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Heat Kills

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Sci-Fi, Western on August 19, 2009 by GuNNhead

Beads of sweat roll down his forehead.

They say that sweating helps keep you cool, but when you’re chained up in the middle of a windless desert, it really doesn’t seem to help at all. Evaporation… it only leads to dehydration.

He can feel his skin burning and tightening under the blistering sun. He’s turning redder and redder, darker and darker every passing minute. Literally being cooked alive.

I struggled and strained all I could when I first awoke chained up to this floor, but it was no use, I was only speeding up the process, wearing myself out. The cuffs left me with blood covering my hands and wrists. I stopped bleeding soon after the sun rose. I hope that it dried out the wounds, instead of me being so dehydrated that the blood just couldn’t flow anymore.

Vultures circle overhead, preparing for a fine feast of flesh.

I wish I knew who did this to me, or why they did it. I can barely even think back to yesterday, when I was just another guy working at a 9 to 5, no real plans for the future yet. It wasn’t the best life, but it was pretty sweet, and I enjoyed it; hell, I was fuckin’ happy with it, ecstatic, and that’s all that counts, really, all that mattered to me.

The sun bears down on him with an untold force. Waves of heat continually pummeling him.

Now here I am, chained to a giant metal platform in the middle of the desert in the middle of the day; on my knees, waiting to die. I just don’t feel like moving anymore, I can’t, it’s just too damn hot. My brain doesn’t even feel like it’s functioning properly, it must have gone earlier, shut down, all in wait of the inevitable.

The sounds of pulsating heat play tricks on him, a high pitched drone.

I begin to imagine what will happen to me when I die. Will whoever put me out here come to reclaim my corpse, and cannibalize me? Maybe have a big picnic, I’ll be part of a celebration… Perhaps I’ll just be left out here forever, my bare bones basking and bleaching in the blistering boiling blaze. I hope it’s a case of mistaken identity, and they’ll soon realize their mistake, and come to get me, putting someone who deserves this out here in my stead. Could I be some sort of magical sacrifice, my bloodline leading up to this day, to appease some sort of sun god?
Heaven comes in the form of darkness. A shadow zone.

Clouds, amazing. I can see into the distance of this dead world. Nothing but cracked dirt, the dry crust of a burnt earth. It leads off into mountains. Other than that, nothing. I begin to get a good look at the steel platform I’m on. It’s curved. Doesn’t really look like steel here in the shade of the clouds. Can’t really tell what it’s made out of, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Will this really be the last thing I see?

He begins to feel droplets of water coming from the clouds overhead.

Yes! I can survive just a little bit longer, maybe someone will find me, save me. How good it will feel to drink water again.

He tilts his tired head towards the sky, opening his eyes to thank the heavens above, and mouth to drink of the liquid that comes from the sky to save his life.
No, no, this doesn’t taste right… those aren’t clouds… they’re… they’re…

The horrible and terrifying sight would be his last on this plane of existence.

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Shoot ’em Dead

Posted in Detective, Fiction, Sci-Fi on August 18, 2009 by GuNNhead

“Dammit, Ramirez! I want your badge, and your gun, on my desk: now!”
“Chief, listen-”
“No, you listen, Ramirez, I can’t have you running around like a god damn vigilante! Not on my watch, not on my force! I don’t know how they did things back where you came from, but here, we do things by the book!”
“I don’t read,” Ramirez said coldly, before walking out of the Chief’s office.
“Ramirez! Ramirez!” the Chief yelled after him, but to no avail.

I’d been making unauthorized busts. The Chief didn’t like it too much, but I didn’t let his bellyachin’ get to me, I was too close to care about a few stepped-on tails. Too close to finally busting Vidrio. These creeps I’d been catching were part of his battery of ghouls, and when you disconnect these types from their batteries, they lose power. I’ve been following him for years, and he’s finally slipped up, set up shop and made a new home for himself here. Juarez Vidrio, a high powered repeater that I’ve only seen in person once, when he killed my partner. There ain’t nothin’ on him in any of the books, and he’s gunna be all mine.

