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ISSN 1757-5419

Issue 13 – July 2011

Red Blood, Black Blood By Deborah Walker Page 2

Illustrated By Vladimir Petkovic Glass Castles By Cate Caldwell Page 7

Pretty Flowers By Nicholas Stirling Page 12 Stasis By Richard Smith Page 15

Thanatasia By Jonathan W. Bremer Page 19

Soup By Alex Gonzalez Page 21

Illustrated By Mark Bell

Some Things Aren’t Anything By Erik T. Johnson Page 24

Illustrated By C.E. Zacherl

Family Curse By Lee Thompson Page 29

Illustrated By Ian Welsh

Bert & Reg By Brian Kutco Page 34

The Good of the Earth By Heather Smith Page 37

The Suicide Club By John Morgan Page 39

Cover By Darryl Elliott – http://darrylelliott.com/

Proofread By the Morpheus Tales Proofreaders – www.morpheustales.com/the%20team.htm

All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus

Tales. All. Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the

express permission of the copyright holders.

2

They smashed open my door with a battering ram, a Glasgow doorknocker - that’s what my

husband would have called it. If he’d have been here, they wouldn’t have done it. My Jake was 6ft 3

in his bare feet and built like a brick outhouse. But he’s been gone, these past four months. They

took him to one of their camps and I haven’t heard nothing since.

The minders walked in first. They were wearing medical masks, black goggles, and surgical

protection outfits, like I’d seen on the TV. They didn’t say nothing.

Then a woman came in. She was dressed in normal clothes. “Mrs McAllister?” she asked,

reading off my name from a list on her clipboard. I wondered how many others she’s got down on

that list.

“That’s right,” I said. “Who are you?”

I looked her up and down. I wasn’t bothered about the men. They were just security. They

were ten-a-penny, but I looked at the woman carefully enough. She was youngish, about thirty,

blonde with her hair cut short. She looked tired, but then again, most people look tired nowadays.

Most of all, I noticed the black, leather bag she held in her hand.

“I’m Doctor Valerie Woods.”

She walked past me and went into the sitting room.

I wondered what kind of woman she was, to do the job she did. I wanted to scream at her to

get out of my home, but she was flanked by those two fellas and they were big enough. I had to play

it smart - but I knew in my heart that I’d got no real chance.

“We’ve had a report about your daughter… ” She consulted her list again. “Melissa.”

It made me even more angry that she hadn’t even bothered to learn Melissa’s name before

she came barging in here.

“She’s not in,” I said. I stepped around them, casually making a barrier between the men and

the bedroom doors.

The doctor nodded to the men and they walked right past me. They started opening the

doors, which lead off the sitting room in my flat.

The doctor woman said, “Come and have a cup of tea, Mrs McAllister.”

She went over to the kitchenette. She switched on the kettle and started opening the

cupboards, as if she owned the place.

I was… I don’t know, in shock, I guess. I was just praying they wouldn’t find Melissa, I’d

locked her in my wardrobe.

I could hear the men banging about in my bedroom. I walked over and sat at the breakfast

bar and the doctor handed me a cup of tea in the Nescafe mug that Melissa had bought me a couple

of years ago. I took a sip. She’d put in a lot of sugar.

“What’s all this about?” I asked. Even to my own ears, my voice sounded unconvincing.

“You know what it’s about, Brenda. Is it alright if I call you Brenda?”

I nodded.

“I’m here to make the assessment on your daughter, Brenda.”

I said, “She’s not in, Doctor. She’s gone out with her friends. I will ring you when she gets

back, no problem. If you just want to leave me your number... ”

I hear the sound of splintering wood.

“Got her,” shouted one of the fellas from my bedroom

I dropped my cup of tea and it bounced off the Flotex carpet.

Doctor Woods picked up her bag. “Is there anyone I can call for you, Brenda? A friend or a

family member, perhaps?”

My friends didn’t want anything to do with me, not lately. My family were all gone, except

Melissa, so I just shook my head.

3

The mother looked at the man and said, “I’m taking Robin for ice cream.”

‘Robin’ never sounded like her name. She remembered being called something else, but not

what.

