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Apocalypse Special IssueEdited By Sheri White

Editorial

Beginning of Days By William R.D. Wood

Songs of Goodbye By Dev Jarrett

The Last Page By Diane Arrelle

Long Cold Night By Richard Farren Barber

Thunder Bay By Robin Wyatt Dunn

Sun-Catcher By D.M. Slate

Generation Sorrow By J.B. Ronan

My Pretty Pony By Alan Loewen

Unleashed By Stephanie Smith

The 15th of December By Brian M. Milton

Til Death do us Part By C.M. Saunders

Yellow By Matt Brolly

Cover By Gary McCluskey - http://garymccluskey.carbonmade.com

Proof-read By Sheri White

All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of MorpheusTales. All Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the

express permission of the copyright holders.

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Beginning of Days By William R.D. Wood

Joel stood on the front walk of his parents’ house and stared at the comet. Smaller than themoon tonight.

The millhouse road was empty and still. An old neighborhood to begin with, but with thetrees now gone, it looked like a slum. He took a lungful of chilly evening air and walked across thelawn to the house, stirring plumes of brown dust with every step. A buzz of voices and music fromspeakers in the house drifted from the open front door.

As he stepped inside and flipped on the living room light, something small and hard pressedagainst his temple. He froze. The object wasn’t cold like a gun barrel should be, but the feel wasright nonetheless.

“You’ve been standing out there staring at the sky for a freaking hour,” snapped a familiarvoice. “You spazzing out or something?”

Of all people. “Reggie. You’re alive.”He snuffled back a laugh or maybe tears. “Saw you down at Food City this morning.”Joel had gone back to fill all the gasoline containers he could fit into his mom’s minivan. He

planned to make another run for batteries and more food later. Maybe even take the sweet newToyota Roentgen parked at the Baker’s house.

Their daughter must have come home after Channel One’s news-babe announced the worldhad fallen short of the glory of God—that our only hope was to gather with our families and pray.Right there on international We-Scoff-at-Religion TV.

Was that really only yesterday?Joel glanced at the little man beside him. Reggie held a gun, one of the cheap Ruger P90s

the man’s boss, Patricia, had acquired last year. Joel had bought two himself. “Mind lowering that?”“Promise not to try anything?” Reggie’s voice cracked. “‘Cause I’ll waste you, man.”“Promise.”The pressure on his temple wavered, then vanished, as Reggie shuffled back a couple of

steps, gun still leveled.Reggie looked like crap. Hair matted to his forehead, unshaven, clothes wrinkled and caked

in dust. He looked like an old bum, not the thirty-something loser Joel had seen a week ago atPatricia’s flat. She was a cold bitch but at least she’d made him stay clean.

“Been shooting today, huh?”“I just lost it for a while, okay? How’d you know?”“Warm barrel.”Reggie scowled. “Well, aren’t you just smart?”Joel combed the room for inspiration. The furnishings were sparse. Mahogany and etched

leather mostly, a set his mom bought to celebrate her only son finally moving out two years back.Absolutely nothing he could use to turn this moment around. “How’s Patricia?”

Reggie shook his head.“Sorry to hear that.” Joel stepped farther into the room, hoping for casual and non-

threatening. Reggie tracked him, arm rigid, gun held sideways.Reggie glanced down at the brown stains on his jeans. Superfine moleculars the news-babe

had called The Dust.The only broadcasts still going now were automated. The grid was bound to crash, too,

automated or not. In the meantime, Joel had every radio, television, and computer in the houseswitched on.

“So, what’s up?”Reggie stood for a moment, his mind operating with its usual delay. “You owed her big time,

Joel, and with her…gone, I’m here to collect.”Joel laughed before he could stop himself and, once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. In

seconds, he’d dropped to his hands and knees, gasping as he laughed.

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Songs of Goodbye By Dev Jarrett

Izzy sat in the sand, listening to the eerie silence that used to be the Pacific Ocean. Whereonly a week ago the tide crashed with potent, monotonous thunder, now the only sounds were thestrident cries of the feasting gulls echoing in the air like shards of screams. The sky was solidly grayand overcast, and the air around her was fouled by the scent of rotting fish and kelp. Last week thearea, just north of Newport, Oregon, had been called Agate Beach. Today the term beach could bedefined as “the edge of the world’s largest landfill.”

She felt the tremble of a distant earthquake, and the weird, vertiginous dizziness that camewith it.

In the far distance, the earth sloped away, as if it simply gave up. To the north, the point thathad once been Yaquina Head was now a narrow ridge shouldering out into the desolate ocean bed.For two days she’d heard the hoarse belches of the sea lions all the way from the Coast Guard Pier,until they all either died or flopped out onto the desert ocean bed in search of the water.

