms wide and let the storm wash his mothers blood from his face, hands and clothes.

***

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (November 2012)

This story was entered into the Weekly Short Story Contest on http://www.writingforums.org/ (8th November 2012)

Theme: The Storm

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A Good Start

BruceLeave a comment

“Three rows from the back,” he said, as he struggled to get his coat off. “Just like the first time.” His wife, on the seat next to him, offered nothing in return. He was, however, rewarded by a brief, but curious, stare from the young mother two rows in front, as she lifted her son onto her lap.

Remembering the bus journey of more than fifty years past, he smiled. February 14th 1958: Valentine’s Day, the day following their wedding, and the first day of their honeymoon.

His mother was unhappy with their wedding date. “Thirteenth,” she had sniffed, shaking her head, as he stood before her, two months earlier, delivering a reassuring squeeze to the hand of his bride to be, who squirmed uncomfortably under the weight of his mothers frown. “Unlucky date,” and then, with an uncommon display of optimism, “could be worse, I suppose. At least it’s not a Friday.”

The feelings of excitement and anticipation, of their first journey together as man and wife, had been viciously crushed on arrival. Humpbuckle-on-sea was an old fashioned place, even then. Grey and listless: even the sea crawled up the pebbled beach, reluctant, bored, until it could bear it no longer and ran back down the shore laughing and free.

Mrs B’s B&B was one of many drab sea-front guesthouses. From the outside it appeared merely neglected and uncared for, while internal inspection revealed years of systematic abuse. It smelt of boiled cabbage, damp towels and cheap aftershave. The latter – they discovered at breakfast the next morning – radiated from Mrs B’s twenty year old son, a pimply but likable youth, who flaunted a ready wit and an Elvis-style quiff, greased with oil liberated from the deep-fat fryer in Chippy’s Chip Shop on the pier, where he could be found serving up one-liners and fish suppers, every Friday and alternate Wednesdays.

Mrs B had greeted the newly-weds with a brisk nod of her head and a meagre smile. She resembled a particularly unhappy bulldog.  Their wedding certificate was examined with a suspicious eye, while she barked the rules of the house at them.

She led them up two flights of creaking stairs, only to abandon them in a ghastly twin room, decorated with a fading painting depicting the crucifixion of Christ, two moth-eaten bedspreads (chosen with an expert eye, so as to clash spectacularly with the peeling floral wallpaper), and a spider called Boris, who lived adjacent to the damp patch in the shadowy corner above the cracked sink. The plumbing hummed when the sink was in use, and thumped alarmingly whenever the toilet – a long, cold walk to the far end of the corridor – was flushed.

Lowering their suitcase onto the threadbare carpet, he joined his wife, where she sat on the bed nearest the window, and took her hand. When she turned to him, he looked deep into her eyes, and was surprised to see laughter, where he had expected to see tears.

The ability to find amusement in that which would make others cry characterised their relationship, setting the tone of the marriage. It was what he loved about her most.

The bus pulled in to the bus station, and he waited patiently for the few remaining passengers to get off; the young mother, her son asleep in her arms; a young girl, no more than eight, mobile phone clamped to her ear, gum chewed loudly; a serious looking young man, bag clutched to his chest. He watched them all file off the bus, before rising unsteadily, painfully, to his feet.

They returned to this seaside resort every year, grumbling whenever it threatened to succumb to the pressure of modernisation, although it never yielded. They would sit on the same bench at the end of the pier. They could still just make out their initials, carved on that initial trip and now worn by weather, time and the friction of other people’s buttocks. Sometimes they would throw chips to the gulls that swooped around them, shouting their insults into the wind. But mostly they would sit, and find humour in each other and the world around them.

A smile on his lips, he gently lifted the urn from the seat beside him. He nodded a thank you to the bus driver as he climbed down the steps. He let his tired feet take them both to the pier for their final journey together.

***

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (January 2010)

This story was entered into a short story competition on thenovellette.com in 2010

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.