This is too cool. One of my good friends, the immortal Todd Martin has now been seduced by HorrorNews.net to review horror novels. I am thinking it is time to unleash my master plan to start write a horror novel for NaNoWriMo now.
MUWAHAHAHA!
Anyway, he just reviewed HEINOUS written by Jonathan Moon. This is pretty cool considering Todd has devoted his mind and life to the destruction and ruination of all who would dare to stand against the terrors to be within tales of horror.
Check out the review and wet your appetite just a little for some horror fiction. - HorrorNews.net
Saturday, October 24, 2009
That's something to wake up to
I woke to a text message this morning asking if I had heard about one of the instructors at my school. I was a bit freaked out to be honest. Afraid something had happened to him. Sadly though it would seem he was arrested for some alleged behavior unbecoming of an instructor. It seems a little weird because this is an instructor who when mentioning some of the more lewd behaviors of the Romans and Greeks he would get embarrassed and flustered talking about it.
It makes a bit sad because this man is one of my two favorite instructors at the school. He's definitely my favorite instructor for the regular classes.
Here's hoping that it was just someone who upset that they didn't get the grade they wanted on something, or worse yet an obsessed student who just couldn't have the instructor so they filed a complaint.
That always seems to happen around here. It happened at my middle school with 2 science teachers, at my high school for 3 other teachers. Maybe I should stop going to school. I think I may be bad luck for the weirdo teachers who do things a little different.
It makes a bit sad because this man is one of my two favorite instructors at the school. He's definitely my favorite instructor for the regular classes.
Here's hoping that it was just someone who upset that they didn't get the grade they wanted on something, or worse yet an obsessed student who just couldn't have the instructor so they filed a complaint.
That always seems to happen around here. It happened at my middle school with 2 science teachers, at my high school for 3 other teachers. Maybe I should stop going to school. I think I may be bad luck for the weirdo teachers who do things a little different.
Fink - Survivor (SoRD)
They call me Fink. I’m not entirely sure why the name stuck. I guess it’s because I lie. It’s what I do. If I’m speaking I’m lying, at least according to most. We actually came up with a rule; I have to announce when it’s my true statement or statements of my day; yes, it’s that bad. My lies though, my tales, my way of speaking, does have its advantages. I have been able to talk my way out of more situations that would have resulted in a fight or even death than anyone else in our clan. I don’t have Crenshaw’s rage or strength. I’m not able to bulldoze my way through this new world we find ourselves in. Don’t get me wrong, I can hold my own in a fight, albeit it’s never a fair fight when I’m involved. Crenshaw appreciates that at least, the other just don’t get it sometimes. They live under the misconception that we need to live by a misguided honor system, like a bunch of damn boy scouts. Cheater is what they call you when they’re not willing to do whatever it takes to win.
That’s why I’m still alive.
That’s why I’m still here.
My name is Fink. And I’m a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.
That’s why I’m still alive.
That’s why I’m still here.
My name is Fink. And I’m a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Imp - Survivor (SoRD)
I don’t remember the way things used to be. This is the only world I’ve really known. The bigs, they talk about it all the time. The neat toys. All the bright lights. The things they used to go and do. The only thing I remember is pain. That’s, that’s all there was. Before that I think it was warm. I, I don’t really know anything else. But I like this new world. This new world is nice. I’ve got Donnie. He watches out for me. He’s the one who found me. Sometime after, um, what he calls, um, the Reckoning Day. I don’t really remember anything. There was just pain. I was stuck with these bigs. They called me their family. Told me they loved me. But they hurt me. They hurt me lots. I don’t know how long they had me. It seems like all my life I was with them, at least, all my life before Donnie rescued me. Something happened. Something bad happened. There was a fight. A bad fight. Not like how my family fought, where they got back up afterward. This fight was different. The ones who said they were my family, they didn’t get up. There was this one, this monster. There was nothing that my old family could do stop him. He killed them all. His bare hands. He, he killed them with his bare hands. There was lots of blood. I was covered in their blood. Like a red, sticky bath. I learned long ago not to scream. I just stood there. Naked. In the middle of the room. Their blood was all over me. He, Donnie, he just looked at me. He started to walk away. Then he shook his head and walked back. Donnie wrapped a blanket around me, picked me up, he carried me out of there. Out of that dark place of pain. Out of hell. Donnie calls me Imp. He tells me I’m his little Imp he rescued hell. I like being his Imp. I get things for him. Take things to people. Get things he can’t get to. It’s fun. I like the games we play. Donnie doesn’t hurt me. He doesn’t let anyone hurt me. It’s not like my old family. I don’t think they were my family. Donnie says family takes care of each other. Donnie is my family now. Donnie and his friends.