Izzy and her dad had once visited the Grand Canyon, and at the time she’d been amazed thatsuch a gigantic hole in the world might exist. She’d been nine at the time. Seven years later, thegyre erupted and all the magnificence of the Arizona landmark had paled. Where she sat on the sandwas like a dimensional gateway to some bizarre alien planetscape, light years away.

Closer to Izzy’s perch in the sand, the humpback whale still lay like an abandoned laundrysack, covered with noisy, pecking scavenger gulls. It had been there since the gyre. The massivemarine mammal’s skin had long since dried from brown-black to a crusty, smeared white, exceptwhere the whale’s oily blood leaked from holes made by predatory burrowings of seagulls and rats.Its wide mouth hung open and slack, showing thin bristles of baleen. Izzy wondered how long itmight be until someone or something sat in the same sand and watched her die. After a moment, shereconsidered. Her death, and her father’s, would probably be as meaningless and unremarked as theother billions of deaths that were imminent. According to the news, it would happen any day now.

The late December wind blew cold around Izzy. Far down the former shore, just below whatused to be the high tide line, she saw a figure walking toward her. Even though it was too far awayto make out, she knew it was her father. Most everyone else had already left. Tommy Blanton, theboy to whom she’d finally decided to surrender her virginity last month, had not even called beforehe and his family fled the coast.

The idea of living in such a deserted town made her a little sad, and made her wonder whereher mom might be.

When the news broke last week, Izzy had been at school. Like everyone else, she’d beencounting the days until Christmas break. Classes were tense, and the teachers knew that no one’smind was really on his work. The intercom had clicked, then the voice of the principal advised theteachers to turn on the classroom televisions.

Every channel seemed to be running the same story. A massive earthquake had struck thePacific Ocean, apparently opening a huge hole in the southern end of the Marianas Trench.

No tsunamis were predicted. In fact, just the opposite. The film taken above the epicenter ofthe quake showed a humungous, churning white whirlpool in the dark blue Pacific. The Gyre. Theocean was draining down into the hole created at the hypocenter of the earthquake. Televisionsupposedly hadn’t been as single-minded in its coverage of the story since the terrorist attacks on9/11, but Izzy had no memory of that event.

It was strange. All the end-of-the-world crazies that think any natural disaster is their cue tostart screeching and waving signs were completely silent. It was as if their Revelations-poweredradar had finally found the right frequency, and they were scared out of their minds.

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The Last Page By Diane Arrelle

Loretta watched Mike pack his suitcase as anger and loneliness battled for dominance.Anger won again.

God, she always felt angry lately, she mused. Is this what life had become, disappointmentmixed with agonizing regret?

She struggled to shrug off the depression that hugged her spirit like a killer bear. “How longwill you be gone this time?” she asked and winced as the words “this time” came out coated withdisgust.

Mike looked up from folding a shirt. “You know I have to go, it’s my job. You think I enjoytraveling all the time? You think I’m doing this for fun?”

Loretta knew he hated traveling as much as she hated him going, but she couldn’t controlthe words that poured out. “Hell, it’s got to be better than being home with your family, better thanhelping with the kids and the house.”

He slammed the suitcase closed. “Tell you what, go find a decent job and I’ll stay homewith the kids. In the meantime I’ve got a meeting Upstate and as great as this conversation is, if Istay any longer I’ll be late.” He grabbed the bag, sighed and put it down. He turned and kissedLoretta lightly on the lips. “I’ll try to get home day after tomorrow.”

She stood motionless in the bedroom as she heard the door slam and then the car rev up andpull out of the driveway. Why? she wondered. Why had she thought marriage and raising childrenwas going to be her happily-ever-after? She’d had a job, friends, time to actually read a book. She’dbeen happy back then, but didn’t realize all she had. No, she always wanted more. Now that she gotwhat she thought was her heart’s desire, she realized her heart’s desire had changed once again.

She picked up the phone, put it down, then picked it up again. Holding it in her hand shestared at it, and finally punched in Mike’s cell number.

He picked up right away. “Loretta?” he answered, his tone cool.She grimaced. If feelings could transmit over the phone, her hand would be in danger of

getting frostbite. “Hi,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “I just… I…” she stammered and thenfinished in a rush. “I just wanted to say have a good trip and… and I’m sorry. I may not act it, but Ilove you.”

Silence for a double beat and then, “Uh, yeah, I’m sorry, too. Not about marrying you, butabout all this traveling. I’m going to look for another job when I get back. You’ll see, things will bedifferent. Like the old days.”

She started to reply, but he interrupted. “Cops ahead, gotta hang up. I love you, too, I reallydo.”

