I wrote this as an exercise...

So, I recently replayed several titles in the Zelda series, and one of the best is Link to the Past, the Super Nintendo version of the classic game. This game is beautifully set up - colourful, vibrant, and with intense and exciting gameplay. Replaying it was like opening a window to my childhood and stepping through it; like few things really can, the sounds and sights that dominated my Christmas and after back in 1989 really took me back.


So I was thinking about it, and imagining one of the more climactic scenes, when Link enters the Lost Woods to reclaim the Master Sword, and what that might have been like "rein-acted" using the new information about the series. Also, I was bored at work. Story below the jump.

Fiction: alternate Civil War story

I started this as a story some time ago, and as always, I pick and prod at such things. This is based on the idea of a different outcome to the American Civil War - one where the British become involved on the side of the Confederacy. Although I've only written 11,000 words so far, I did some extensive backstory work that isn't directly relevant to the action. So far, what I have written is one of my favourite pieces of fiction I've ever put to paper. I hope to one day write more on it, and I hope you enjoy what I have so far written. An excerpt, a link, and more detail below the jump.

A Fated Meeting

It had been two years since the abbot died. Two years for the church in this village to lie empty. The heavy iron key to the door had difficulty turning, and if it wasn't for my careful and slow application of strength, I might have snapped it in the tumblers. It opened, reluctantly in the end, and I got my first look inside the small building.

It was stout; a stone base, wood walls, and a thatch roof made it rather more luxurious than many of the near homes. However, it was not a building of luxury. Decay filled my nostrils when I looked inside, and what sunlight existed on the gray Derbyshire day failed to penetrate the two filth-covered windows. I stepped inside, and immediately my first thoughts turned to how long it was going to take to make this house of God Godly again. A little laugh passed my lips; why should I care?

There was room inside for maybe fifty people, comfortably; no doubt double that. The donkey and cart I'd brought with me waited both outside as I stepped into the little church. A scurry answered the sound of nails on stone; I'd disturbed some number of rats or other rodents, without doubt. Yet another problem to worry about.

After a few moments of looking about, my eyes began to adjust to the lack of light inside. The back wall of the church had once had two tapestries hang down. I could still see the Cross inside of them each, but the bright colours were faded and holes gaped where moths had eaten away the cloth. The Cross nailed to the back wall of the church wasn't in bad shape, however; the floor was brown with rat shit.

My tongue touched the top of my mouth and clicked against it; a displeased noise I picked up from Brother Francois some years ago. He made that noise often; he was very usually displeased with the world, and especially the men he had to share his life with. But that is what made him an excellent teacher and Master of the Order – he demanded the best, and very often got it.

I am not so young as I was when I came to Derbyshire, and at the time I was not young either, and perhaps my hearing was vanishing even then, for when I turned around, I was surprised by the form shadowing the doorway. Lean, tall, with a faint hunch about the neck, someone was waiting to great the Friar come from London to see to the flock of Derbyshire. This fellow looked probably as unpleasant as I did about the smell attributable to two years of rats; his nose was wrinkled up and the corner of his lips twisted wryly. Unlike many of the men I'd met in the English countryside of late, this fellow was clean-shaven. Most wore facial hair of some form, but not this man.

“Might we talk outside, Friar?” he asked in English. At the time, my grip on the tongue wasn't strong enough to reply fluently, but I understood well enough. My head dipped into an acquiescent nod, and I stepped out of the building after his lead. Again, the day wasn't so bright, though the threatened rain had not fallen of yet, but it was well enough to let me see the man in better detail.

I'd thought he was lean at first, almost hungry looking, but the light brought things into better detail. He wore a brown tunic, almost black, and that had disguised some of his form. Yes, his torso was slim, or slim enough for his height, but both of his arm were densely muscled. His legs, too, looked strong. Not thick or fat, but more than serviceable to run for a goodly length of time. There was a wicked scar over his chin, from just below the left ear to two inches before his chin, and perhaps this went a long way towards explaining why he shaved.

Over his shoulders he wore a cloak, waxed against the rain ponderous in the air, but the sides were tucked back over his shoulders, and I could see that he went armed. Most did, and still do, I imagine (though I rarely see outsiders these days), but the usual means of arms were a long knife or a stout club. This fellow wore a sword and dagger on his left hip, and a thick quarterstaff rested on the wall outside of the church. He also had on a cuirass of hardened leather that had obviously seen hard use; a series of pits and gouges were evident to even the casual glimpse of the untrained eye, and my eyes are not untrained nor casual in such things.

He began to speak in English. Forgive me, as I am paraphrasing what he said, but it was something to the lines of, “It's good to see a man of God come back to His house, Friar. The Church's presence was missed. These are sad times, and the folk of Derby could use a prayer from one such as yourself, from time to time.”

“English,” I started, and then I held up a hand, taking a second to close my eyes and gather my thoughts, to put together the words I needed. “My English is new. Please to forgive,” I began, but then he smiled and switched over to French.

“Is this better, mon frère?” he asked. I nodded, and then he continued, as if I hadn't interrupted him at all, “I'm sorry if I startled you earlier, but I had heard you were coming and wanted to see you for myself. The last cleric here was someone who was poorly received by the locals.”

“I was not aware my arrival was announced,” I said in return. Years and years of training to keep my face impassive may have worked, for the stranger quirked an eyebrow and laughed to me.

“It wasn't, but I hear things many people do not. I'm a funny fellow that way.” His eyes were bright blue, like a Saxon's might have been when Hengist came to the island, but they were juxtaposed by hair that was half red, half blond. They twinkled with restrained glee – the fellow had me at a disadvantage, and I knew, all of a sudden, that he knew rather more than he was letting on. “But you can hear a lot from this person or that person about a man, and not know a thing about him, if you understand my meaning.”

Yes, he was a little infuriating, but he was also completely right. I'd found that out more than once in my life. My head tilted forward in a single nod before lifting. “You are, of course, correct, monsieur. I hope that the words you've heard about me were ones describing a kind and humble man, and that I have so far lived up to them.”

“Mon frère, I can assure you, I heard that you are a humble and kind man. But that is not all I heard, and I will admit, I had to wonder why a simple monk come to serve God in peaceful England brought with him two heavy chests locked with Arabian locks. So I think, my dear Friar, that the words I heard on you were mostly true. That you have some skeletons locked in that trunk. Or perhaps bits of steel that you can't forget and don't necessarily want to remember.”

The man with reddish-blond hair and bright blue eyes had caught me unawares. Yes, I had more luggage, but knowing the locks were Arabian? Guessing that my mail was secreted inside? And knowing enough to know that I have come here for reasons other than the usual reasons a monk is sent to a small church – that piety isn't why I've come across the known world? This fellow obviously had friends in high places, or ones who know how to listen amongst them.

It must be that my incredulity showed, because the fellow laughed and clapped a hand on my shoulder. He wore a half-glove that covered his palm, and it was of thick leather, like the armour he wore. His fingertips were massively calloused, and I could all but feel their coarseness through my travelling cloak. Again, his hand was strong, his arm powerful. He was still smiling, as he said, “Don't worry, Friar. Your secret is safe with me, and I promise what I've heard was complimentary. As for your reasons for being here, they are truly your own, and I judge no man on what he's done in his past, but for the future he tries to make. It has been good to see you.”

“I,” I began, but the fellow shook his head.

“No time, Friar! When next we meet, I promise you shall join me in my home, and we shall break bread and share honey and ale, but for now I have things to which I must attend. Keep those trunks safe, but don't bury them too deep. Even in peaceful England, it seems, there are times when men must make ready for war. Even men of God,” he said, as he turned, gathering his quarterstaff and sliding his cloak back over his form. The hood raised and the twinkling eyes were shadowed from my sight.

“But, you have me at a disadvantage, sir. How will I know where to go? You didn't even tell me your name!” The rain finally began to fall, in a soft, fine mist that filled the sky. His lips twisted into what I knew was a smile, and he laughed as he turned to head back along the path through the trees. As I had suspected, he walked quick, faster than I could, even in my youth, a score of years ago.

When he spoke he was almost gone into the mist, though I hadn't tried to pursue him, it still took an uncommonly short time for the lean fellow to be gone. His voice carried over the rainy mist that was starting to thicken. “Don't worry about such things. And as for my name? You'll hear what they call me soon enough. Au revoir, mon ami!” he cried, and then he stepped off the path suddenly, into the forest, and was gone.

I didn't do as I had originally intended and bury my chests deep, to be forgotten. Instead I hid them in the small room behind the church I was given, digging them into the earthen floor beneath my cot, and covering them with rushes, so that I could haul them out if needed quick enough, but that it would take a dedicated eye to locate the two inches of protruding wood. I began to clean the Church, and over the next days, people came to visit me. Some stayed and helped, others introduced themselves and then left. It wasn't until I met the blacksmith that I mentioned the mysterious stranger. The fellow guffawed and then looked at me.

“A strange man you must be, dear Friar, if Robin Hood chanced a meeting with you in Derbyshire by daylight,” he said, before going back to driving nails into broken boards as his contribution to the Church.

George Washington's Tea Partiers

Friends, today, I'd like to remind you that the tradition of the left's tax-and-spend politics is not a recent tradition; it is in fact one that true, conservative, freedom-loving Americans have battled for over two centuries. You see, one of the things that George Washington did as President was to raise taxes when he decided to tax several luxury items that he considered distasteful. One of the prime purposes of President Washington's un-American taxation plan (they would have called it socialist but it's over a hundred years before the Communist Manifesto) was to alter the way people in the United States behaved and believed. This clear violation of the 10th Amendment was no more than a shady attempt to usurp states rights, disguising their intentions by telling the people of the United States that the money was needed to pay off the massive "debt" left by the Glorious War of Independence Against the Tyrant George.

A well-known liberal, Washington ignored the will of the people and chose to implement a form of taxation designed to conform behavior to progressive, liberal norms: he taxed whiskey. Like all people who hate freedom, Washington has a set lifestyle he wants Americans to live, and he had illegitimately abused his power this enact the tax. I don't know if you were aware of this, but Washington's Congress had only one party. Do you know what other country only had one party? That's right. Nazi Germany.

Expedition to Undermountain: The Introduction

This passage is the description I gave my online party for the campaign they are about to embark on. I'm placing it here for future reference...and to share with all of you!

The City of Splendors; the Jewel of the Sword Coast; the Lord's City; all of these are nicknames for the independent city of Waterdeep, the largest in the North of Faerun. Built on a natural harbour, surrounded by a heavy wall, dominated by Mount Waterdeep and the castle above it, but protected most importantly by its famous inhabitants, Waterdeep is a city that can spawn a thousand and more adventures, without ever straying from the protection of its walls.