The man, who was not even the father, looked at her. She knew she didn’t look excited. But

she never did. Other kids thought she was sullen, anemic, and vaguely creepy. Robin thought they

were brutal, loud, and vaguely stupid, so it was a mutual dislike all around.

He knew something was not right. But the mother didn’t know he knew. He looked at

Robin. Kept looking at her. Finally, she nodded. Ice cream. Right.

As soon as they got around the corner, the fat man in the shiny car drove up. Beckoned the

mother inside. Robin got in the back, like usual. The fat man gave the mother a big kiss. “I missed

you,” she said.

They dropped her off at the playground. “I’ll be back in an hour. Be good.” She tried to

smooth Robin’s hair, but Robin moved. “I’ll buy you something nice on Saturday,” the mother said.

She always said that, but Robin’s calendar had no Saturdays.

No other children. Because it was a grey windy day, or because it was early, or because the

playground was in disrepair and there was a better one a few blocks away.

Robin sat at the base of the slide. Watched bugs crawl over gravel. Was startled by shoe

soles scraping. Looked up.

Strange man. Long coat. Dark sunglasses.

“Are you Robin Glass?” he asked.

“It’s going to thunderstorm,” Robin said. “You should take off your sunglasses.”

“Really,” he said. He drew it out like taffy.

You can’t out-weird me, Robin thought. She’d been born into a Tsunami of weird and lived

in its eye. She could raise her arm and bring weird crashing down in waves. She was not afraid of

this creepy man.

“I want to show you something,” he said.

“I’ve seen it,” Robin replied.

He laughed, long and low. “I… doubt it very much.”

With two fingers, he poked her throat hard enough to make her step back. Suddenly, she felt

stifled. Choking. Something wanting to break free. She doubled over. Opened her mouth. A robin

flew out.

Oh.

“I just thought you were some pervert. What do you want to talk to me for?”

He chuckled again.

“If you like… ” he opened his long coat.

She sat, goggle-eyed and staring.

Before this moment, it had never occurred to her to be afraid of anything.

“I think,” said a new voice, “that you need to be going now.” Robin hadn’t noticed him

approach. There was no way he could have, really. He was just there. He grabbed the other man’s

arm roughly.

“You had better let go of me,” he said. “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

“On the contrary,” said the other.

What happened next was a blur. A high-pitched screaming, like an old vinyl album being

scratched. An angry dog-like snarl. Things out of time, either too fast or too slow, she couldn’t tell.

The air, thick like gelatine, leaked strange colours she’d never seen before and would have no way

to describe.

4

“My pretty,” she cooed softly. Her broad fingers delicately brushed the leaves of the plant,

grazing over the waxy folds to rest on a petal the colour of a bruise.

The flower shuddered and leaned toward the hand. For a moment, the petals closed a little, a

blind purple mouth that looked to kiss the finger near it.

Angelina smiled and moved her finger further into the flower. The petals shut around the

end of her finger. It pulsed gently, tugging like baby suckling. Angelina’s smile widened, but her

brow furrowed sharply after a moment. She tugged her finger out and looked at the bead of blood

welling from its tip.

“That wasn’t nice, my pretty,” she said crossly, sucking at the blood. “You shouldn’t have

done that.”

The plant’s flower ducked slowly, its leaves rustling.

“I forgive you,” Angelina told her plant, “but you mustn’t do that again. No biting me.” But

as Angelina walked away from her plant, she looked at her stinging finger and smiled.

She slowly worked her way to the back door of her house, her girth forcing her to roll back

and forth with each step. Her knees ached, a sign that a storm was brewing up somewhere nearby,

and her hip was starting to act up as well.

“Not good for a young woman,” she muttered to herself. “Twenty-five years and you’re

feeling like an old crone.” She pulled open her back door and stepped out to the tiny garden. The

sun was high in the sky, but dark clouds were building over the District rooftops, black and thick as

tar.

Angelina sniffed at the air. It felt close that day.