My name is Imp. I think it, I think it used to be Cary Anne or something, but now I‘m just Imp. And I’m a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.
My name is Imp. I think it, I think it used to be Cary Anne or something, but now I‘m just Imp. And I’m a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.
NaNoWriMo
I'm debating on whether I want to stick with my original idea of the Survivors of the Reckoning Day for my NaNoWriMo (November is National Novel Writing Month) flashcrazyspeedwrittennovel or if I want to work on one of the other 4 billion ideas floating around causing me brain pains. The only other real option would be to do the Waking Dream or even the Death in the Meat Locker. Granted I'd be cheating just a little on the latter since it has about 10k words already. I figure it's not too bad to hop on that idea, but I'm afraid it's going to end up being a cute little novella instead of a full-on novel sadly.
So many choices. So little time. If only I didn't have 5 tests and another 2 writing projects due in November then maybe I could really cause myself some pain and crank 2 works.
Decisions, decisions. I guess in the meantime maybe I could do another character introduction from my Survivors story. That sounds like a good time to me.
So many choices. So little time. If only I didn't have 5 tests and another 2 writing projects due in November then maybe I could really cause myself some pain and crank 2 works.
Decisions, decisions. I guess in the meantime maybe I could do another character introduction from my Survivors story. That sounds like a good time to me.
Crenshaw: Survivor of the Reckoning Day (SoRD)
December 21, 2012. It was the day our world ended. It came in a flash of light. The attacks were without warning. We never knew what hit us. The World Federation, made up of four of the world’s super powers attacked with weaponry only dreamed of in sci-fi stories. America and the British Isles were hit the hardest. Lasers. Fucking lasers from outer space. Satellites, like the “Star Wars” weaponry spoken of in the 80’s, rained fire and death on American cities simultaneously. It was all we could do to survive. D.C., New York, L.A., Denver, Houston, all gone in moments. Other cities destroyed, leaving millions dead in moments. It wasn’t nuclear. Though many of us who survived wish it had been. Then maybe, just maybe, it would’ve taken us with it in the fallout. No, these attacks left death and destruction in their wake, but none of the aftereffects of attacks we had been brought to believe would come.
Now we fight amongst ourselves in the cities. Warring tribes, struggling to survive each day. No one thinking of the future. We’re all just trying to get by just one more day. Waiting for a leader to rise. Someone to unite us. To bring us under one banner so we can rise above the chaos, the anarchy. But the leaders, they’re all dead. The Reckoning Day attacks saw to that. There’s only us left. The so-called free nations. The common citizens fighting to survive. Left to our own destruction by the World Federation. I would like to say that I am different. That I will bring the tribes, the gangs, the chaos to order, but I am no different. I am no leader. I am a survivor. I will kill my own mother, my own father, my brothers and sisters, if they look at me with malice in their eye, and think nothing of it.
I am Donovan Crenshaw. And I am a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.
Now we fight amongst ourselves in the cities. Warring tribes, struggling to survive each day. No one thinking of the future. We’re all just trying to get by just one more day. Waiting for a leader to rise. Someone to unite us. To bring us under one banner so we can rise above the chaos, the anarchy. But the leaders, they’re all dead. The Reckoning Day attacks saw to that. There’s only us left. The so-called free nations. The common citizens fighting to survive. Left to our own destruction by the World Federation. I would like to say that I am different. That I will bring the tribes, the gangs, the chaos to order, but I am no different. I am no leader. I am a survivor. I will kill my own mother, my own father, my brothers and sisters, if they look at me with malice in their eye, and think nothing of it.
I am Donovan Crenshaw. And I am a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.
D Day is Coming
The day is coming. It's only 4 days away. Get ready for it. The 27th will change your life. You don't know what I'm talking about? I don't suppose you would. You must be plugged into the messiah, the savior, Kilroy_2.0.
Kilroy_2.0 is here.
Kilroy_2.0 is everywhere.
J.C. Hutchins second novel is being released on October 27th. His first novel, with Jordan Weisman (legendary game innovator), "Personal Effects: Dark Art" is the future of novel and story-telling. It's not just a novel you sit down and read, you interact with the characters, follow the story, call the numbers, and get pulled into the story.
The point you ask, what does this matter to me? I can tell you, J.C. Hutchins will change the way you experience novels. "7th Son: Descent" is the 2nd novel to be publish by the ground-breaking author even though it was the first novel in a trilogy that gained him recognition. You don't have money to spend on a $10 novel? Hey that's cool. Check it out at his Website or BoingBoing because both are running a serialized text version of the novel. Hutch is releasing it as a PDF file to save and check out, and from what I've seen it is the actual novel, artwork or whatever extra is in it, and not just the text files.