The city is rules by the mysterious Lords of Waterdeep, a cadre of sixteen rulers who, save one, rule in secret. The Open Lord of Waterdeep speaks for the Lords in all things, including foreign diplomacy; the current Open Lord is Piergerion the Paladinson, a famous holy knight who has been Open Lord for quite a long time. The other Lords appear, always, hooded, cloaked, and masked, and look like uniformly similar humans in splendid purple regalia. Though the names of the Lords are officially unknown, many whisper names like Mirt the Moneylender, Texter, and until recently, Khelban "Blackstaff" Arunsun, who removed his helm at a Lord's Dinner and announced his retirement as a secret Lord.

Nano 2009: Chapter 1

Moving quietly, the five men of the assault squad crept up to the wall made of sand-bricks, crouching down for cover behind it. A sixth man was already there, and he was peering through a long, slim tube that protruded above the wall, which was just over waist height. Pitching his voice low, the leader of the squad leaned in and whispered, “Report.”

“Activity is as previously described, sir,” the scout said. The captain nodded, and he made a hand motion. Immediately the group split into two; the scout and another soldier moving with the captain to the left, the other three heading around the wall to the right.

Another hand motion, and all of the soldiers lowered down their night vision goggles, engaging them, flooding their vision with green lights that grew brighter as they detected a form of heat. The three-story building before the soldiers was made of the same bricks as the wall, and as a result, was quite good at insulating heat, revealing little of the Taliban mujahideen inside. However, the two on the roof were quite thoroughly revealed to the captain’s eye.

The scout was already lowering his rifle and taking careful aim, concealed by the shadows of the building and his carefully patterned desert camouflage. The captain knew that one of the other soldiers would be doing the same. After a few seconds, both the bodies on the roof crumpled noiselessly.

Afterwards, the captain moved quickly up to the building itself, his soldiers following. The other group of men slipped around to the rear entrance, both snipers leaving the rifles behind and picking up suppressed sub machine guns. The captain reached out and carefully tried the doorknob, but found it locked. He attached a tiny, shaped charge to the latch and then waited for a moment.

“Captain, we’re prepared to breach,” a voice whispered into his ear, through the small microphone there. He nodded and whispered back, softly.

“Ten seconds,” he responded.

He counted to ten, slowly, and then pressed the small button for the shape charge. There was a soft, dull thud, and the door creaked open. The captain’s size ten boot kicked it hard, and it flew open. He and the other two men rushed into the door. There was no power to the building, casting most of it in shadow. The suppressors emitted dull whomps as the soldiers shot the several men in the room, rapidly, before any of them could grasp for their AK-47s or other weapons.

After a few seconds the other assaulters joined up with the soldiers in the front room. “All clear, captain,” the Welshman leading that group reported.

“Take your group upstairs. We’ll take the basement.” The Welsh sergeant nodded and moved to the stairs up, whilst the captain headed to the stairs down. He led his two followers down, slowly, making sure the snout of his MP5 was pointed forward.

The loud noise of an AK-47 reverbrated from above, and the captain paused, hoping his soldiers were alright. Then he kicked open the door before him and charged through, sending small spurts of 9mm rounds at the guards in the room, men easily identified by the larger robes they wore. Lifting up his night vision, the captain moved to the small cells set in the walls.

Seven women and one man were locked in the tiny cells. The women had instinctively curled away from the cage with the sudden noise of the door opening and the onset of violence; the one man looked unconscious. Moving in close to the cages, the captain whispered softly to the prisoners. “Stand back…move him away from the door.” The captain and one of the other soldiers attached more of the tiny explosive charges to the locks on the cages and moved back. After a nod, both men detonated their small charges, causing the cage doors to swing open with a loud squeak.

“There you are, lass, it’ll be alright now,” the captain said. The nearby woman recoiled a hint, for a moment, but the quiet Scottish brogue of the leader seemed to calm her a bit. He reached out for her hand, and she got up, slowly, shuddering as she rose. He smiled to her. “Come with us, lass, and we'll have you kindly on your way.”

One of the soldiers moved to help pick up the unconscious man. His face was thrown into relief for the first time as the captain removed his nightvision, revealing how badly beaten and broken the fellow's face was. He didn't wince, but he moved to usher the others towards the stairs.

The radio crackled for a moment. “Sir, the rooftop is clear. Evac choppers are on the way.”

“Understood. We're on our way.” The women shuffled up the stairs after one of the captain's men, followed by the two people supporting the unconscious, well-abused male prisoner. The captain went last, following them up the three steps of stairs to the top floor, where the other soldiers met up with the prisoners, assisting them up the ladder to the roof.

A helicopter was moving in slowly towards the roof, which was fairly wide and open. The soldiers had the prisoners hide on the edge as the chopper was waved in by one of the men, whilst the others moved to the various edges, watching carefully.

It was difficult to hear over the whir of the chopper, but after a moment, one of the soldiers turned his head, and called out, loudly, “Trucks, sir! Two trucks coming in!” The captain scurried to the edge indicated by the lookout, hefting up his MP5 as he peeked over the small lip on the side of the building.

“Sergeant, get those people on that chopper!” he ordered the Welshman. “Everyone else, suppressing fire on those vehicles!” Both of the trucks were Toyotas, stripped down and with a heavy machine gun mounted, and both guns started to fire their thick rounds after they realized they'd been spotted.

Sand bricks exploded as .50 calibur shells smashed through them, while the soldiers returned fire, their much lighter weapons spurting down from atop the building. Their fire was far more accurate, and one of the first rounds took out one of the gunners. Taliban warriors spread out from the trucks, holding up Kalashnikovs, firing them randomly at the soldiers on the rooftop.

“Sir!” came the voice of the Welsh sergeant. “Time to go!” The captain waved away the other soldiers, standing up and emptying his clip at the enemy, turning to dash for the helicopter, as the side of the building exploded. The next thing he knew, one of his soldiers was pulling the captain into the side of the helicopter, holding his body in as the aircraft pulled away from the crumbling brick building before another RPG round lashed out through the air.

“Hold on, sir! You're gonna be fine!” someone said. The captain noticed pressure around his stomach, and looked down. His nightvision goggles were gone, and he could see thick liquid seeping out around someone's palm. Moving hurt, and he tried to move his arm, only to feel a stabbing pain just below his elbow. Something was broken.

A needle punctured his thigh as one of the soldiers hit him with a suchet, and immediately the captain felt the pain subside. The sensation of leaving his body slowly took hold, and after a few more moments of morphine-induced delight, he lost consciousness. The helicopter flew on.

Character musing: Kaeso Caemilius Tetricus

Nobody will remember this post from a very long time ago. But I am thinking that if I go for NaNo this year, that this might be the route to take. I've only pondered a little bit more beyond this in specifics (including designing the heroic main character, Captain Brigand MacIntyre), so I think it might be a good idea to start fleshing out characters and ideas.

The concept for this vampire novel I want to write is to break away from the ridiculous notion of vampires I see taking over the world of fiction. I should make it known that I absolutely hate, completely despise the entire concept of vampires. Drinking the blood of a human being for sustenance is revolting, especially when most people make vampire-creation into a choice made by humans. It's the same choice made by cannibals. You wouldn't approve of Jeffery Dahlmer, would you?

That's how I came along my line of thought: vampires are monsters, pure and simple. They shouldn't be sexy. They shouldn't sparkle and be played by Robert Pattinson. They should be filthy, rotting, attempting against all hope to cling to the shreds of humanity left as they age and pass beyond their intended time, stealing life from humans for the purpose of greedily extending their faint clasp on what was once important to them. They should be despised.

So I came up with the concept of vampirism as some form of disease. Indeed, it lengthens the lifespan of a human, and makes them stronger, quicker, higher visual acuity and strengthened scent capacity. A lethal creature that needs to feed and eat human blood to survive and maintain the unnaturally lengthened lifespan. But then I asked myself the vital question: how would humans behave in this situation?

Vampire novels love to portray vampires as these gentlemen types who's unnaturally long lives has little to no effect on their psyche, other than making them exceptionally suave and attractive. My thought to this is...have you met someone who's 80 years old? Most of them are cranky and infirm. If you took an old person and shot them into a functioning body their personality traits would remain the same. Our psyche ages alongside our body, not as a function of it.

I admit that expanding the life of an individual dramatically would surely expand the limits of a person's mental capacity for existence, but the simple fact is that human society's dynamic nature would exceed the ability of the extended individual to encompass change. And I don't mean just in today's world. Imagine if you lived in Hamburg in 1100 AD and lived for 500 years. You'd live through the evolution of the Holy Roman Empire, the foundation of the Hanseatic League, a switch in religion, fires, executions, rebellions, and the like. That would be more exacerbated in recent years - a vampire born in 1850 but alive today would see a stunning period of change.

Language evolves and alters. Some areas of the world have seen several popular languages wash through over the years. Consider Malta, which since 300 AD has belonged to the Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Aragonese, Knights of Malta, French, British, and themselves, each with their own culture and languages. How could an old mind keep up with those changes? No, I think that this would cause vampire-types to slowly creep into insanity.

Thus, vampires would become predatory creatures, marking out areas progressively further away from human civilization and preying on what poor souls tend to wander into their area of dominance. The unfortunate side-effect of occasionally creating another vampire would be often avoided by ensuring all victims were fully slain; only a vampire forced to flee from half-a-meal would create another vampire, simply because no creature wants to create a being that would compete for its feeding grounds.

As a result, the amount of vampires spawning would be relative - a single, youthful vampire would create companion creatures for a period of time up to a hundred, hundred and fifty years; beyond that period the sense of detachment would arrive, and the being would leave major city centres, heading away from the dangerous and changing population to the relative obscurity of the countryside. A removal from all human contact would accelerate the depths of insanity the vampire feels, and even if it has surviving companion vampires, after some decades or centuries it would turn on them, out of frustration and a desire to not share scarce food.

There would be exceptions to this rule, and they would be the most (or least) dangerous of vampires, and exceedingly rare. And that is where I came up with the idea for the bad guy in this vampire novel - one of the rare vampires capable of forcing his mind to work along with the varying changes in human society, capable of remaining blended with it.

Naturally, I decided to make him quite old, and those who know me will not be surprised when I chose to make him a Roman, originally. I prefer "C" names, so his common use name will start with that. Then we started to research Roman names. Wikipedia is a wonderful thing.