She looked at the silent receiver and smiled. He still loves me!She thought about it. Maybe life can be better. Maybe she can learn to be happy again. “I

love my family! Mike and the kids,” she announced to the empty room. “I can be, no, I will behappy and satisfied!”

High from Mike’s simple I love you, she dressed for the day, not in the usual ratty sweatpants and tee shirt, but in a nice pair of jeans and one of those shirts that always hangs in the closetwaiting for the special event that never came.

She vacuumed and dusted the house, put up a load of wash, and put on the radio instead ofthe TV. She even made real coffee instead of instant, and used the flavored creamer she saved forafter dinner.

“I will live life to the fullest!” she vowed to the family portrait on the wall. “Family life’slike a merry-go-round--a long wait to get going, lots of ups and downs, and sometimes a chance atthat brass ring.”

She stopped cleaning and rushed to her computer. “Hey, that was really deep.” She typedher new philosophy onto her wall. “This should drum up a lot of comments,” she said, satisfied withher day already.

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Long Cold Night By Richard Farren Barber

From his position behind the cash register Pete turned his chair and looked out across therooftops. He could see beyond the edge of the town to the green fields in the distance. The greytowers of the power station pressed against the cobalt sky.

“What are you thinking about?”Pale sunlight washed Helen’s features, but couldn’t compete with the gloom inside the

supermarket. The aisles behind them were dark and empty; the shelves holding nothing more thandust and crumbs.

“The others.”Helen stood up from her chair and for a moment the seat twisting on its castors was the only

sound. Not long ago the noise would have been buried beneath the permanent hum of the airconditioning units overhead and the erratic beep-beep-beep of the tills as they rang up purchases.Now the silence allowed the small sounds to seep through – the squeal of Helen’s chair, the cry ofgulls wheeling outside the plate glass windows, the slow thud of the delivery doors at the back.

Pete waited for Helen to respond; when she didn’t he stood up to join her at the window. Itreminded him of times when the shop had been quiet and they had stood, looking out through theglass, the raised shop looming over the town. Now they stood within touching distance, closeenough that he could feel the heat from her skin. Close enough that he could smell the soap she hadused to wash her hands.

Pete pressed his hand up against the glass window. It was warm.Below them the road was empty. From this distance the town looked at peace. Pete knew

that close up he would be able to see that everything was dead. Not just dying, but already dead.The petrol station stood empty, black oil stains marking the concrete.“Do you remember when it closed?” Helen asked.He didn’t question her ability to guess his thoughts. It had happened some time over the last

few weeks. Too much time spent together, and too little to talk about that was safe.“I thought that was the end,” Helen said.“It was.”She shook her head. “No. It was just the start of the end. And even then I thought something

would happen. I thought someone...”She fell silent, but Pete knew what she was trying to say because he had felt the same

himself. They had all felt the same. Someone would come forward with a solution. Someone wouldfix this and everything would be okay again. The petrol station would be restocked and theforecourts would be overrun for a few days, but then everything would return to normal – crisisaverted.

“Except no one did,” he murmured. The sound of his own voice disturbed him. It was louderthan it should be. “I wonder what happened to the Battery Man.”

Helen laughed. Just as he had hoped she would. “Why do I always get the nutters?”Pete looked around for effect, surveying the empty supermarket. “There’s not much danger

of that now.”“No,” Helen said. “No, there isn’t.”The silence stretched out. There were times when they could sit or stand there for hours

without speaking, each wrapped within their own thoughts, unable to find anything to say aloud.The delivery doors at the back of the shop slammed, loud enough to make both of them jump. Justthe wind, Pete knew, but that didn’t change the impact it had each time the sound echoed throughthe empty shop.

“Up until that point I didn’t know how bad things were. That was when it first occurred tome that it could be serious.”

“He bought the recharger units,” Pete said. “Even after you pointed out to him that if thepower stations failed they weren’t going to be of any use.”

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Thunder Bay By Robin Wyatt Dunn

We’re dead here and you will be, too. Listen: the storm is coming. When alive I would havehated the rank and the rot that comes after rain; now it affects me only by slowing my footstepsthrough the mud.

We are Thunder Bay, the bay of the Lake, in the province named Lake, we are Bay of Lakeof your needful blood.

I run a gas station; we burned Walmart after it happened. My wife Sylvia, she of the GreyWood, looked beautiful next to the burn. She charred her hand a little so I could smell it, as she heldone hand around my neck and fisted my cock with the heated one. Now I work for myself again andit is good. Not many of us enjoy driving though; the seat belts tend to create hernias, and notwearing them is just as bad. Jim lost both legs only last week and we lack a good surgeon. But hegets around on the skateboard okay.

I love the library here; we decorate it with certain parts of our victims that we do notreanimate; next to J.D. Salinger’s shelf I have affixed a heavy pale-colored breast. I eat the flieswhile I read.