When she was satisfied with her reading of the air, Angelina went to a small tower of

stacked cages at the back corner of the garden. Little dark eyes looked out at her and tiny, clawed

feet scratched at the wooden floor. The air from the cages was sharp and pungent.

“Now,” said Angelina, “which of you will join us tonight?” She rubbed her fat pink hands

together, a wide grin splitting her face as she opened the top cage’s door. The clawed feet skittered

anxiously as the shapes moved to huddle into one corner. Tails flicked and whiskers twitched.

“The mistress,” one of them hissed up at her. It blinked its black eyes at her and scratched at

its face with its hands. “Which of us, mistress?”

Angelina reached in and pulled out one of the animals, pinching its neck between two

fingers and holding the shaking form up in front of her face. It blinked at her. “Is it me, mistress?

Am I to go tonight?”

She sniffed at it, her broad nose wrinkling.

“Yes,” she told it. “You will do.”

The animal looked at her. Its tiny face was impassive, but its whiskers quivered rapidly. “As

you wish, Mistress,” it hissed.

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5

Relax.

My eyes are closed.

A cool breeze blows over my face. I’m lying on my back. Soft yellow-white light penetrates

my eyelids. I feel calm.

I can hear the sea. The gentle sound of waves on the shore. I can’t feel my body. I know it’s

there, but as I lie still, at rest, there is no sensation. It’s like I’m floating.

I open my eyes, just for a moment. Inches from my face, I see bright light and cold white

plastic. The briefest of snapshots. My eyes close again and the soft, warm light through the eyelids

returns. It’s not the sea I can hear. It’s the steady rise and fall of my own breathing.

A woman’s voice soft in my ears.

Breathe in.

I take a deep relaxing breath.

Breathe out.

I exhale slowly, steadily.

Hold your breath.

I stop breathing and lie still, inert.

And relax.

I take another deep relaxing breath.

There is no concept of time. The steady rhythmic cycle of my breathing marks its passing,

but I lose count of the repetitions: tens, hundreds, more. The woman’s voice in my ears is

intermittent. She issues her soft instructions and retreats; time passes and she returns.

There are other sounds. A deep, resonating hum. It’s a soothing sound that fades in and out,

rises and falls. I’m warm, I’m comfortable. The sound is hypnotic. It feels like I’m in a mechanical

womb.

“Am I alive?” I ask, my throat dry.

Another sound, a microphone being activated. A different female voice. “Just relax. Try to

keep still.”

I need to know. I try to swallow, take another breath.

“Try not to talk. You’ve been away for a while. But you’re back now. Everything will be

okay.”

# # #

I’m in a hospital bed.

I have my own room. White walls and white lights and white ceiling. The floor is grey. The

door is closed and there is a single window. From my position on the bed I can see a small rectangle

of blue sky.

A jug of water and a glass have been placed on a table next to me. On the wall opposite: a

large vid-screen, but the screen is blank.

A needle - a cannula - has been inserted into the back of my right hand, held in place with a

bandage. The hand appears withered; shrivelled and old.

I feel sleepy and thirsty. With a weak and shaky grip, I pour myself a glass of water and take

a small tentative sip. It tastes fresh and cold. I drain the rest of the glass quickly.

The door opens and a nurse enters.

She smiles. She has blonde hair, attractive blue eyes.

“How are you feeling?” She approaches the bed, watching me closely. She has a presence

that is confident and reassuring. “I see you found the water.”

6

Tenderly, Barnabus sauntered across the sloppy bog, in search of the book. Curious cattails

pulsated with luminous orange light as he drew near. He knelt at the bog, greedily slurping the

swamp water. After many years, he had come at last to this muddy oasis.

The crumbling scroll unfurled before him revealed little. There was no choice but to traverse

many miles of sludge. Thanatasia, the name of this nether land, was handwritten upon the scroll in

archaic runes. This, along with the rudimentary sketches adorning it, would be his guide as he

travelled toward the secrets of the sacred book.

Barnabus, as venerable as the map itself, and with mud dripping down the length of his curly

white beard, waded waist deep into the swamp as the glowing cattails bowed towards him. The

moon was pink and full, casting a soft tint upon the horizon, and the stars shimmered brightly in the

sky. The strange caterwauls of creatures unknown filled the air. In the distance, some beast yowled.