Starting with the praenomen, which would be the bad guy's personal name, whom only his closest associates would use. There are only a small handful of praenomina to choose from. I immediately ruled out Caius/Gaius, as they are basically the same and also I don't want this man to be related to other famous characters in history (one Gaius Julius Caesar, for instance). I like Kaeso, Tiberius, and Tullus, but I think I shall go with the first.

The nomen is the name of the gens, the political grouping and family alliance into which Kaeso was born. Usually people address someone by their nomen, or their nomen and cognomen if two of the same gens are in the same discussion or somehow relevant. This is an important decision for this character. I don't want him to be part of an overly famous family: IE, no Julii, Aemilii, Claudii, Cornelii, et al. A lesser-known gens is more appropriate. Since he will primarily be known by this name, I think this is the "C" name I'll choose. Caemilius has been rattling around in my head for months.

Next comes the cognomen, which is the sub-family within the gens. IE, Gaius Julius Caesar was of the Julii, of the Caesar sub-family within the Julii. I want a T for this, so we'll choose (without actually researching the Camelius gens) Tetricus.

I am of mixed thoughts on an agnomen. Agnomina are given to people well after their birth to describe some part of their life. For instance, Publius Cornelius Scipio was given the agnomen Africanus after conquering Carthage. I almost want *him* to choose his agnomen, or perhaps have an agnomen in mind to use eventually. Like morticus maximus. But I'll leave it open for now.

K. Caemilius Tetricus was born in 89 AD, and grew up during the first part of the Pax Romana - Roman Peace in Europe. Like most young men, he joined the Legions at the age of 16, as a regular soldier. By the age of 24, he was a tribune, having distinguished himself both as a combat soldier and a leader. At age 29, he became a legate, commanding a legion. At age 33, he was slain fighting the Picts north of Hadrian's Wall, or more accurately, where it was being built at the time.

Except that Caemilius was only wounded, and his body stolen from the battlefield by a group of three vampires, who drank from his broken body and left him to die. But he didn't die - he became one of them, he gained immortality and strength and all those amazing features of the vampire. Caemilius was struck by the ferocity of the beasts that had turned him, and how unhuman they had become. Upon realizing what had happened to him (not that the term vampire existed at the time), he realized that he was given a unique gift.

One of the particularly unique things about Caemilius that lent him to eternal life was the fact that he was mostly a sociopath, that years of a hard legionnaire's existence had pretty much stripped away his ability for empathy. At the time where he was turned, he had been quietly planning his next stage of ascent in the Roman hierarchy, with his ultimate goal to become Emperor. Now, that could never happen - he knew that if discovered, he would be hunted to the ends of the earth and destroyed. And when he was eventually assassinated by his soldiers, it would be discovered that he was actually immortal.

So he settled for learning. Caemilius infiltrated the banking families, posing as a cousin or a brother-in-law, and eventually held the pursestrings of the Empire in his hand. And when he tired of that, he slowly plucked the strings free, watching as the Western Empire was toppled by any number of external factors. He learned the ways of the Goths and Visigoths and lived among them; when he became bored, he moved to Constantinople and resumed a debauched, Roman way of life. But he always ensured that he was interested in what came next - he always pushed his mind to remain sharp.

His ability to sense others with the same affliction meant that he met many vampires in their various stages during his first half millennium of existence, and was able to plot out how they developed, and how sudden changes stymied them. He realized how vicious and dangerous they had become, and founded the secret Tetrican Society for the eradication of the "uncivilized beast" sometime around 350 AD, believing that only he had mastered this unique form and that all others were vicious, violent, and disturbed creatures that should be destroyed. Caemilius did most of the work for the Society, setting out the groundwork as to how a vampire's stages develops, and how its violence ebbs and wanes throughout its lifespan, as well as how its humanity falls away.

After watching hundreds of examples go from social beings blessed with eternity to insane monsters feeding on lost travellers, Caemilius's conviction that he was the only being capable of truly existing as an eternal human was shaken when he met another, very sane and even older vampire who had travelled to Europe from Asia with the caravan of Marco Polo. Both men seemed surprised that it could happen, and immediately became friends...for some years. The companionship turned to rivalry as both launched schemes to control the politics and finances of the day, and eventually Caemilius dealt with it in true Roman fashion - he staked his rival in his sleep, sometime in the 16th century. Discovery of the body, staked through the heart, led to the formation of many modern vampire myths.

The Tetrican Society and Caemilius broke paths around 1650, when Caemilius realized that without his partner, he was starting to detach from society. For the first time in hundreds of years he had found someone to relate to, and was suddenly unable to cope. If the Tetrican Society's official goal (destroying every vampire) was reached, he could never have another companion. Though the members of the Society had never known they were founded by the very thing they swore to destroy, Caemilius had always "rejoined" the Society every hundred years to help guide them. No more.

It was around this point that he began to develop his plan to find a new companion. Even working towards this goal seemed enough to keep him sane, to keep his mind attached to the increasingly delicate threads maintaining his cohesion on a daily basis. By the year 2010, he was ready to finally act on this plan.

You didn't think I'd put the plan here, did you?

Robin Hood: Time Commando

"I need the Ultra-Septvember-G!" the man in the green timesuit called, spraying laser pulses from the high density flashrifle from his waist. "We need to hold back the Omega-Bots for forty seven hundred more microns!"

Explosive delta projectiles splattered on the invisible plasma shield the commando was projecting from his utility combat belt, and he returned fire as someone tossed him a large steel and very phallic-looking object. Immediately, he attached it to the quantum power port on the timesuit, and green ultrabolts lashed the enemy Omega-Bots with heady explosive power.

"Robin! The portal's closing! Let's get out of here!" Robin Hood leapt down from the outcropping he occupied, and the Ultra-Septvember-G spurted more death, doom, and dismemberment over the inanimate objects. Backing into the portal, the time commando grunted heavily as the last shot blew apart an Omega-Bot into a thousand sparks of delta-space sparks. The portal closed.

"Good to see you back!" Colonel-General Sir William of Normandy said, as he approached the team that had barely made it back from their near-suicidal mission. "Is the Omicron Particle Reactor destroyed?"

The team's explosives expert, Staff Sgt. Guy Fawkes, nodded. "Aye, sir, we neutralized it to the sub-atomic state in all seven split dimensions. I even focussed the Omicron Ultraradiation into the Trimirror Universe. We won't have to worry about any oversized SpudMechs for some time!" Everyone shared a laugh.

"Glad to hear it, son," General of Normandy said, smacking Fawkes heartily on the back. "Queen Arthur will be pleased as well." It had been King Arthur until about 2 years ago. Gender reassignment was much easier to obtain nowadays. The various members of the team dispersed after a few more pleasantries, toddling back to their individual rest and recovery designate zones for the next twelve thousand sixty microns.

Robin Hood - Major Robert Huntingdon of Loxley - was the leader of an elite squad of Time Commandos, who's job it was to travel the depths and waves of the historical time stream and revert alpha-strands to the prime timeline. His team consisted of the finest warriors throughout English history, who existed somewhere between fact and fiction, using their ambiguous nature to ensure their legend never dies - and so they stay alive. He rested until awoken by a sigma-four alarm code at 0711.

Bursting from his recovery zone, Robin Hood immediately turned to the maintenance quaddroid. "What's the meaning of distrubing my recharge megacycle!" he demanded. The bot couldn't answer, but a man approached quickly. Vice-Time Admiral Frances Drake approached.

"Hood!" he said. "there's been two alpha-strands converge into a betawave on the prime timeline in 1066!"

"Damn!" Robin said. He grabbed his combat utility ultrabelt and buckled it in, following Drake along the corridors of the Timebase. "How long until it resolves into the prime timestream?"

"Mr. Turing and Mr. Newton expect that the time re-alignment will be complete in forty-four hundred microns. Assemble your team, Major Hood. We're go in two hundred seven microns. This is an official sigma-four alarm code - you go in hot, find out who's caused the betawave, dispatch them, and timeport out."

"Yes sir." Hood turned from the Admiral, who strode off to the Command Deck, and grasped his interbase voxcom from his utility strap. "Commando Team Prime-Seven, assemble at the Embarkment Vandeck!"

Each Commando Team had five members. We've already been introduced to two. The third member of Hood's team was the Cultural Interoperative, who's job it was to reinterpret history for the Commando Team. Sub-Lieutenant Boudicca was also a fierce warrior queen in her own right, and made no bones about her desire to lead the Commando Team someday.

Occupying the post of heavy weapons expert was a tall and broadshouldered man named James Douglas, though everyone on the team called him "Corporal Black" after his historical nickname. An unabashed Scot, he had taken a long time to ease into knowing and trusting his English teammates. But there was no man better with a Mark Seven Blaster Destrocannon.

Rounding out the five man team was the team's mobile science expert. Another Scot, but a more trusting one, this fellow was able to adapt to any situation. He could use his enhanced neural delta-interface to make any computer respond in almost any situation. This guy was another James, but his name was James Watt - Lieutenant James Watt.

Fawkes entered as well, and Robin stood on the embarkment preplatform. "Folks, we have an official sigma-four alert. Someone has mixed two alpha-streams and caused a betawave in 1066. As you all know, that's where William the Conqueror..." a cough cut him off. "General The Conqueror became famous. If he dies in the battle, the betawave could alter all history, including our own. We have to succeed.

"We're going in hot and with full commando op-equip. That means we'll all carry standard gear - Mark Five-A unibolters and Type IV lanceguns, plus your special gear. Set your physio-containment shields to full, neutranize your anti-plasma and energy dispersal fields. We'll trust to speed and shock to keep our appearance and weapons from polluting the timeline further. We have...forty one fourteen microns, folks. Get in, locate the betawave origin point, call in the cavalry and we'll put things right. Any questions?"

The team shook their head. "Good. Sychronize your temporal chronometers on my mark....mark! Fire up the time portation exounit!" The portal unit burst into shimmering green and aquamarine, and the five Time Commandos leapt through.

Dystopian Future Story, Random Chapter

Thought I'd post this. It's set in a dystopian future in which the US Constitution is overridden during a period of populace apathy by the Religious Right. And I think this bit is one of my favourite pieces of writing I've ever done.

The day of the vote was the quietest yet. Every now and then a truck passed the bar, but not one soul entered. I stood behind the wooden, polished bar for the entire day, watching the door anxiously, with an ear turned to the news. The danger of internal terrorism, it had been claimed, was why the roads to Washington DC were cordoned off. However, the government had promised the result of this vote would be revealed as soon as possible.

Some people surely had turned to CSPAN only to find the political channel had been deactivated. There was to be no live coverage of this debate, of this vote. It was a day of waiting for most. Some likely mourned, mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters of those whom the violence had already claimed.