My vision has improved in this state of being, though I am slower. I see so much.# # #

American tourists still come in their shiny automobiles. Luckily our community theater hasplenty of makeup ― my wife and I and a few of our neighbors greet all new arrivals with painted faces and they usually don’t notice until it’s too late.

Last week was an especially juicy minivan with California plates.I look north at the plain, the screaming girl writhing in my arms. Canada, a word that means

village; we have been and we remain small here, small like the Rhesus monkey. Small like a lungcarcinoma. Small like the pox. And we have grown closer in undeath; I love my home so much.

I eat the child with relish; I suppose I am leader here now, at least nominally, and myneighbors allow me the youngest flesh. I look up at our sky, blood running down my chin and thinkof nothing at all. I only feel the breeze on my dead skin, taste the fresh gray matter slick in mymouth, hear the screams of the dying American.

# # #When it rains we dance. An Iroquois neighbor of mine has an old tomahawk and he throws

it up in the air and catches it, screaming, and I roar in joy at him, stamping my bare black feet intothe mud. I have hauled a generator out here into the field and my wife has turned on the Christmaslights under the tarpaulin. We drink wine laced with blood and fry the brains with garlic and paprika.All my senses are so rich now. The only drawback of my state is the sexual dysfunction, if youcould call it that. It sometimes takes me hours to get hard. But the orgasm, it too is sweeter, and Icum in black.

“We should raise this child,” my wife said, her teeth sharpened by steel. She always had arich sense of humor.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she,” I said, looking down at the thin blonde corpse. “Skinny, though.”“We’ll fatten her up!”“You always wanted a little girl,” I said. My wife started to cry, and I comforted her in a

tight embrace, licking maggots from her shoulder.# # #

The whole town comes out for it, by the misty water. We stick tiki torches in the ground andJames the Iroquois does a rich-sounding chant in the tongue of his ancestors which fills me willfeelings I cannot describe. I have put my spit into the cranium of the American girl, and sealed upthe hole I ate in her skull with good Lake clay. She is starting to twitch.

We are the province of Lake, the City of Thunder. We are a sound you may yet hear: a sighmixed with a laugh mixed with a scream.

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Sun-Catcher By D.M. Slate

Pale refractions of light shimmer through the tiny sun-catcher as I hold the pendant uptoward the bright sunshine. The thin ornamental glass spins slowly in the breeze, and for an instant,my haggard soul feels at peace. A tiny smile even creeps to the corner of my lips, as I bask in therare light of the flickering sun. For a millisecond, I’m nearly happy.

Without warning, the serenity of the moment is shattered. Goosebumps race down my spineand the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I catch a movement out the corner of myeye from across the abandoned city-street. Holding absolutely still, I listen. The only motion is thedarting of my eyes in one direction, and then the other as I scan the desecrated landscape. I’munable to locate the cause of my unease.

A booming crackle of thunder breaks loose from the thick layer of clouds overhead, sendinga wave of vibrations through the charged atmosphere. Another gusty breeze whips by, and mynostrils flare in response. Inhaling, I breathe in the essence of dusty despair, smelling for potentialsigns of danger. My senses are on high alert. Something’s wrong… I can feel it. Breaking my frozenstance, I swivel slowly, looking behind me, down the endless barren sidewalk. Stupid! I know not toleave my back exposed…what was I thinking? But nothing moves.

My eyes are drawn to a curtain fluttering in the wind through a broken window. The frontdoor of the empty house stands ajar, eerily inviting guests inside. My stomach jitters. Get out ofhere! I dart away from the street, running in between the two nearest houses, placing the sun-catcher in the side pocket of my pants when I come to a stop. Pressing my back flat against the sideof the house, I listen again. Not a single noise echoes in the infinite abyss, other than the windwhispering haunting melodies into my ear. I look up. The familiar blanket of clouds closes in on thegaping hole, cutting off the light of the dying sun, once again.

Heart pounding within my chest, I creep back toward the street. Peeking around the cornerof the house, I scan the horizon. No movements. Stay calm… don’t panic. Keep your head onstraight. Adrenaline courses through my veins, heightening my paranoia. Something doesn’t feelright--and by now, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. Get home! I hesitate for just another second...and then my ears pick up the noise.

My heart seizes in fear at the low distant grumble. My stomach drops, and a cold sweatbreaks out upon my forehead. The sound is clearly evident, now. It’s a vehicle. The scouts areout…I have to hide! Whipping my head from side to side, I search for a hiding spot. The sound ofthe engine grows louder, prompting my feet into erratic motion. Sprinting up the steps of the nearesthouse, I steal a glance back over my shoulder. The vehicle is coming.