Soon, Barnabus was up to his neck in the stench. He struggled many miles and many hours

into the night, until he at last came upon a tiny islet, which he gladly climbed. Within moments, the

warmth of the illuminated cattails lulled him to sleep.

7

Jason Franks didn’t like disco. Hell, if it wasn’t for a few VH1 shows about the seventies,

and listening to a little bit - a very little bit - on an internet radio station, he wouldn’t have even

known what disco was.

If there was one thing he did remember from those television shows, though (and maybe

only because it was the least awkward element of the whole disco scene), it was all the lights used

by the dance clubs back then. Lights much like the ones inside the cloudy skies on the far side of

town and over the ocean.

It was an El Nino year and the town had been getting pounded consistently by storms

coming off the Pacific. By the looks of the overcast sky and the flashes of light in the clouds, they

were in for another one. He normally loved this part of a storm; that first hour or two when it was

first visible but still out at sea and he could safely watch it from his front porch without worrying

about being struck by lightening, or catching a cold sitting in the rain. However, as the storm front

lumbered toward the shores of the town in the valley down below, he began to realize something

ominous.

Lightening didn’t produce those kinds of colours.

It wasn’t a storm; and although he might have been the only person to realize that for now,

he wasn’t the only person watching it.

“See that, Jay?” Mr. Sheets, the Franks family’s long-time neighbour asked from the fence

separating their front yards. “Nasty looking storm coming. Might be the worst one all season.”

“Yeah,” Jason replied from some faraway somnambulant state. He stepped down one stair

as if it could help to get him a better look.

The bright flashes of lightening-white in the clouds were joined by even brighter flashes of

reds, yellows, and oranges; and then the lights started touching land. Jason looked over to Mr.

Sheets and beyond to the other yards where other people were coming out to watch. Their shocked

faces let him know that he wasn’t just seeing things. The bright lights coming down weren’t

instantaneous flashes. They were staying, and searching, like helicopter spotlights looking for the

escaped criminals whose car chase had just made the evening news.

“Must be one of them hot pursuits!” Mr. Sheets exclaimed as he began stepping back toward

his porch. “I’m going to go see if the news is covering it!”

“Mr. Sheets, I don’t think it’s- ” Jason turned to see Mr. Sheet’s screen door closing behind

the old man. He turned back toward the city. If it was a police chase, where were the helicopters?

They couldn’t possibly be following the pursuit while they flew in the clouds. And he couldn’t hear

them, but the lights were slowly moving inland.

“My TV’s out,” Mr. Sheets said, coming back over to the fence.

The spotlights reached the bottom of the hillside where Jason, Mr. Sheets, and the rest of the

neighbours couldn’t see, and then screams followed from somewhere downhill. Above them,

something was coming out of the clouds. It wasn’t a helicopter. What appeared was large enough to

hold dozens, perhaps even a hundred helicopters. It sank from the clouds, parting them like

something dipping beneath the surface of a thick liquid, like a person sinking into a pool of

quicksand.

8

There were a special breed of imaginary things in that house, which could be touched. There

was a piano, but my mother hated music, so none of us knew how to play it, so it was an imaginary

piano. And there was a fireplace, but my father was too afraid of burning the house down to light a

fire in it, so it was an imaginary fireplace. We were always so close to things that could be, but

weren’t. Even Ship House itself was an example of this class of imaginary objects. It was a big, old,

beautiful three-story Victorian with gabled roofs, top and lower-level wrap-around porches, and

twenty acres of untampered wilderness in the Connecticut countryside.

To my young mind, that house should have been full of people laughing, dressed in lovely

clothing, singing by gauzy candlelight. It should have been the place where all the far-flung

members of a large happy family gathered to keep their great-great-great-grandparents’ memories

alive. They should have had a thousand-paged book which they treated like a priceless relic, full of

family history, that they’d all read a hundred times and always wished there was more of it. If I shut

my eyes, I heard music, I saw a fire glowing, and I sat on the lap of a colourful long-lost uncle.