But it was not television that broke the news to me. Rather, it was the noise of something in the back room breaking. I had already sent home my staff for the day – it was apparent that nobody was going to come in and need the kitchen working beyond what I could do myself – and so I was alone. I paused and turned, gazing towards the kitchen door. The things my brother had said to me resonated in my mind. Could he have voted no, and just maybe was a threat against me about to be carried out?

But then the door opened, and the man stepping into my bar wasn’t a soldier. He was disheveled, a finely cut suit torn to shreds, and blood soaking the shirt through in several places. His hair was askew and a little flap of skin was drooping sadly over his left eye. Blood from that cut, and possibly others, obscured his face, but even so, I knew Jonathan when I saw him.

“What?” I said. He looked at me and then laughed, just a little.

“Oh, I voted no,” he said. I moved over to him and slid an arm around his body, taking him quickly to sit.

“Jesus Christ, Jonathan,” I started, but he cut me off.

“That’s pretty much the half of it,” he replied. He was reaching into his coat for something as I pressed a wadded bar towel to his head. “Here,” he said, groaned, really. He pressed a blood-covered flash drive into my hand.

I raised an eyebrow and gazed down to it. “What’s this?”

“I recorded the proceedings today. Remember how we talked about proof? This is it.”

“Is this why they beat you?”

“Nobody beat me, Jake. I got this getting through the wire they put around the Capitol. We slipped out the back after the vote, and gave the Marines the slip for a minute. We cut the wire with some tin snips, but didn’t do a good enough job. I caught a strand of it in the face,” he said, indicating the tear along his forehead. “We were running down the street when they saw us. Sandy got shot. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead.” Sandy was a Congresswoman from California Jonathan had been seeing in the backrooms of the Capitol for a few months then. He hadn’t been sure if he loved her or not, but he was certainly fond of her.

I sighed softly, pressing the bit of skin into its proper place on my brother’s forehead. “Hold this. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“First thing you do is hide that drive.”

“Jon-“

“Do it!” he said. His voice was firm in a way I’d rarely ever heard. I raised an eyebrow, but I moved over to the bar with the flash drive. One of the taps was loose, and I tugged it free and slid the drive into a hollow there. Then I closed the tap back down, and found the first aid kid.

He was my little brother, a year and a half younger than me. Mom and dad never had much money, but Jonathan always managed. He had made his first dimes selling lemonade on the street corner, or something else equally clichéd, I’m sure. Regardless, he worked hard to get enough money to go to school. Only the best – Jonathan put himself through Harvard. I joined the Army.

I went to Iraq two days after he graduated from Harvard. I was 25, he was 23, and our lives were about to take two very separate turns. He moved to New York and made a killing on Wall Street. I went to Baghdad and killed people. His investments were getting bigger and bigger, and after my first tour I started giving half my pay to Jonathan to invest for me. Not much money, but he did more than enough with it to make it blossom.

It was my last tour that I won the Silver Star. As always, our convoy was minding its own business, when we hit an IED. I was ejected from the .50 caliber turret and hit the ground away from the Humvee. Didn’t break anything, but I was black and blue for two solid weeks. Managed to get my M-16 up and around.

It wasn’t a normal attack. This time the terrorists, or Sunni militia, or Shia militia, or Al Qaeda, or whoever they were, had stuck around. We heard the distinctive sound of AK 47s being fired at the column. My Humvee, the lead, was down and out. There were four more in the column. As I was getting my bearings someone smoked the last one with an RPG and blasted it up onto its side. I started shooting at random.

I knew that if I didn’t get back to the convoy, I was dead. Nothing seemed broken, so I got up and started running. I was shot in the back, right in the armour plate, and was back down on my face with a mouth of dust. We were stuck in some small fucking Iraqi town, buildings on either side alive with someone trying to kill us, and burning vehicles blocking our evac.

Next thing I heard was bullets zipping over my head. I looked to the side and there was some Iraqi shooting at me, or shooting in general. But he was sitting in the driver’s side of a big fucking truck, probably belonged to the coalition originally, with the top cut right off. That’s a weird sight, this big ol’ two ton truck with the cab cut right off. Anyway, I shot him. Two rounds, right in the chest. And I got up and ran to the truck.

The truck was running as I jumped in and tossed the dead Iraqi (he looked about sixty) out to the dirt road. I hit the gas. A couple of our boys thought I was going to ram them, but luckily their shots went wide, or snapped off the hood. I used the beat up old truck to smash my burning, shattered Humvee out of the road and off to the side. It got wedged right up against the building.

“Come on, dammit!” I yelled. “Move the fucking Hummers!” Next thing I knew, there were three or four men jumping onto the back of the truck, using it for cover, spraying fire at one of the buildings hemming us in where I guess a few Iraqi fighters must have been. A few bodies were tossed in the back by more soldiers, who were firing in the other direction. Then the living Humvees drove by, .50 cals thundering heavily. Through all the low noise of gun recoil, the revving of engines, screams of the dying and the wounded, I could hear those heavy shells tinkling down to the ground. A strange thing to remember, but it’s there.

Then I threw the truck into reverse and peeled out of the ambush after the Hummers. The guys in the back did a hell of a job putting out covering fire. They must have emptied five or six clips each as we peeled out. No careful shooting, we just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

Then I noticed there was a guy in the truck next to me. I don’t remember him getting in, but he was there. His helmet had been blown in half, probably by one of the first impacts, but later in the fight he had taken a bullet. It had skipped off his skull and left him bleeding and dazed. He died of brain damage later, I heard. But he was shooting too. It was that look in his eyes, that look that said he knew he was done for, that look of utter defiance and the damnable creed to die with his boots on getting his buddies out of a jam, that if he’s gotta go he’s going to make sure others get out, that I saw in Jonathan’s eyes as I patched up his wounds as best I could. It was chilling.

They gave me the Silver Star and they gave that man’s wife a folded flag, and we both did the same thing – the best we could. Fucking Army.

Story: An Atheist in a Creation Museum

The atheist crouched down low, taking one last drag on his cigarette. He knew, of course, the damage cigarettes do to one's body. He just didn't care anymore. They calmed his nerves, and he was about to go into the devil's den. He was about to enter the creationist museum.

He had a simple task: get to the head guy's office, Dr. Ben Bacon's secret interior hideaway. Crack the safe, take the documents, and get out. Someone in the Great Atheist Conspiracy HQ wanted those docs. It could make a difference in the War on Christmas. Something has to break their trenches, then the atheists could move on to Easter.

The atheist hated Easter the most. Coming back from the dead after three days? He makes sure people can never come back from the dead. The museum was still waiting. He ground out his smoke and started to move forward.

It was surrounded by a chain-link fence, with three strands of barbed wire running along the top, angled towards him. He had been observing the guards all night; now it was 3 AM. He had to make his move. The guards moved into a guard hut at the side of the museum. Only two guys were left, and they were each walking a dog.

The atheist had already set up his trap. Using a remote detonator, he set off a tiny charge. The pop didn't reach his ears, but it did alert the dogs, who turned, their black-and-brown snouts pointing in the direction of the distraction the atheist had rigged. Air was whistling out of a bottle after the tiniest charge went off, whistling high enough for dogs to hear.

As the guards moved off in the direction their hounds indicated (dragging the suddenly unwilling dogs with them), the atheist started to climb. He scaled the nine feet of chain easily, and then took a bottle, spraying the barbed wire at the top with it. The liquid nitrogen quickly froze the steel, and the atheist snapped it with his fingers, rolling it back. A quick look told him he still had time, and after vaulting over, he straightened the curls out, sealing the ends together with zip-ties. Not pretty, but he could undo it easily later if he needed an emergency escape route, and it should stop it from avoiding detection.

He dropped the nine feet, tucking and rolling, ending up behind one of the cluster of trees that spotted the museum compound. Seven minutes to wait until the next hole opened - he'd have all of forty seconds to cross the compound, scale the side wall, and get onto the roof of the museum. It would be tough, but he knew he could do it.

The guards left their meeting just five or six seconds after the atheist took his cover. He watched as they started to patrol around, splitting up. They were dutiful. No doubt they were pious (he suspected the hourly meeting was to pray that an atheist never showed up, sneaking into their compound). But they weren't particularly good. They were fat police academy rent-a-religious-cop, happy with a gun and a flashlight and a regular supply of doughnuts and coffee. The eight flatfoots dispersed slowly, following the well-defined walking routes in the museum compound.

His heart beating, the atheist counted off the seconds in his mind. He stayed as low and as still as possible, trusting to the light grey he wore to help him blend into the shadows. His face was smeared with grease, sweat beading down over his cheeks and foreheads gently. Short hair concealed beneath a bandana, red and green striped. The atheist waited still.

The seven minutes passed, and then this entire side of the compound was vacant. The atheist was moving before the guard had fully disappeared around the side. Every second counted. His footfalls were as small as he could make them, but they still pounded in his ear. Someone would hear.

His rubber-soled left foot hit the wall, and he pushed up, leaping, grasping a window ledge. Hand over hand be pulled himself up, free-climbing the twelve feet of wall. Window ledge. Window sill. Top of the window. Loose brick. Outcropping. Eaves. Roof edge. He was up, kicking his feet over and rolling, landing on the flat roof.

For a moment, the atheist rested. He caught his breath, but then he was up and moving. Now he had to infiltrate the building itself. Internal security was rumoured to be just as good as the external coverage. Originally, he had thought this meant the whole thing would be a joke, but then he realized: the guns and dogs were just for show. The real security was inside.

They want to catch atheists trying these sorts of things. They wanted to lull him into a false sense of security. The game's afoot.

He reached into a pouch on his belt and took out his night-vision goggles, popping them over his eyes. The world was illuminated in green pixels, all of a sudden. The miracles of science, the atheist thought. Split the atom, flew us to the moon, and lets me see the laser beam resting on the skylight. Can't cut the window.

The window was protected by a laser beam. It could detect the vibration of the glass being cut, as the diamond blade etched over the pane. Clever. A quick scan of the rest of the roof told him the other obvious covert entrance point was protected by lasers as well - an exhaust duct.

So, that meant he had to get original. The atheist moved over to the roof door and looked at it. It didn't appear to have any special locks, but it would surely have the usual protections - automatic alarms and such. You couldn't open the door without setting off an alarm. He pondered.

And then he made his decision, and moved to place a shaped charge on the roof, as far away as possible from the motion-sensitive skylight. It was just a small explosive, enough to blast a hole in the ceiling and let him peel back some of the roof. Counting the paces, he confirmed his first judgment. This should drop him into the Ark exhibit.