My contact said the info was located at a local strip joint. I take the Cruiser, roll up with no sirens. I enter the club, and it’s packed, a lot of spirit here. They respect the badge, though, and as long as I don’t cause any trouble, they leave me alone. I head straight for the back, to the performers. I don’t make it too far, not allowed in the back, especially how I look, it’d freak out the girls, she says; damn that banshee, the “manager”. No matter, I asked her about the girl I was looking for, and, as fate would have it, she was about on stage now. I head back out to the floor, and is she ever a vision; a lot of soul in how she moves. I signal her to come talk to me once she’s done her little apparition. I know the next girl on stage, seen her around, a real bloodsucker, I feel sorry for any guy that falls for this beauty of a vampire – doesn’t matter: not my jurisdiction. The other girl finally comes to talk, said her name was Etheria, I told her that I already knew, and needed some information on Vidrio. I could tell she knew much more than she wanted to say by the way her entire appearance faded; I could see right through her.

In no time at all, I had my answers. I can be very persuasive with the other side when I want to be. She told me exactly where his new haunt was. I go back to the station, drop off the Cruiser. I’m taking my civilian car for this. Finally, I’ll have my revenge, I’m not gunna call this one in; this will be my bust and my bust alone.

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Carnivoral

Posted in Fiction, Sci-Fi with tags on August 13, 2009 by GuNNhead

The lumbering beast makes its way down the narrow passage, snarling and drooling. Neon lights line the walls. Vertical yellow and red stripes race by as it moves faster, confused. Entering a clearing, the world seems to calm, but only for a moment. In an instant, strobe lights become the essence of its surroundings. The ground underfoot begins to spin, and all it can hear is laughter. Laughter of all pitches, it cannot discern where exactly it is coming from, as the aural cacophony bombards it from all sides. What manner of creature would be so amused at the mere sight of this large and intimidating Tyrannosaur? Glaring its teeth and releasing a deafening roar, it hears the sounds silence themselves. Feeling more assured of himself, it sends out another terrifying roar into the air, piercing the swirling night sky.

With new confidence upon the shifting ground, the gargantuan struts around the clearing. Colors boil, coil, and roil together; a sense of euphoria fills its subconscious, awakening a new cosmos of stars. History creates a primeval brainstorm of images and ideas; judgement and opinion, premise and prospect. Visions of a concept not yet conceived dance upon its mindwaves, rockets and robots, instruments and inventions. The visions begin to fade, the colors normalize, but the ideas remain. A new form of consciousness is born in the Gorgosaur.

Isn’t it a dream?

It grows accustomed to this new frame, enjoying the change with minimal regret; though, no positive plans to make a singularity permanent. The old ways are so natural, perhaps always the greatest. It does not want to turn this fervor off. The complete switch may be the reasonable choice for one who wants their nights to be full of desperate emotions! However, it thinks. It was born with one way and one way inside only.

It saw what others did, not knowing why itself felt no urge from commencement to correspond in their consumption. Today it chose to create a destiny of its own, defy what it began knowing, and brought up to believe in as a system.
Night fails to make this hunter, killer, irresolute and pitiful. It knows how to avoid this risk! What it had partaken of tonight would not render that the only thing in its existence. It knew of a balance, a balance for need and desire, and of instinct versus assent.

It has become transcended, into the heart and mind of the prey, a noble predator that can not only do what it must. There are no morals in matters such as this, no pity or remorse. This is how it must be, how it was always intended to be. The frivolous choices in the future of enjoyment are merely that, designed to enhance the sentience. It will always imbibe the lifeblood, only now it has reached an awareness of its own, and can luxuriate in that.

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The Key

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Sci-Fi, The Key on August 12, 2009 by GuNNhead

The man stealthily jogs down the large corridor with its checker-tiled floor, hair bobbing with every step. He wears a red uniform, adorned with a strikingly large white V upon the chest, ending in a white belt, continuing along his arms, down his sleeves; his pants have two white lines piping down the side of his legs, finding his white boots. Turning a corner into the central hallway, he sees the King and his royal robotic guards exiting into another of the many corridors.
– Not where he’s heading.