# # #

Grandma’s old house was like a ship because it was so isolated, perched atop an unmoving

green wave, beneath a starry golden weathervane. And I thought a ship must be like this: everyone

cooped up together. To pass the time I’d imagine we had to eat each other like sailors lost at sea.

Of course, I would have had more fun at Ship House if I had permission to explore the

bramble path near the house, which led off toward a river I heard but never saw. After all, the only

reason we went to Ship House was to “get Charity away from other people for awhile”. But my

parents forbid me from going down that way, saying it was dangerous, that some people had been

reported missing on the bramble path years ago and were never found again. They said I should

keep away altogether because I always went too far. But the bramble path kept growing closer to

the house each year and soon it would be harder to resist.

# # #

The last time we went to Ship House, my father bought my mother a gold necklace that had

Mom’s name on a disc in the middle. She let me wear it in the car. My older brother Raymond sat

next to me in the back. He was greasy and tall and sat with his scabby knees spread wide so I had

no room and he’d make loud fart noises with his mouth and spit on me, by accident and on purpose,

and call me “Sicko” and “Creepy” and “Nutpot”. He had a blue candy tongue and Dad’s nose like

he stole it right off his face. He was covered in freckles. Raymond was who I imagined people you

hate must be like. He was their favourite child but I was sure he would taste sour.

During the ride from New York, my parents fighting and steady movement lulled me to

sleep. When I opened my eyes, the house was emerging from its isolated Connecticut hill. The

summer sun was about to set and the grand golden weathervane was gleaming like something

removed from the anus of a pervert in an emergency room.

# # #

Dad was gazing out the dining room window.

The phone rang. Mom got it.

“No, he’s not here,” she said, and hung up.

“Who was that?” Dad asked.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” she said.

“Why don’t you go out and play,” my father commanded. “But don’t go far. You always go

too far.”

# # #

9

The townspeople didn’t like the house at the back of the cemetery’s property. The ghosts

who lived inside it held grudges of their own.

Something clicked. Laughter beat against the broken windows. Donovan flitted about the

room, anxious. He smelled fate drawing near. It rose on the wind and slid through the drafty house.

His hands longed to touch flesh. It’d been so long.

Moonlight spilled through a hole in the ceiling and reflected off a dusty mirror in the hall.

The whole house moaned with the pressure of the past and its sins.

# # #

Jacob laughed. Keri had her hand down his pants and her lips against his neck. He pushed

her away and leaned on a gravestone. She touched his chest and said, “Doesn’t this place turn you

on? Or is it me?”

“Oh yeah,” he teased. “It’s you.” She was the hottest girl in his class. It’d taken him ten

years to ask her out, and she surprised him when she said that she’d always thought he was cute. It

wasn’t like he had the prowess or confidence of the jocks, or the bright, promising future of the

average nerd. You’re not boring, she’d said. And he wondered if that was enough to start a

relationship on, if it was enough to sustain it.

“Come on,” Keri said. “I want it.”

There was a look in her eye. He wanted to make her beg for it. It reminded him of his dad,

before he’d disappeared. How he used to draw everything out to the breaking point. Always testing

people. He hated his old man and here he was turning into him.

Keri tugged at the button of his pants, her breath like the wind against his throat. “Please.”

“No.”

She met his eyes. Her hand stilled. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I don’t know.

“Nothing. I’m just not in the mood.”

Look around. We’re in a cemetery with that fucking creepy house behind us.

He started wondering how well he knew her if this is what got her excited, and got her off.

“Give me a little space, will you?”

She punched him in the chest and he grunted. “I’ll give you tons of space.” She ran towards

the house and he wanted to call out to her, tell her to wait a goddamn second because if there was a

place not to run, that was it. The house had always scared him. His uncle told him that it ate his

brother, though Jacob’s mom told him he didn’t have a brother. Never had a brother. His dad

grinning, that drunk wound of a face before he disappeared saying, “We had one kid too many,

know what I’m saying? What we really needed was a cute little girl.”