There was a tiny whoomp when he detonated the charge, and a hole the size of two fists appeared in the roof. The atheist reached into the hole, and grasped at the fractured planks, peeling them slowly back. He could hear cracked stone snapping as he exposed a man-sized hole into the subceiling. He removed chunks of insulation, and then pushed aside a bundle of wires, sliding down into the hole.

Supporting his upper body weight with his arms wasn't easy, as it was about four feet down until he reached the soft foamy subceiling. He twisted his body back, grunting with the effort of supporting his weight till he was spread out over the light ceiling. He could feel the soft metal of the subceiling straining, even though he didn't weight that much. Slowly, he removed a panel.

Night vision goggles on, he gazed down into the Ark room. A recreation of the bow of Noah's Ark spanned one wall, an animatronic Noah on top, welcoming aboard any number of creatures. Including dinosaurs, noted the atheist, seeing one of Noah's helpers loading a pair of rather docile-looking velociraptors aboard the Ark.

However, the Ark did have its uses, and the atheist (after looking for more laser detection) swung slowly out of the sub-ceiling, feeling the faintly-built installation give a little, he dropped down onto the Ark. It was eight feet down, and he landed heavily on the wood planking. The noise was amplified by the fact that the Ark itself was hollow.

"What was that?" a voice echoed. Dammit! The atheist moved quickly as flashlights flicked up over the Ark. Grasping onto the edge of the false boat, the atheist leapt over the edge, fingertips desperately grasping at the very last bit of boat available. He could hear footsteps.

"I swore I heard something."

"It was nothing, Charlie. Come on, let's go get some coffee."

"Alright, John." The atheist breathed a sigh of relief, waited another minute, and slowly hauled himself back into the Ark. Ignoring the throbbing of strained fingertips, he moved quickly down the Ark's ramp, and then vaulted the small fence designed to cut the display of adoring animatronic animals from small, easily impressed children. Not for the first time did the atheist wish this mission involved a serious quantity of C4.

But those weren't his orders. That's not how this war is being fought. He moved towards the main atrium of the museum. Animatronic dinosaurs playing with cavegirls. A triceratops with a riding saddle on it. Mastodons and t-rexes drinking from the same water hole. His head hurt.

The guards had a station up front, and the atheist hunkered down into the shadows to observe. They weren't particularly discreet about their job. He wondered if perhaps there was only the one layer of decent security after all. But then he noticed a camera in the security booth. Who watches the watchers? This is all for show.

Slipping on his night vision goggles once more, the atheist started to look around the room. He could see the lasers permeating the skylight, and noticed a few more, pressing on windows around the atrium, and criss-crossing over small, locked side doors. Wherever the real security department was...he didn't know. But he suspected he would need access to it.

Which meant that he needed to lure them out. Without making them so suspicious as to press the big red button. The atheist moved into the atrium, sneaking into the brontosaurus display, and lowering himself behind the replica ferns. He pulled out a hand-held listening amplifier, jamming the earphone into his right ear. He pointed it at the guard station and started to adjust it, listening.

It took a few minutes, but it quickly turned out the guards were discussing Big Brother. Great. Fucking Big Brother. After five more minutes, the two guards from the Ark room toddled off, heading off down another open hallway. One older, fatter guard remained. Then the guard's radio hissed and crackled.

"Are they on their rounds?"

"Yessir. All is quiet."

"Alright. We'll call back in twenty."

"Yessir."

The athiest moved quickly, stuffing away the listening device, sneaking rapidly across the shadows on the side of the wall. The guard wasn't paying attention, so he moved to the area beside the guard station. Readying a heavy, leather-coated sap in one hand, the atheist tapped on the wall.

The guard sat up with a jerk. The fat old man had been nodding off. Stupidly, he looked around. The atheist couldn't see this, but he could hear the grunts of disbelief. The atheist tapped the wall again.

Moving towards the door, the guard started to grunt. "Whozzer?" he said, opening the door and stepping out. The atheist swung the sap, and the guard topped. Quietly, he drug the body out of the line of sight of the camera, sneaking into the guard hut to wait.

The camera in the guard hut wasn't particularly brilliantly placed, and the atheist was able to sneak a doughnut from the box. It wasn't as good as the ones from Tim's, back home. But they brought him in to do a job, and they were paying top dollar.

The radio crackled about twenty minutes later. A voice probed for the fat, old guard. There was no response, and the radio went dead. Watching the monitors from the corner the atheist was curled into, he could see the other two guards were redirected from their patrol. Quickly, the atheist moved to hide.

Moving as fast as they could, the younger guards returned to the atrium. The door to the guard room was open. The two men were confused. "Go check the washroom," one said to the other. One of the guards peeled off, and moved towards the guard room. He stepped in, cautiously. "Frank? Frank?" he called. But there was no response. Moving in a little further, the guard peered at the open doughnut box. He reached towards it. The atheist dropped down from where he had spider-climbed to the ceiling above the door, rubber soles of his boots touching down softly, and brought the sap hard down onto the guard's skull. He crumpled, into the line of sight of the camera.

Good.

The other guard was off to check the washroom, but the atheist watched the cameras. Then he saw two men in dark suits moving along a hall. It was a floor down, by the "eye" chamber. Moving quickly, the atheist left the guard room, running across the atrium, soles tapping gently on the tiles. With the plans for the museum memorized, it was easy enough to choose the second-shortest route to the eye chamber. He dashed down that hall.

The next room the atheist entered was a display of Jerusalem, discussing the historical evidence for Jesus's resurrection. He wanted to mock it, badly. But he had a job to do. He continued forward. He passed down another hall, and turned, walking into the room that attempted to disprove evolution. The eye chamber was at the end. The atheist slowed and moved to the door to the eye chamber, and peered in.

This room was circular, and basked in an eerie glow. Quickly, the atheist looked for cameras. There were two. He dropped himself into the room, behind a stand, crouching as small as possible, hoping the rather more useful guards had not yet reached the guard's room in the atrium. He hoped they were the only guards, otherwise he would have been caught while dashing along the hallways. Sometimes you have to take risks.

His hand patted the hilt of his pistol on his side. It was still there. Good, he might need it yet. He hadn't needed it in a long time, he tried to avoid such things. But he might need it tonight.

The camera in the eye room panned left to right slowly, and the atheist noticed that, if he was quick, he could get behind one of the long tables. Just maybe, that would let him scan the room. There had to be an access door here. But where he was, he couldn't see it.

He could see the large glass case on the wall, with a many-times magnified human eye inside of it. Lit up from inside, it was the source of the glow slowly filling the chamber. There were various buttons around the case, each with an arrow pointing to the wall, and a speaker. No doubt pressing the buttons would fill the eye chamber with propaganda about how the eye was too complex and perfect to evolve, explaining in very scientificy-language about how it would require an intelligent designer.

His fingers itched to reach for the gun. But he didn't. Instead, he rolled out from his cover, tucking in under a long table. He didn't know what was on the table, and he didn't want to know. But he could see a thick security door on the other side of the room. It was ajar.

The atheist inched to the edge of the table's cover and prepared. He listened to the sound of the camera panning, the faint sound of the tiny electronic motor. He'd have three seconds to cross the chamber and enter the room. Three short seconds. He ran for it, dashing across the room, grasping the door and pulling it open, leaping inside.

A man in a suit stood up. He was wearing sunglasses. Inside. At night. He was clearly a bad guy, and he reached into his jacket. The atheist kept running, crossing the seven or eight feet of the rather more secure security room, and slammed into the guard, knocking the wind out of him. The momentum of the impact carried both men back towards the wall, and the atheist rammed the museum security guard into it, heavily, bringing his knee up with the speed of impact and jamming it into the man's groin. He doubled over, and then the atheist brought his fist down on the back of the suit's head. The fellow crumpled.

The commando went through the guard's pockets, finding his pistol. It was only a simple matter of taking the gun's slide off to remove the spring behind the firing pin, effectively disabling the gun. He put the weapon back in the guard's pocket, and took something rather more important: the man's keycard.

Then he looked at the security screen. Ben Bacon's office was up two floors, near the back. A scan of the various display screens told him the other suits were in the atrium, looking at the cameras there. There was a radio on the display panel, and the atheist picked it up.

"Saw some motion in the Ark chamber," he said. "You guys better check it out." The static on the radio hid the change of the voice, and the two men stepped out of the guard room, moving into the Ark chamber.

Then the atheist hit the lockdown button. Gates slid into place, isolating the various chambers from each other. Corridors were locked and thick steel bars slid over the internal security doors. It was designed to capture people from the central control room. But with the atheist in control....the museum was his to run.

It was a system he was familiar with. It only took a few minutes to familiarize himself with the basic parameters of the doors, and he began opening up the appropriate gates to get him to Ben Bacon's office. Then he was off at a run. No guards could get in from outside, the ones inside were isolated. Finding a stairwell, the atheist charged up, two at a time. He turned on the halfway landing, to dash up to the next floor, only to see the guard from earlier pointing his standard-issue Glock down the stairs.

"Stop right there!"

The atheist stopped. He didn't believe in an afterlife, and he wasn't ready to die right now. The flatfooted guard was holding the gun in both hands. He may have fired it before, but probably had never pointed it at a human. Seems like he's an honest bloke. "Whatever you've done, you're gonna undo it."

"Can't do that," the atheist said in his deep voice, a scratchy growl made worse by a life of cigarettes and alcohol abuse. Really, he wasn't a good poster child for atheism. "Gotta job to do, pal." The guard's hand was shaking. And maybe he hadn't noticed....

"I don't want to have to shoot you," the guy said. The atheist started to move up the stairs slowly. The guard was sweating, but he tried to straighten up and aim his gun more accurately.

"Sure you don't. But I know you won't. Safety's on." The atheist pointed to the gun.

The guard turned the Glock and looked at the safety, which was certainly off. The atheist closed the distance, grabbing the gun with one hand. The other hand moved to break the man's trigger finger, and he howled in pain. Pulling the Glock away, the atheist swung it like a hammer, bringing it down on the side of the man's head. He crumpled.

The atheist checked the man's pulse. Oh good. He's alive. Then he continued, heading to the target floor, and along the row of offices. The one at the end said "Dr. Benjamin T. Bacon, PhD". He opened the door with the guard's keycard, and moved in quickly.

No time to be subtle. He took off the painting of God creating the universe from the wall behind the desk, and looked at the safe. He could crack it. He would have cracked it, if he had the time. However....he didn't have time. He took out the can of liquid nitrogen from earlier and sprayed down the lock, then hit it as hard as he could with the hilt of the Glock. It cracked. He repeated the process, spraying nitrogen into the crack. The next hammer split the lock open. He reached in and manually fit the tumblers into position.