Bursting through the threshold, I let the broken door swing wildly in my wake. Runningblindly through the unfamiliar house, I search the long hallway for a bedroom or closet to hide in. Ipass a staircase, glancing at it for a second. No, don’t get caught upstairs… you can’t jump from oneof those windows! The thought is almost second nature by now. I race onward, dashing into alaundry room, where I slam the door closed behind me.

For the first time since entering the house, I listen again. Creeping over to the shatteredwindow, I strain my ears, hoping to pick up any sounds. The thundering echo of my heartbeatresonates loudly in my ears, making it difficult to hear. Maybe they turned and went down adifferent street… The optimistic thought is dashed as I hear a car door slam, followed by a man’svoice.

“I know I saw something moving over here. Check all of the houses… we need to eat.”Oh no! What do I do? Every possible alternative bombards my brain, but in the end, I know

that I must stay and hide. Running isn’t an option. Multiple sets of footsteps indicate there are atleast four scouts, all men. There’s no way that I can fight them off. Frantically, my eyes scan thelaundry room. I fling the dryer open, fully intending to cram myself in and hide--but I stop short atthe sight.

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Generation Sorrow By J.B. Ronan

The bedroom smelled like prisoner neglect—sweat, urine, and fear mingled until the airbecame thick and difficult to breathe. Dr. Marissa Strong stood at the threshold of the mess, theback of her hand in front of her nose until she grew adjusted to the onslaught of stench and couldsteel herself against what was coming, clutching her clip board against her chest.

It was a scene she had become witness to over a thousand times in her career: a life-shattering event over and over again, disaster after disaster, without any way to stop it. All shecould do was watch, sympathize, and take the children she found twisted beyond recognition tohomes where they would be cared for until they perished from illness, neglect, or suicide—whichever came first. Time was of the essence. The government extermination squads were surelyclose behind.

“Jenefee Factis?” Dr. Strong called out, finally taking her hand away from her face to bravethe wall of filth.

There was no answer. There usually never was. It was hard not to feel emotion during suchintense moments of contact. Parents of those children afflicted usually ran away screaming.Sometimes they were thoughtful enough to call the authorities to have their children picked up andremoved before continuing their lives alone, but most of the time, as in the case before her, they justabandoned the home and their parental responsibilities all together.

“Jenefee, my name is Dr. Marissa Strong. I specialize in cases like yours.” She paused for aresponse, but received none. “I can help you, but you have to let me in.”

There was a grunt, faint but there, in the far corner across the room.Dr. Strong took a step and hesitated, glancing around one last time before making her way

across the perilous ankle-deep sea of clothes, soiled blankets, rotting food and packaging, feces, andbroken dolls. It was ironic to note that the room was in transition from the fairy princess pink andwhite to the rock star magazine pictures and clippings of pre-teen-hood. The toys came from thedepths of the white slat closets, put away at one point to make room for change and now draggedout again from desperation to return.

Torturous emotion radiated from the small, crumpled figure in the far corner, wrapped indark-blue bed sheets that seemed oddly out of place. It was hard to make out how far along thechange was. Judging by the state of the room and the depth of the withdrawal, Jenefee had beenalone for at least a week, maybe longer.

Dr. Strong shuffled around the bed trying to keep her balance and not think about where shewas stepping. The window was covered with a comforter nailed to the wall, but delicate, lacycurtains peeked through the left side of it. The only light in the room came from the hallway and Dr.Strong wished she had brought a flashlight.

“Jenefee, honey, talk to me. Are you okay?”A halo of garbage-free carpet surrounded Jenefee. At least there was some minute shred of

near-humanity left in her.Dr. Strong shoved some empty pasta bags and slimy apple cores over with a foot and sat

down next to her, pretending she didn’t see the moldy, half-empty bag of pinto beans swarmingwith white maggots and tiny, narrow brown moths. Jenefee’s breathing was rough and labored,which was to be expected. The changes in the facial structure are difficult to get used to right away.

A flicker of rage passed hot through the doctor’s blood, igniting hatred for the world and thefate of those like her new patient beside her, but she had to quell it before it got out of hand. It wasdifficult to manage under such circumstances, but she had a talent that kept her employed duringthese hard economic times—the only doctor in the state that could reach kids like Jenefee, to givethem some hope that with a lot of effort, things might not be so bad after all.

“Jenefee, honey, I’m here to talk to you about what happened, what these changes are.You’re going through a transformation. Lots of children your age go through it. It’s no one’s fault.”

The lump of wrapped blankets sat upright and fell away a bit, revealing the girl beneaththem, her thin white hand trembling over her face. “I-I’m a monster.”