Keri kept her eyes on the house as she ran. He wanted her to look back, stop at the door, so

he could call her back and tell her, “I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve wanted you

forever and all I’m good at is fucking shit up.” She opened the door, its hinges screaming, high and

shrill, the sound like a car’s brakes squealing.

“Wait up.” He meant to yell it. It came out a whisper.

She looked back and flashed her middle finger at him, the house looming above her,

branches scraping against its roof. Jacob sighed and started walking. He wasn’t aware of when he

started to run. His side ached. Dead leaves blew across the porch. He stopped at the foot of the

steps. The house was quiet. “Keri?”

No answer. The boards on the steps moaned under his weight. Sweat ran down his face. He

was supposed to have her home by midnight. He looked at his watch. They only had a half hour.

Something stirred inside the doorway. A form darker than the black that surrounded it

squirmed in the murk.

10

It was a very dark night. On each side of the narrow country road there were trees and

bushes and rickety old fences, barely visible in the gloom. A sliver of moon hung in the sky, blotted

out by the heavy cloud-cover, and there was not a star in sight.

Until now, there had only been the sound of the wind sighing among the vegetation, but that

changed when a very loud old banger came trundling down the road. Its headlights skated over the

road before it, sometimes sliding up the hedges, and once or twice they picked out a tree from the

darkness, such that the tree looked like a twisted monster lunging for the car. But it was going too

fast to be caught.

Inside the old banger, which coughed smoke out of its exhaust pipe, obscuring the landscape

even more were two old boys, Reg and Bert. They were making their way home after a reunion with

an old friend.

“Ah, it was good to see old Willie again, wasn’t it?” said Bert from the passenger seat,

rubbing his hands together to keep them warm.

“Sure was,” said Reg. His hands were tight on the steering wheel and he leaned forward as

he looked out the windscreen.

“Are you sure you’re all right to drive?”

“Yeah! I’ve only had a couple!”

Bert gave him a suspicious stare before saying, “Man, it’s been thirty years since we’ve seen

him. Can you believe that?”

“I can’t believe he’s been living here for five years and we didn’t know about it.”

“I know. Crazy.”

They both became quiet as they marvelled at this, while the car trundled on down the pitch-

dark road, occasionally hitting a bump and bouncing such that the two men nearly hit their heads on

the roof.

After a while Bert said, “Hey, can you believe how long we’ve known each other?” and he

smiled and raised his eyebrows.

With his eyes still on the road, Reg said, “Nope. Pretty much our whole lives.”

“Damn… ” Bert stared out his window as he thought about this. Then he whispered, as if

saying it to himself, “Sixty odd years.”

“That’s about right, my friend. We’re near enough brothers, you and me.” As he said this

last bit he reached up and rubbed at his eyes, which got Bert’s attention.

“Hey, you sure you’re all right?”

“Give it a rest, man! Do you want to drive?”

“No. Just asking, that’s all. Maybe we should have got a taxi,” he mumbled, not wanting to

annoy Reg anymore.

After a while Reg said, “It’s a shame it’ll all be over soon.”

Frowning, Bert asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, we’re not getting any younger- ”

“Oh come on, pal! That’s a bit morbid, ain’t it?”

Reg laughed while Bert screwed his face up and slapped his friend’s arm. Then Bert asked,

“What about the afterlife?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you believe in it?”

“No reason to. It’s not been proved, has it? I guess you only know when you’re actually

dead.”

11

The earth was dry. Although the government had tried to keep it from the people, they

knew. All of the resources that had once prospered - oil, crops, water, air - were now on their last

leg. Something had to be done. Captain Dex knew this, but it still didn’t sit well with him. He was

one of the few who had been chosen to participate in the new space program, the one that really

would take him, and all of Earth, where no man had gone before. He sat in the co-pilot’s seat of the

scouting ship. Remote tests and observation had shown that there were at least three planets in a

nearby solar system that would support life. Their atmospheres appeared to be similar to Earth’s,

and it seemed as if water and plant life already existed there. But this wasn’t what upset Dex.

“Are you ready to proceed?” Pilot Atkins asked.