Opening the safe, the atheist emptied it of contents, putting the flash disks and the burned dvds into a pocket of his vest. He then thought for a moment on how best to escape the museum. It didn't look like his plan of pretending he was a guard and walking out with the day shift would work. This was going to need to be more dramatic.

He headed back to the main guard room and lifted all the internal doors. The external doors remained locked. The suits were heading for the eye chamber right away, and the atheist slipped out of it before they arrived. He wasn't heading for a door, or back to his original entrance point (which the guards damn well had better be aware of by now). He was, instead, heading for the employee parking garage in the basement.

The parking garage doors would be the most reinforced doors in the building, and the rest of the garage would be underground. However...he reached the garage quickly, and found exactly what he was looking for. Jamming on the green helmet over his bandana, the atheist hotwired himself a Kawasaki Ninja, in bright green. He kicked the engine into life and drove over to the elevator.

There was a ding as the elevator opened on the main floor, followed by the high-pitched roar of the Kawasaki's engine as the atheist kicked it into gear. He could see the men in suits come running out of a side room as the bike charged through a high, arched hall, diving between tables covered with various displays. Bullets sparked as they slammed into glass cases or skipped off the walls, and the bike swerved more.

Another suit popped in front of the atheist and lowered his pistol, but when he squeezed the trigger, nothing happened. Grinning, the atheist gunned the motor, heading for the large, glass double-doors at the entrance. Switching over the pistol to fully automatic, the atheist shot a burst at the doors, shattering the glass. The Kawasaki zipped through the shattering fragments, and ripped along the walkway.

More shots rang out, as the bike headed for the gate. It was closed, but that wasn't a problem. The bike turned and ran along the parking lot quickly, till it reached the employee parking lot. A few guards were running his way - they had congregated around the main entrance, obviously trying to get in since the security locks engaged - but he had distance. He shot of a burst of three or four bullets at them, to make the guards think twice, before he whipped the bike around and took aim at the other end of the parking lot.

The atheist tossed something over his shoulder, and the bike revved again as the atheist pushed it to its limit, and charged down the line of guards and suits. Pistol recoils filled the air, and one or two sparked off the bike itself, but the little Japanese bike kept going. Another burst from the pistol caused the parking lot to clear, and the atheist passed the line of guards, squealing the tires as he whipped the little bike around in a semi-circle, to charge the group again.

This time a bullet bit, and he felt a searing pain in the small of his back. He could still wiggle his toes, though. So it was time to leave. He pressed the detonator and the charge of C4, his last, blew. It wasn't huge, but it ripped a hole in the chain link. The atheist aimed the bike at the hole and bent down. He felt sharp steel scrape his helmet, rip at his shirt, scrape and rip open his skin, but then he was free.

He hit the main road and turned at high speed. Headquarters needed him, needed what he'd found. The bike revved as it vanished into the night.

THE END

(wow, that got out of hand.)

The Rise of the Lone Ranger, Chapter 2

That night, the noise of a single horse broke the unnatural silence so close to the village. Dull orange lights still illuminated the clearing and the area near the road where the village once was, and the lone trooper approaching navigated by them. Trees had fired, and flame-consumed human skeletons rested near their bases. Reid kept riding, though. Skeletons in war were not evidence.

Back to the woods he went, pausing once he was half-way to the clearing to make sure he hadn't been followed. After returning to the unit's camp, his hands had finally stopped shaking. He'd reloaded his pistol and his rifle, knowing he had a task at hand. That somehow, he had to make this right. Or, more accurately, bring the atrocities of Cavendish to light. The average trooper couldn't be blamed for the way the major had manipulated the situation for his delight and perverse joy.

After he waited for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, Reid creeped by moonlight deeper into the forest, finding the clearing using the keen sense of navigation he'd developed while riding for days deep in the Texas frontier. The blanket was still there, wrapped tightly around the young blonde who'd had the misfortune to catch Cavendish's eye.

Carefully, he lifted her up, placing her over his shoulder. Holding her with his left hand, Reid started to walk back, holding the holster of his pistol with his right hand. Even though he was a left-handed man, Reid was almost as good with his right, and good thing too.

"'ere, what we got here?" a voice said. Dan Reid stopped still. He could almost smell Tyler Smith behind him, the lapdog Cavendish had trusted with the location of his small lair. "I reckon you ought to turn around," Smith said. Reid did so, to find himself looking at Smith. The man was short, stooped in a strange way, but more importantly, was pointing the business end of his Model 1860 at Reid's head, from about thirty feet back.

Standing slightly to his side was another of Cavendish's boys, a young ruffian from New England by the name of Tom Jackson. Unfortunately for Jackson, he shared a name with a famous Rebel general. While "Stonewall" Jackson was by all accounts a fierce warrior and honourable man, his namesake in the Union cavalry was suspected by all to be a petty thief and had a tendency to get into fights in the various bars and brothels visited by the common troopers while relaxing in a town. His pistols were holstered, and he seemed happy to let Smith do the talking - or as the case may have been, the shooting.

"Private Smith, Private Jackson," Reid said, his light blue eyes gazing over to the men opposed to him. "Follow me here?"

"Nah, Major Bart sent us to clean up the mess he left here. Seems he felt someone mighta come on his day's fun."

"You call this fun?" Reid said, as he felt his stomach toss. Smith wasn't smart enough to be the leader, but he was cruel enough to revel in the chaos. "Smith, I'm going to put this lady's body down. Y'all don't shoot me yet."

"Now, why you think I'ma shoot you, Reid?"

"You're a traitorous piece of shit, Smith."

"Talk at me like that and I'll gut-shot you just like the bitch got it."

Reid didn't respond yet. He took a moment to lower the body to the ground. "No, you won't. You're going to take me to Cavendish, on account of you're a worm and that's what fucking worms like you do."

"Fuck you, Reid."

"Yeah, well...what the hell is that!" Reid shouted, suddenly, pointing over Smith's shoulder. Instinctively the shorter man twisted, and in a heartbeat, Reid pulled the pistol from its holster and fired. There was a spark and the Colt pistol in Smith's hands went flying. Both men opposing Reid were startled, and both of their hands rose in shock and surrender.

"Christ almighty, you shot the pistol off his hands!" blurted Jackson. His eyes were wide and frightened, as Reid's thumb pulled the hammer back on the pistol.

"Jackson, drop your irons or the next one's in your chest," Reid ordered, calmly. His hands weren't shaking anymore. "Smith, you drop your spare." Both men slowly pulled pistols from holsters and tossed them away.

"I'm taking this girl, and I'm taking her straight to General Grant," Reid said. The plan had been coming together in his mind for some hours, but saying it he knew it was the right thing to do. "When he sees what Cavendish's done, he'll make it right. He'll see what a butcher the man is." The young girl's last words reverberated in his mind.

Smith looked around with surprisingly stealthy eyes, and then his gaze returned to Dan Reid's cold blue stare. "And what's to stop us from telling the boss, having him stop you?"

"Good point," Reid said. The pistol shot again, a dark spot appearing between Smith's eyes. Jackson leaped and closed his eyes. There was a faint hiss, and moist dampness spread over the front of his trousers.

"Christ, I pissed meself," he murmured. "Please, God, don't let the man shoot me."

"I ain't gonna shoot you, Jackson," Reid said.

One eye opened. It was surprisingly dull. "Really?" he asked.

"No." Reid hit him hard in the head with the base of his pistol. The ruffian crumpled, unconscious. Reid took a moment to feel for the man's pulse, then stood up, reloading his pistol first, then gathering the girl's corpse. He walked out of the woods and tied the bundle to the back of his horse, then mounted up. He guessed he had an hour before Cavendish missed his men, and another hour before the search was on. Chattanooga was in flames and it was thirty miles away.

"Hi-yo and away," Reid muttered to his horse, and they started off down the road for the embattled town.

Sunlight was nearing the horizon as Reid trotted towards Chattanooga. It was a crisp November morning. He could smell smoke heavy in the air, having covered a large amount of the distance already. The road was strangely deserted, and Reid hadn't seen more than a couple wagons heading back, wagons surely carrying wounded soldiers to safety and hopeful hospitals further back from the fight.

He wasn't exactly sure what day it was, but as he trotted closer to Chattanooga upon his horse, he knew that the fighting had been going on for at least a day. Five miles out from the town camps, abandoned now, proliferated. The whole of the Union army, seemingly, had been deployed in the fighting.

The woods closed back on the road as Reid continued on. It was a slightly winding road, falling between two hills. The distant sound of artillery had grown stronger, and Reid realized the forward points of the ridges were likely being used as artillery positions to support whatsoever attack was going on.

The sky had gone from black, to purple, and now to a light blue as the sun threatened to peek above the trees. The thunder of the guns wasn't as heavy as Reid had heard. In fact, after a few minutes, they went unnaturally silent.

His ears strained to hear for a few moments, and that's when he noticed it - the sound of hooves from behind. He twisted and looked over his shoulder, but a fortuitous bend in the road hid whosoever it was from his sight - and vice versa. Quietly, he turned, urging his steed into the trees, hiding in the shadowy brush.

Sure enough, after a minute, eight riders came into sight. Reid recognized the first one - Collins, the man who had obviously emerged as Cavendish's lieutenant in carnage. He had droopy, bloodshot eyes and, as Reid recalled, yellowish, rotting teeth that seemed to grant the man terrible breath. Here, he was riding with an unslung carbine, and watching the road ahead.

Reid took in the other men of the party. Major Cavendish hadn't come along - this sort of thing wasn't his scene. If the plot to murder Reid backfired, he could always blame it on Collins. The other names came to light easily. Wesson, O'Malley, Regan, Sherry, Kuntz, and Green. The ones that Reid worried more about were O'Malley, who was an Irish man and a right mean sonofabitch, Kuntz, who was a second-generation German and had a penchant for swords in combat, and Collins himself.

The little column passed, and Reid ushered his horse quietly back onto the road. He sighed, inwardly, and lifted up the Sharps carbine, holding a spare round in his right hand. Carefully, he sighted the gun, and gently squeezed the trigger. It bucked lightly in his hands, and O'Malley slid off his horse, struck instantly dead by the round that thudded into his back and pierced his heart.

Working rapidly, Reid slid the hammer back on the Sharps carbine. He shoved the round and the powder into the chamber, and then sighted again. It had only taken a few seconds to do this, ready as he had been, and the cavalrymen he opposed had twisted around. Their horses were fresh, he'd noticed, meaning they'd rode hard for at least ten, fifteen miles behind him on one steed, then switched to continue the pursuit. His horse was tired and carrying at least an extra hundred pounds of dead weight.