The man positions himself against the wall to wait for the King to have fully left from the main hall before continuing on with his agenda. He enters the second corridor on his right, and heads the second door on his left. As with all doors in this castle, it is large and red, looking almost plush and foam-like to the touch, with a white V ending in two white lines, one on the top, and one on the bottom. The man goes to the right side of the door, and as he pushes on it, the side of the door silently slides open, directly forward, with ease. It is then, in this new corridor, that he notices one of the many patrolling robotic guards, embellished with the same red color and large, white V on their chests; the man exits back into the other hall, but cannot reach the door to close it. He takes cover behind a pedestal, readying his pistol blaster from the holster on the high back side of his right hip. The automaton reaches the open door; it pauses in its rounds, analyzing the door with scrutiny. Its singular red-light-eye scans, back and forth, back and forth, without emotion. Taking another second to calculate action, the machine closes the door, and continues on its rounds.

Hesitating, waiting for the time it would take for the robot to have gone, the man opens the door again, seeing the robot turning to the left, out of the hallway and into another. The man makes his way towards the corridor that the guard turned, passing by the corridor, and entering a large circular room with books lining the walls, and large elegant windows that face a courtyard from five stories above, an enchanted forest off in the distance. He then hears the tank-like treads of another patrolling automaton approaching, following the same set path as the last. Knowing he will be caught if he remains another second, he leaps through the window, shattering it. Once outside, the shards pause in mid-air, and quickly reform the pane.

Falling multiple stories, the man lands haphazardly, but surprisingly lightly, as if on a cushion of air: there are different rules at play here. On the stone surface of the garden terrace of the courtyard, he stands, brushing himself off out of habit. He looks around, examining his surroundings; to his right, he notices a beautiful young woman in a sheer peplos sitting at a stone table, reading, and enjoying the fresh air. She stares at him quizzically. He is not from this land.

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Sam Secours, P.I.

Posted in Detective, Fiction, Horror, Sci-Fi on August 11, 2009 by GuNNhead

A shadowed figure walks slowly down the sidewalk of a narrow street. Clouds hang heavy with awaiting rain overhead as he passes by dim street lamps. The trenched man pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his inner breast pocket, and removes the last one. He places it in his mouth, and returns the pack, composing his lapels in one swift movement. Adjusting the brim of his fedora, he casually lights the cigarette, and extinguishes the flame with a quick breath. Sam Secours, private eye. His thoughts meander around his life and he takes in the inky scenery.

This could very well be the foremost important case I’ve ever taken, which is saying a lot, as only a few short years ago, I didn’t deal with this kind of bats in the belfry-cuckoo stuff. I worked normal cases, missing people, mysteries that the police couldn’t be trusted with. It was just like how you’d expect, dames coming in with more money than they knew what to do with, throwing it at me, sending me on wild goose chases. It was ridiculous, but I loved every smoky, drunken second of it, deep down. I was the best in town, I could solve any case, it was almost too easy, I could just see the clues, read people like words out a book. Until, of course, I took a vacation. That vacation changed everything, I took a boat out to sea, and what I found there was not the peace and quiet I wanted, it was another damned case. Monsters had had their doubloons stolen by pirate ghosts, and, well, haphazardly, I solved that case like all my others. Returning back to my office the following week, I’d found that word had spread to all sorts of phantasmagorical beings. It’s been like that ever since.

37 Orchestra Ave., a small and run-down three story building. The man enters through the dilapidated and creaky door. Starting up the murky stairwell, the door falls flat behind him, shattering what remained of the glass. He continues up to the second floor, and enters the second door on the left; same layout as his office building. A fine mist pools across the floor, and around his feet. He inhales the last of the cigarette, and tosses the butt down, snuffing out the smoking remnants with his shoe, twisting. As the smoldering remains die out, a spectral silhouette appears across the room; its haunting voice emanates, echoing throughout the room.

“So, you decided to take the case, eh, Sam?”
“Could I have not?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“So, what’ve you got for me?”
“Not much, I’m afraid; the details are murky and ill-defined.”
“They always are; shouldn’t have expected more, even when taking a case from you.”
“You have to find out who killed me, and stop them.”

Light shines in from the streets onto the face of the spectral entity: an ethereal Sam Secours; body riddled with bullet holes.

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