Dex was broken out of his reverie. He glanced back at the rows of seats that were now filled

with American soldiers. Other members of the United Nations would soon be joining America’s

“scouting missions.” The whole world had to come together in order to get this done.

“Yes. Let’s get it over with.”

The boys and girls behind him were scared. They’d just discovered how dire Earth’s

situation had become. All of the politicians who talked about solutions were just spewing bullshit,

trying to get elected, trying to convince people they could buy time.

But this also was not what had kept Captain

Dex from sleeping last night.

“Everyone strap in. We take off in 5, 4, 3, 2,

1,” Atkins said calmly over the intercom.

The ship lifted into the air and gained speed.

Dex’s head was forced back against the seat. The

intense pressure kept his mind off of the task at

hand for a moment, but once the ship broke

atmosphere, he had to give a pep talk to his team. A

pep talk. Like a coach to his players just before they

crush their opponent or the opponent crushes them.

But today there was no question of who would win.

Hesitantly, Dex took the intercom in his

hand. Then he thought better of it, unstrapped his

seatbelt, and stood. The artificial gravity did its job

and kept his feet planted on the metal floor. He

gazed out over the crowd. Little had been said about

their mission up to this point; only that they must go

to the new planets and make sure they’re safe for

human life. Dex cleared his throat.

“Troops,” he began. “Our mission today,

tomorrow, and for however long it takes, is to wipe

out the dominant alien species that resides on these

planets.”

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12

Chris had no idea how long the phone had been ringing. He squinted at the offending object

and at the glowing display of the clock beside it.

Two in the freaking morning.

He fumbled for the receiver, feeling his fiancée, Debbie, stir in the bed beside him. The

plastic felt cool and dead against his ear.

“‘llo,” he grumbled.

Silence from the other end…

Chris cleared his throat and tried again.

An answer this time, tinny and distant. The voice was flat, joyless, the kind of voice an

undertaker might have. “…he found me,” it said.

Chris didn’t say anything for a moment, sure that he must have misheard. He tried to

massage a bit of life into his face using his free hand. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Something that might have been a chuckle trickled its way down the line. “He’ll be coming

for you next.”

“… Steve? Steve, is that you?”

Another silence. Only, it wasn’t exactly a silence. There was something in the background -

an angry kind of fuzz. Not static. Not white noise. It sounded like screaming. It sounded like hell on

earth but with the volume turned down; a faint, howling maelstrom of agony.

“Keep the lights on,” the voice continued, “He’ll only find you in the dark.”

“Ok, this isn’t funny. Do you know what the bloody time is?”

“They’re wrong about hell, Chris. It’s cold down here.”

Plastic creaked as Chris’s fist tightened around the receiver.

“Goodbye Chris. Mitch says hello.”

# # #

“I wouldn’t worry about it. It was just someone playing a joke.”

Chris rolled his eyes and put paid to the last of his burnt toast. “Well, yes, thanks for the

input, Miss Marple.”

Debbie stuck out her tongue and poured herself some juice. The sun was slicing through the

window and making her hair smoulder like molten gold. “I’m just saying,” she said, “you shouldn’t

worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

“So why’d you wake me up to tell me about it?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I was trying to work out who it was, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh. So you think it was your friend, Steve?”

Chris shrugged. He was flicking through the pages of the morning paper and glancing

without interest at the usual crap.

“I wouldn’t say he was a friend exactly,” he said, “I doubt we’ve even spoken to each other

in the past year or so. It’s just that… well, his was the only name that came to mind. But I don’t get

it. I mean, even if it was meant as a joke, it wasn’t exactly comedy gold, was it. Why bother?”

Debbie made to clear the plates and looked at him with feigned pity. “Sorry to tell you this,

hun, but none of your acquaintances seem to be the sharpest tools in the box. Look at Bill, for

instance, he…Chris? What’s wrong?”

Chris was pulling away from the kitchen-table, his face contorting into a disbelieving knot.

The crockery made a dull, rattling thunk as Debbie dropped them back onto the table.

“Chris? What is it?”

He was staring goggle-eyed at the newspaper, horrified.

13

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