The first carbine shots cracked off and both landed wide, one sparking off a rock about twenty feet to the side of Reid, the second kicking up dirt somewhere behind him. Collins was the furthest away now, and he took a moment to aim at the cavalry sergeant. Reid responded by firing the carbine. This time he aimed at the opposing man's gun, and the carbine leapt, sundered, from Collins's hands, the deflected bullet smacking into his arm and sending him spinning from his mount.

Quickly, Reid's spurs dug into his horse, and the animal took off at a gallop. The experienced sergeant slid the Sharps carbine's strap over his shoulder, then reached across his body to tug the Model 1860 pistol from his right hip. Instead of running away, Reid made his intention clear. He chose to run through the group. There were six left standing and his pistol held six shots.

Two more carbines barked as he drew near, but both went high and wide, as the men were still reacting to the sudden assault. Their leader was down, groaning in pain, and some of the men were concerned about trampling Collins. Kurtz, however, was levelling his pistol in the direction of Reid. Quickly the ex-patriot Texan pulled back the hammer on his Colt, squeezing the trigger. Kurtz cried out as the round took him high in the shoulder, and he was knocked off the horse.

Reid pulled the hammer back once more and took a shot - this time he didn't aim to kill, or anything close, and the round barely missed Regan. The man's white cap, however, was clipped by the round and it flew off the assailant's head. Two more shots, pistols, this time rang out, and Reid felt something sear over his hip, a close graze. He bit his lip, hard, tasting blood, and shot again. With a heavy grunt, Green slumped in his saddle, clutching at his stomach.

Then Reid was through, leaning forward over his horse. The men who were untouched didn't shoot back, watching as the elusive cavalry sergeant continued to charge down the road. They'd been taken by surprise and soundly beaten, and without the more bloodthirsty members of the troop, the survivors lost their interest in the enterprise.

Reid let the horse slow after a furious five minute gallop. He reigned in and let the horse stop after another minute, and then slid down to the ground. He reloaded his pistol and rifle as the horse caught its breath. And then he made sure his package was tied securely. After ten minute, during which no pursuit came, Reid mounted back up. They continued east.

The sun broke over the horizon and temporarily blinded Dan Reid. He shifted, tipping his cap forward to let the brim cast a better shadow over his eyes. The smell of combat was thicker in the air - spent powder, blood, feces and decomposing bodies mingled in with the more natural smoke and earth one would expect in an area that had been torn up by shot, shell, and soldier. Reid rode, finally, into a camp of Union soldiers.

A sentry watched the cavalryman approach, holding his rifled musket at attention, with a sharp-looking bayonet attached to the end. "Halt," he said. Reid obliged, and reigned in his horse. "Who comes?" the man asked. He was young. Scarcely old enough to shave, Reid thought.

"Sergeant Dan Reid, Second Troop, 1st Battalion, 4th Michigan Cavalry," he responded, shifting lightly atop the horse. "Here with important messages for command," he continued.

"Messages for whom," the sentry asked.

"General Grant," Reid responded.

"You'll find the general's tents on Orchard Knob," the sentry said. He shifted and gestured with his bayonet. "I reckon they'll ask a few more questions there." The man waved him off, and Reid rode away, heading for the hill that the boy had indicated. It was a sharp rise, and he could immediately see why Grant would choose it.

As the sentry had suggested, Reid was stopped twice more as he drew near. He was within sight of Grant's tents when a captain stopped Reid with a suspicious eye. "What unit are you from, son," the brash Northerner said.

"4th Michigan, sir."

"You don't sound like you're from Michigan."

"My family's from Michigan, sir, but I was born in Texas. Moved back to Detroit when this shit with the Rebs started. I'm no Reb, sir. I love the Union, my dad loves the Union."

"And you want what, exactly?"

"I want to speak with General Grant."

"Who sent you?" Reid was silent. "Nobody sent you, son?"

"It's not about that. There's something I have to report."

"So tell your commanding officer."

"It's about my commanding officer, sir."

"General Grant doesn't have the time to deal with every little regimental fuss, son. I suggest you get back to your unit."

"Sir, five minutes."

"Here's how it is, Sergeant. I ain't letting nobody who sounds like they're from Texas get within a pistol's shot of Grant. It's my job to keep him safe. You're a liability, and I'm not taking that risk."

Reid stared at the man. "What do you have in that bundle, anyway?" the captain said, moving around.

"It's a girl's body."

"What?"

"It's a dead girl's body. The men in my unit massacred a village, and they burned 'em all. She got the worst of it, and the man leading my unit caused it to happen."

"These things happen in war, Serge-"

"Not like this, sir. I gotta tell you, I have seen horrors, I've gutted men, I've put holes in them from five feet out with my smokewagon, I've watched skulls get trampled by my horse. It's not like this. I gotta see General Grant."

"General Grant isn't the type of person who deals with these things. In case you hadn't noticed, Sergeant," he said, but then he fell silent. Reid followed the man's gaze.

"What sort of things don't I deal with, Captain Miller?" said a surprisingly soft, but gruff voice. The bearded visage of Ulysses Grant, in a muddy, crumpled uniform covered by a simple private's jacket, was approaching in the morning smog. Reid noticed that Grant's right hand was holding the handle of a pistol as he looked over the fellow. "I'm the commanding officer, aren't I?"

Both men saluted, and then Reid opened his mouth. "Sir," he began, but quickly he was cut off by Miller.

"General Grant, sir, this trooper has minor matters of local occupation. I was about to refer him back to his commanding officer."

"But-"

"But the man's commanding officer is responsible for the outrages thus committed, correct, Sergeant Reid?" Grant asked. He'd clearly been listening. Reid nodded.

"Yes sir."

"How bad is it?"

"Bad, sir."

"You're from Texas, son?"

"Yes sir."

"Hmm. Not planning to shoot me for Pete Longstreet, are you?" Grant said. His lips curved behind his beard. "No, Ol' Pete doesn't play that way. Mr. Miller, stand down, please, and find us a tent. This isn't something we'd all ought to see."

"Yes sir," Miller said. He saluted and moved off. Reid dismounted and looked at Grant.

"You understand I can't deal with this now, but tell me your story and show me the poor girl's body, and I'll sign off on your report."

"I understand, sir," Reid said. After a moment, Grant took the reigns of Reid's horse and led it over to a tent. He had two troopers take the bundled body into a tent and he entered with Reid. The examination only took a few moments, as Reid tersely explained how Cavendish had manipulated the situation.

"By God," Grant muttered, when Reid finished with the ambush he'd put together on the road. He hadn't said anything else during the five or ten minutes Reid had been speaking. "By the grace of God. Bartholomew Cavendish, you said? 4th Michigan?"

"Yes sir."

"I'll send Miller to arrest him immediately, and the men you said were after you today. You'll not face any charges, Reid. You've done right."

"What'll be the charges?"

"Murder, rape, the usual. Honestly, I doubt we'll hang any of them. War's too bad for that. But we'll make it public that we're trying to bring justice. Always a good story in the paper. This butcher, Cavendish, he won't wear Union colours once we're done, I can promise you that. If we can prove some of the others wanted to kill you, maybe a few will be shot by firing squad. But, we'll have to see, won't we?"

Grant reached over and placed a hand on Reid's shoulder. "You did good to bring this to my attention. I'll draft orders attaching you to my personal train for now. You can read and write?" Reid nodded. "Good. Take the day and write out your story. We're going to be trying to push Bragg off Missionary Ridge today. If it works, we'll move soon. But if it's written down, I'll see to it eventually. I have to begin the preparations for the day, Sergeant."

Grant saluted, a salute promptly returned by Reid. "We'll speak again, Lieutenant."

"Sergeant, sir."

"Not anymore." Grant smiled and then lifted the canvas tent flap. "I'll send a detail to find a grave for our poor victim. It's the least she deserves after how her life ended, a quiet rest on a picturesque hill. We'll be sending her lots of company before long." With that, Grant left, the flap dropping down and casting shadow back over the tent.

Fiction: The Rise of the Lone Ranger, Chapter 1

"General Grant, General Grant has engaged at Chattanooga!" the messenger said as he rode along the line. The Union cavalry raised up their carbines and gave a shout as the man passed.

"Huzzah!" they called as one. The party of about sixty troopers watched the messenger continue to gallop. This group of cavalrymen weren't here to act as relief messengers. Instead, they were a patrol-in-force, covering the supply lines that were so vital to the Military Division of the Mississippi. It sounded now as if the long-awaited battle against Braxton Bragg's Army of Tennessee had finally been joined.

Sergeant Dan Reid was a section leader in the detached unit, which rode slowly towards the encampments at Chattanooga. They rode up and down the same five miles of road, four, five, six times a day, making sure none of the Rebel cavalry struck at the passing supply trains. The Confederate commander of cavalry in these regions was Nathan Bedford Forrest, and he was a wily son of a bitch.

Reid thought the same about his commander. Major Bartholomew Cavendish, from Bloody Kansas, led the unit. Reid himself was from Texas, originally, but his family was loyal to the Union in the mannerisms of Sam Houston. They had relocated to Detroit late in 1860, and when the war broke out, Dan needed little encouragement to join. His skills from the Texas frontier gave him the skills needed to make the Union Cavalry, and before long he found himself in the midst of General Ulysses S. Grant's armies marching down the Mississippi River.

Major Cavendish was a new addition to the troop. Their old commander had been promoted out of the unit and Cavendish had been brought over to lead. So far, Dan hadn't been impressed. Cavendish wasn't an educated man, and seemed to have obtained rank by ferocity and seemingly limitless courage. He'd gone on many Stuart-esque raids behind Rebel lines, raising Hell and fire wheresoever he'd ridden. Now he was Reid's commander.

Cavendish had that look in his eyes every time they passed the small village along the five mile-long patrol route. The village was a sleepy Tennessee one, a hundred people at the most. When the Union forces had ridden through, the major had noticed a young blonde woman with a waspish waistline. She must have seen the glint in his eyes as he took too long noticing her, and in the past two days they hadn't seen her. Reid, who always rode close to the major, was sure she was hiding. He didn't blame her.

Now that General Grant had started the battle, though, Reid had a feeling something ominous was going to happen. Forrest and his men were supposed to be gone, but that wasn't something Grant was prepared to take for granted. Somehow, though, Reid thought the trouble wouldn't come from Forrest's cavalry.