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My Pretty Pony By Alan Loewen

It was a given that when humanity made breakthroughs in genetic engineering and artificialwombs, our civilization would end in the insidious hell of a bioengineered microbe. I sometimeswonder in the Hour of the Rat, those early morning hours when my thoughts come out and gnaw onme, if we might have been better off?

When Hasbro released their first line of genetically-engineered, sentient ponies, how couldwe have known the Apocalypse was already upon us? Though there were the scientists whomuttered about ethics and fundamentalists who blathered on about souls and blasphemy, thechildren of the industrial nations cried out with one voice for these new novel companions.

And what companions they have proved to be! Equipped with all the strengths of thesanguine-melancholic personality without any of the inherent weaknesses, the ponies lavished uponour children unconditional love and joy. Life for young ones became an ongoing innocent adventurewith the most perfect of friends.

Little did we care when adults began purchasing ponies for the elderly as companions, nordid we see any danger when normal, healthy adults started buying them for themselves.

Why not? They were the perfect companions to whom you could confess your deepest fears,your darkest secrets, and all they returned was unconditional acceptance. The counseling andtherapy industry took a huge hit almost immediately.

And then we learned the terrible truth of what Hasbro had done to us. To protect theseequine innocents from the depraved and the monstrous, the ponies had been genetically engineeredto produce pheromones that would trigger an intense, overwhelming maternal or paternal responseto those who came within a few feet of them. To touch them was to immediately love them with allthe sincere and protective fervor the human heart could be capable of mustering.

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Unleashed By Stephanie Smith

Mark Donovan forced his weary legs through the snow-covered lot, side by side with hisgirlfriend, Alyssa. He had promised to show her the place. He never promised an explanation.

“We’re here,” he said, and pointed a shaky finger at a rusty sign that said FANTASY LANDin blood red letters. Beneath that a cartoonish clown -- one who would make even Pennywiseshudder -- directed them to the remnants of a wrought-iron gate. In the center of the gate stood twowhite wooden ticket booths.

“So this is where you went when you were a kid, huh?” Alyssa asked. They had been datingfor almost two years and she still only knew a fraction of his haunted past. “I didn’t thinkPennsylvania got earthquakes of that magnitude.”

“We don’t.”“Looks spooky now.”“You don’t know the half of it,” Mark said and paused. Spectral, tortured screams sliced

through his brain like a machete cutting through thick brush. He could almost smell the dampstench of blood in the air, splattering the sky that darkened his childhood. It all left him with aneternal case of nightmares--not to mention countless hours of therapy--and the lies about what reallyhappened that day.

“So are we going to go in or did you bring me here for nothing?”Alyssa shivered through her black wool coat. Their breath was visible in the bleak February

air.Mark put his arm around her and pulled her in close.“Yeah,” he said beneath trembling breaths.A gust of wind howled through Mark’s ears as he guided Alyssa through the snow,

questioning what in God’s name he was doing here. He thought he had the past behind him. Buthere he was, back in his hometown, visiting old ghosts.

Very little remained of Fantasy Land. Nothing more than rubble and ride cars coul be seenprotruding from the snow.

“They bulldozed the wooden roller coaster into the ground,” Mark said as he gave Alyssathe grand tour. “Someone torched it a couple years after…well…”

He fell into silence, tasting bile sliding up and down his throat.“Such desolation,” Alyssa observed and drew closer to Mark as his head bobbed slowly up

and down like a buoy in the water.He stopped suddenly. Before them stood a large, rusty Ferris wheel creaking in the snow.“This is all that’s left,” Mark said. “And this is where it began…”“Mark, are you all right?”Alyssa’s voice grew faint as bone-chilling screams invaded Mark’s memories. Louder and

louder until he was but a boy again, sitting on the Ferris wheel and waving to his mom below.# # #

It was the summer of 1990 in the sleepy town of Woodsville, Pennsylvania. Mark was nineand the evening itself was young. An infectious wave of shrill laughter and cries swept throughFantasy Land. Children and adults soaked in the smells of cotton candy and fried food.

Fantasy Land was a local amusement park tucked away in the mountains past several scenicroads. It was a nice place with plenty of shade from the summer sun, a train that took touristsaround the whole park, entertainment, a plethora of food stands, and the usual rides. Something foreveryone, as they say.

Mark and his family visited at least twice a summer, including the eve before Labor Day.That summer was no different. If only Mark knew his life would be changed forever, that

this was the last time he’d ever ride a Ferris wheel or the merry-go-round, or any ride, for thatmatter.

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The 15th of December By Brian M. Milton

The 15th of December. Norwich. Not the place you want to be when the apocalypse comescalling.

People may be dropping dead in the streets. An unearthly hush may be settling over thetown as the traffic halts. The fog may be rolling in off the fens like something from a Stephen Kingnovel. But the Christmas tunes go on.