Cavendish was a handsome, smooth-shaven man of about twenty five. He had meticulously-kept, straight white teeth and eyes of an interesting light brown. However, those eyes contained maliciousness, and the hint of cruelty. Reid often felt they were the eyes of someone who bought expensive makeup for his wife to hide the bruises he left on her when he took her out to public events. The major never spoke of his home life, however, and Reid hadn't seen a wedding ring. But the thought fit.

Today, those eyes weren't roving about, like the eyes of the other veteran cavalrymen in the unit. Bartholomew Cavendish was a veteran, and had seen his share and probably more of shot and shell. Nobody doubted his courage. But today, his eyes were fixed on some far-off object, as if he had found a goal to strive for, and was visualizing it. His lips curled lightly from time to time, Dan noticed, in a grin that wasn't nearly as handsome as the face that bore it.

The second time the troop passed the village, Cavendish ordered a stop. "Hold up here, men. We'd best search the village. One can't tell where Johnny Reb might be hiding. If you see 'em, out 'em with your irons, and don't be afraid to shoot to kill."

Reid dismounted, and watched as most of the men fanned out into the village. The routine must have been familiar for the various people living here, Cavendish had given a similar order twice before. However, this time, Reid noticed as he looked into a barn, the major hung back, keeping a dozen or so of his closest soldiers around him. Some men had been drawn to Major Cavendish, the men Rein had already marked as petty and cruel. They had formed an informal inner circle of officer and enlisted.

Holding his Colt 1860 in one hand, Reid was searching a closet in a small house by the blacksmith's when the shots rang out. The small pops of a pistol firing were suddenly punctuated by the heavy slams from a rifle of some form. As he stepped out of the house, he could see those dozen or so men pointing their Sharps carbines at another home, further down the street. Cavendish was bleeding from the arm.

"Fire!" he called. The Sharps let go, and the wall around a window was filled with holes. The men reloaded the breech-loading weapons quickly, and fired another volley. After a few moments, the men broke down the door. Before long the sounds of pistols were again heard, then three dead civilians were drug out of the front door by Cavendish's men.

"Good job, Collins," Dan heard the major saying as he drew near. Other men were milling about in confusion, and Reid heard his own voice raising.

"Form ranks, form ranks dammit! You hold still 'til the Major gives orders! Fall in Simpson, fall in!" he bellowed. With the horses held outside of town, the hundred and twenty five men, or so, of the search party quickly formed into sections. During this time, Cavendish fished a field bandage out a pocket and wrapped it tightly about the slowly spreading dark spot on his arm. It was hard to tell when juxtaposed against the dark blue uniform tunic, but it was obvious by the red stain on the clean white cloth that the man had been shot.

Major Cavendish turned to look towards his men. "Collins, Jackson, Smith," he ordered. "Put these sorry bastards up by their necks on the nearest tree. Nobody shoots at a Union Major."

"Ol' Pa ain't shot at you!" one person called from a nearby home. Indeed, one of the men was old enough to be Dan Reid's grandfather. He looked about ninety, with a long, curled beard stained yellow by pipe smoke and red by blood. "He ain't able to even pick a gun up!"

Some civilians started moving back towards the road. Reid could feel a sense of urgency arising in the moment, as the three men moved to grab rope and make hasty nooses. Cavendish was grinning. "Get back in your homes, you Rebel bastards, or I'll hang you all up besides them. Rebellion against this army is not tolerated!"

"You're the bastard," called one voice, a much deeper voice. Reid watched as a few shutters were opened. People were leaning out, and even though all guns had been confiscated, he caught a glimpse of what looked like one or two old hunting rifles being held near open doors or windows.

Reid didn't know what the man's title was, but he was dressed in some form of suit, and he felt he was important enough to approach Cavendish. He moved slowly, aware of the predator's eyes upon him. "My son," he began. "Surely there is no need for further violence. The eyes of God are upon us all here, and you and I know that this small town has given no opposition prior to today to your army."

Aha, thought Reid. He's the town preacher.

"Surely you are a man of God, just as you are a man of the North, major?" the priest asked, after observing the gold oak leaf on Cavendish's shoulder. "Surely these men paid for their sins? Please, let us bury our friends, our family, and we will ensure such things never happen again."

Cavendish paused, looking at the men. Then, without responding, he shot the priest in the left eye, causing the left side of his head to blow out. The man crumpled without a sound, and a thousand things happened at once. Cavendish dove for cover behind a stout water trough as ten or fifteen hunting rifles or muskets shot from the surrounding buildings. Men in the cavalry troop cried out as they were hit. One or two crumpled, dead.

Reid moved fast, pulling his pistol again from its holster as he moved for cover. The sound of Sharps carbines rose as the cavalrymen shot back. Used to hitting small targets from horseback, the older men and young boys determined to fight for the town provided little sport for the experienced troopers, and the upstart villagers with guns fell quickly, toppling out of doors and falling through windows as they were picked off.

It didn't stop, however. Cavendish got up and started shooting at random, bullets smacking into whatever flesh it could find. Collins grabbed a lantern and smashed it into a house, a fire leaping over the spilt kerosene quicker than Reid could imagine.

"Kill them! Kill all of them!" someone shouted. Reid was horrified.

"No!" he yelled, as he slid his carbine over his shoulder. A few men hung back, five or six, and could only watch as the wooden buildings were set fire to. Some ran out before the flames got too bad, only to be shot down by the troopers. Others found themselves being gutted by knives or beaten by rifle butts. When people came out on fire, the troopers got out of the way, watching them scream and cry before falling in crumpled burnt heaps.

The few times an attractive, or mostly attractive woman, emerged, though, she was grabbed and forced into the muddy ground, held down by three or four men as others took their turns between her thighs. That was the worst, and Reid clutched the grip of his pistol. The third time it happened, he resolved to break it up, but found he had emptied his gun in the shootout earlier, and that his hands were shaking too much to put ball and cap together in the chamber.

Then the blonde came out of one of the burning homes. The men grabbed at her eagerly, but Cavendish's voice rose over the din. "This one's mine, boys!" And, to the horror of Dan Reid, the men cheered as the tall, handsome officer from Kansas grabbed a handful of hair from a girl no more than seventeen, dragging her away from the flames and towards the woods.

Some of the men who had hung back were gone. Dan never saw two of them again, and he can only assume they wandered off, deserting. The other three decided that it'd be best to check on the horses, leaving Reid to watch the carnage for a few more minutes. After it was over, after there were no more bodies to watch burn and no more men left to take their turn with the half-dozen or so women, Reid watched as the nude, raped, battered and bloody women were rounded up by the troopers.

The trooper named Jackson appeared. "Can't let 'em squeal, boys." He tossed some rope around to some of the men. "String the bitches up." The women didn't cry. They didn't protest. They simply watched with deadened eyes, and Reid forced himself to watch too as the troopers hastily hanged all six women, before lighting the tree on fire as well.

Cavendish was still gone. His minions began to round up the soldiers, making sure everything that could be fired was fired, but the major didn't return yet. Reid shifted lightly and then moved away from the burning village. The smoke had made his face black, a black that was punctuated by tears that had dripped down over his face from the acrid air. His crisp uniform was muddy and soaked in sweat and, certainly, other things. Not quite sure where Cavendish had gone, Reid moved into the woods, having decided that the major ought not to come out alive, at least.

As he was moving through the trees, holding his cavalryman's sword since he was still unable to load his pistol with his treacherous, trembling hands, he heard from ahead the sound of someone clumsily pushing through the brush. It was Smith, another of Cavendish's collaborators. He seemed to know where he was going, and so Reid followed, moving carefully and silently.

The man lead Reid to a clearing, and indeed, here the poor blonde was. She had been thoroughly raped, blood trickling down over her thighs, and was tied to a tree. The sadistic Cavendish was in the middle of buttoning up his uniform tunic. With widened eyes, Reid realized that the woman had been cut several times, bitten brutally, and savagely beaten and choked as well.

"'ad your fun, Major?" Smith asked, as he gave a single contemptuous glance to the bound woman, before looking back to Cavendish.

The major smirked. "Why, so I have. Bitch tried to bite me, too, so now she won't bite a thing again," he said. "Are the men done with the village?"

"Yessir," Smith replied.

"Any problems from the men?"

"A few hung back, but I reckon they can be dealt with."

"Which ones?"

"Uhrm..." Smith said. "There was Prenell, Tom O'Reilly, Wilkson, and Reid what I saw."

"Good enough. Find out if they intend to say anything. If they do, they'll have to have an unfortunate accident."

"'course, Major. Accidents happen all the time, what it being war an' all."

"Indeed."

"Was it the fun worth all the trouble, then, sir?" Smith asked.

Major Cavendish grinned. "Absolutely, Smith. It'll even be worth the scar on the arm. Good work, there, by the way. You hit it just enough to make it bleed bad, but I expect it'll work fine to get along with. Now, get back to the horses. I'll be along shortly. I've some things to finish here."

Smith didn't move, though, as Cavendish turned. He swung out his pistol, the same one that had killed the preacher, and shot the girl in the belly. Then he moved and patted her cheek lightly. "Good night, sweetheart," he said, before vanishing into the woods, Smith following at the man's spurs.

Reid had been frozen, but once Cavendish's footfalls vanished, he moved from the clearing. The woman hung, limply, but raised her head. Blood spilled from her mouth as she tried to talk. Reid moved fast, cutting the ropes that bound her. She collapsed to the foot of the tree, and he knelt.

"Shh," he said. "I'm going to get you out of here." She tried to curl up, but he grasped her, as he fumbled with a bandage. She didn't move after his grip tightened, and he found himself looking into strangely hollow eyes.

"Y'all a Union butcher too," she said, ever so softly. Reid froze, watching as the beaten and mortally wounded girl suddenly and silently died. For a moment, the Union sergeant was quiet and still. He pondered a prayer for the girl, but decided that it was already too late for such niceties. He also pondered a burial. But in the end, the poor nameless victim of Bartholomew Cavendish had another job to do. She was the only victim who's beaten body had survived untouched by fire.

Cavendish had placed a kit of tools in the clearing some time before, clearly as he planned the whole assault for the purpose of finding the young girl and doing as he pleased. In there, Reid found a blanket. He wrapped the corpse up in the blanket.

"I'm sorry I couldn't stop him. I'm not a butcher," he murmured. "But he is." Reid left the body there, wrapped up, and stepped out of the woods. Sliding away his sword, he eventually found the men mounting up. Some were quiet, others were jubilant. Most had a thoughtful look in their eyes. Regardless, they rode away from the smouldering buildings, leaving the dead to burn.