# # #I wouldn’t normally drink in a Frankie and Benny’s. But the Wetherspoons had a mini riot

when the news came out and is no longer a pleasant drinking establishment. In fact, I wouldn’tnormally drink in here at all, even if the news were better. But I am away from home.

Working.I often thought there was nothing worse, nothing more soul destroying, than that point in a

business trip where you find yourself sat, alone but for a book, in a plastic chain restaurant in aprovincial town at the far end of a road you have previously only ever heard about from radio travelreports. You sit there, slowly twiddling your generic pasta dish that you can find identically in anyother plastic chain restaurant in any other plastic chain town in Britain, and take peeks over yourbook at the other tables of single business people, and realise that no matter how sad, pathetic,downtrodden and defeated they look, you look no better. Possibly worse.

I have often melodramatically thought there was no way life could get more depressing thanthis. Unless possibly I started to sing along to the music they play over these displays of wretchedhell.

Today life got worse. But I still have to listen to that horrible music.# # #

Everyone has seen the news over the last few weeks. People in paper suits walkingmenacingly. Scared foreigners in masks pleading at hospital tents. All very Swine Flu or Ebola. Wehave seen disease scares like it before. I, my friends, professional doubters on the internet. Wethought we knew how this sort of thing played out, so no one was ready for the announcement ofthe incubation period. Or the mortality rate.

Then to top it off by saying the Queen had died.Who has time for a coronation?

# # #Oh, brilliant. “Stop the Cavalry” by Jona Lewie has just come on. One I actually used to like

before today. We all wish we were at home for Christmas, Mr. Lewie, now why don’t you just“Dum a dum dum” off and let me get this down.

# # #I was in my hotel when it came on the news. It was obvious something was up when all my

meetings at the County Council had been cancelled. I don’t have the most important of jobs andoften the customer would much rather be doing something else. But this was clearly more than theusual snub.

There were hushed phone calls, strained looks, and then, just before lunch, I was told toleave. I returned to my hotel, unsure what to do with myself. But the customer had agreed to pay formy accommodation for the next two nights. So I planned on a wee doze, catch up on some emailsfrom work, and then out to enjoy the dubious pleasures of Norwich two weeks before Christmas.

Then, just when I had decided to make the best of it, the bottom fell out of the world.

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Til Death do us Part By C.M. Saunders

He was going to have to eat Margaret soon. That much was obvious. There was no food left,the cupboards were bare. Husband and wife meant nothing when your very survival was at stake. Ofcourse, everyone likes to think that they would sacrifice themselves – lay themselves down to give aloved one the gift of life. But would they really? Would you?

He would do it quickly. He owed her that much. He would hit her over the head withsomething hard and heavy, or smother her with a pillow as she slept. She was so frail these days hehad an idea that it wouldn’t take much. Death would be a blessed relief from the ongoing agony ofwhat their life had become, and it was only going to get worse now that the food was gone and thedarkness was all around them.

Ronald remembered how the story had broken. He and Margaret had just returned homefrom doing the weekly shop. Since retirement they had taken to doing their shopping on a Tuesdaymorning to avoid the crowds, and if they had known that would be the last time they would ever seethe inside of a supermarket, they would surely have stocked up on some more non-perishables. Thatmorning they turned on the television to watch the end of Richard and Judy and instead saw anewsflash. People were rioting in London and Birmingham, the National Guard had been mobilized,and shots had been fired to restore order. It hadn’t worked. Instead of being quashed, soon therioting had spread to other cities--Glasgow, Newcastle, Manchester, Nottingham, Liverpool, Cardiff.By dinner time it seemed the whole country was being consumed by violence. Shaky camerafootage taken by news crews or sent in by people who had captured events on their mobile phonesshowed buildings being set alight, shops looted, and people being shot, stabbed, and beaten to deathin the streets. One memorable snippet showed blood running down a drain like dirty rain water.

Ronald and Margaret watched the drama unfold on their television set. At first it didn’t seemreal to them. It was about as real as a Hollywood movie. The wave of violence was what washappening to other people in other places, not them in their little council flat just outside Romsey.But sometime on Wednesday afternoon they heard the first commotion outside. A man wasscreaming, pleading with someone to please stop, please leave him alone. Then the screams wereabruptly cut short. That brought everything home with sickening clarity, and Ronald and Margaretbarricaded the front door shut and drew the heavy brown curtains against the outside world.

At that time they were thankful they lived on the top floor of the tower block. It seemed tosegregate them from those below, wallowing in twenty-first century filth and decadence. Up herethey were safe, protected. Every television channel was now completely devoted to the surge ofviolence sweeping the country. Chat shows chatted about it, documentaries documented it, analystsanalysed it. They could show what was happening, but for all the talking, nobody had the faintestidea why or how it was happening. After the first eruptions, the so-called experts blamed socialunrest and societal discontent, probably compounded by the usual things--racial tension, culturaldifferences, inflation, unemployment. Then gradually, horrifyingly, it became clear that there wasfar more to the outbreak than mere social problems.

The people on television, the ones doing the damage, looked different somehow. Their eyeswere wide, their faces contorted with rage. They drooled saliva and didn’t notice, or if they noticedthey didn’t care. It was almost as if something had stripped away all the finer points of humanity,leaving them with just the most basic survival instincts. Even more disconcerting was the fact thatwhen they got injured, they appeared to feel no pain. Ronald saw people shot, saw them hit the floor,and then get back to their feet looking dazed and even more pissed off but otherwise suffering noill-effects. One guy somehow got one of his arms lopped off, yet it didn’t seem to faze him one littlebit. He went charging into a heaving throng of people outside a shopping centre, waving a kitchenknife indiscriminately with his good hand. Another piece of film, definitely not for younger viewers,showed an old lady get pushed into a road where a military vehicle ran over her legs.

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Yellow By Matt Brolly

Through her goggles, Melissa saw a flicker of flame. It appeared metres from the island’sshoreline, as if the sea were on fire. The flame grew and Melissa ran out of the metallic shack. Shestumbled in the darkness across the jagged pebbles of the beach. The fire was approaching. Shemoved towards the heat and made out the shape of a rowing boat. The figure inside was screaming,its body engulfed in maroon and orange flames.

“Jump in the water,” she urged, her words muffled by her mask. The figure jumped from theboat onto the shoreline. It ran across the pebbles, its wild arms spiralling in contorted patterns. Itcrumpled in a heap as the fire consumed its flesh. Melissa turned away, the stench of burning fleshmaking her nauseous. She ran to the sea and paddled in after the rowing boat. The water soaked hermakeshift protective suit, at first soothing then making her shiver. She dragged the vessel up thebeach, one of the oars snagging the material on her arm. Boat secured, she made her way back tothe shack. She needed to repair the rip in her clothing. Tears dripped down her masked face as shethought about how easily she had left the burning figure, all for the sake of a small rowing boat.

She bandaged the tear in her clothing with black duct tape, took off the mask, and gulped atanother bottle of water. There was no breeze to alleviate the heat. Sweat dripped off her body,soaking the clothes which covered her from head to toe. Neil opened his eyes as he’d done everythirty minutes for the last two days, his eyeballs the same dull yellow. Melissa checked her laptopagain for messages. The internet was still working, though no major website had been updated inover three days. Her only source of news was through the social networks which were runningwithout censure. Everywhere was the same.

She packed a rucksack with a spare safety suit and the rest of the sedatives. Neil would havetold her to leave him if he could still speak. She sat next to him, the child within her kicking herinsides in time to her wild breathing. “We’ve got a chance now, little baby,” she said.

When her breathing returned to normal, she bent her knees and hoisted Neil in a fireman’slift. “You’re going on a diet when this is over,” she warned him. She managed to drag him out ofthe shack before collapsing. She grunted as she tried to lift him again, her stretched limbs on fire.“Damn it, Neil, you lump.” She tried again, but he was too heavy. She began punching him in thebody, her blows absorbed by the soft flesh of her husband. “Right,” she said and ran to the boat. Shedumped her bag and returned to her husband.

“This is your own fault,” she warned him, grabbing him under the arms. Dragging himdown the stony beach, she noticed the puncture in his neck where the insect had bitten him. He’donly taken his hood off for a second. They’d agreed sedation was the only option. “Leave me if youhave to,” he’d said. She’d promised. “But I don’t have to yet,” she told him now.

She dumped him in the centre of the boat and dragged it towards the sea, doing her best toignore the burnt corpse which lay yards away. It was a high tide which would save a hundred-yarddrag through the mud. She let the gentle waves guide the boat towards the mainland, using the oarsto push away the suicide bodies which littered the water. The darkness swallowed the smoke, givingthe flames on the other side of the water an unreal beauty. They billowed across the sea-facingbuildings, a semi-circle of golden light.

It was morning when they reached the shore. She pulled the boat onto the beach and pulledher husband out of the vessel. “Now what?” she asked him. Her husband flashed his yellow eyes.“You know nothing,” she said.

It was not the same town she’d left two weeks ago when the first report had come in fromIndia. There had been a mild concern then but routines had stayed the same. Now the town wasalmost desolate. The crude seaside buildings – the garish amusement arcades, and cheap bed andbreakfasts - were either abandoned or gutted by fire. The occasional person walked along thepromenade either covered with makeshift protection or, already bitten, carrying the suicide look.

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