If you start reading the text and can't wait for more you can get more background on the characters through the audio stories that have been released as a Prequel Anthology. Oh wait, and if you enjoy the story you can get the original version of "7th Son: Descent" to download as a podcast novel.
Kilroy_2.0 is here.
Kilroy_2.0 is everywhere.
J.C. Hutchins second novel is being released on October 27th. His first novel, with Jordan Weisman (legendary game innovator), "Personal Effects: Dark Art" is the future of novel and story-telling. It's not just a novel you sit down and read, you interact with the characters, follow the story, call the numbers, and get pulled into the story.
The point you ask, what does this matter to me? I can tell you, J.C. Hutchins will change the way you experience novels. "7th Son: Descent" is the 2nd novel to be publish by the ground-breaking author even though it was the first novel in a trilogy that gained him recognition. You don't have money to spend on a $10 novel? Hey that's cool. Check it out at his Website or BoingBoing because both are running a serialized text version of the novel. Hutch is releasing it as a PDF file to save and check out, and from what I've seen it is the actual novel, artwork or whatever extra is in it, and not just the text files.
If you start reading the text and can't wait for more you can get more background on the characters through the audio stories that have been released as a Prequel Anthology. Oh wait, and if you enjoy the story you can get the original version of "7th Son: Descent" to download as a podcast novel.
Cluttered
This may be a little cluttered and have several posts go up over the next couple days as I transfer ideas and things written elsewhere to this singular locale. I'm hoping this will work out a little better than arguing and fighting with the random updates that come up on the old stand-ins of social media. No more weird blog navigation through Myspace. No more trying to figure out where the actual posts are versus the insane clutter from news feeds on Facebook. This should be fun. I can't wait.
Zombies versus Cavemen
Zombies Versus Cavemen
Thrag lived for the hunt. He saw himself as predator, and could lead his tribe to take down even the largest mastodon. But this…this was beyond what he knew. The dead rising from their graves, wearing the moldered faces of family, faces of the tribe? This was madness. Even old Turlock, the shaman, was no help.
Indeed, he had been one of the first devoured.
Thrag and a handful of the tribe had sealed themselves up in a cave. Most felt comforted that the dead weren’t getting inside. But not Thrag. He was too much of a hunter to play at being prey.
Thrag did not understand why the dead walked, and why they hungered for the flesh of other tribesmen. He understood two things: the strength of his arms, and the strength of his stone ax. Trusting in those, Thrag moved aside the barricade, his mighty arms complained at the effort of moving the boulder single-handedly. None of the other surviving tribesmen felt the desire to move out into the mass of risen flesh. They all seemed to believe that it was the will of the gods that the dead rise again as punishment for past transgressions. But Turlock was dead and now his mutilated body moved among the dead masses as it shambled about mindlessly. Without their shaman most of the tribe seemed to feel there was no way to appease the gods. Ruination and damnation were all that remained for the survivors.
Unlike the others, Thrag did not subscribe to this belief. The gods in which he believed honored bravery, strength, and the hunt. He would sooner die in battle than be hunted or cornered and left to starve.
Much to his surprise the risen were not at the mouth of the cave in which he and his tribe had sealed themselves. They were more than a stone’s throw down the hill except for two who had wandered up the hill away from the risen masses and one that did not have legs and was dragging its way up the hill toward the cave using only its arms. Thrag moved down the hill toward the injured risen without much thought to stealth. If he was to find the weakness of these unholy creatures then it would be best to attack the injured. When he got near the creature his step faltered and his breath caught. It was his own father. He had been dead for more seasons than Thrag could remember and his desire to test these risen creatures waned. “Father?” Thrag whispered hoarsely, but the only response from the risen was a low groan. It changed its coarse toward Thrag instead of directly toward the cave at the sound of his voice. “Father, what has happened?”
Thrag could see that the creature’s flesh had rotted and decomposed to such an extent that more bone was visible on the once meaty arms than flesh. He circled the creature and approached from behind, yet it did not turn to face him. Thrag then realized that the creature’s eyes had long since been eaten away and it paused momentarily after each difficult stroke to move itself to listen and sniff at the air. “Forgive me father,” he whispered and set his jaw as he raised his stone axe above his head before bringing the weapon down in a mighty arc and hacked through the risen’s left arm just above the elbow.
The creature did not cry out in pain. It did not even seem to recognize that it had been attacked other than it stopped and frantically turned its head from side to side as it tried to determine what had happened. It sniffed the air in short, rapid intakes and cocked its head to the side like a wolf as it listened. Thrag deftly stepped around the creature and brought his axe down again, this time he severed the risen’s right arm at the shoulder. Again the creature sniffed wildly at the air and cocked its head to listen. When it tried to move the stubs of its arms wiggled. When it was unable to make any progress it began to wriggle and snake its body, but only rolled from side to side and found it was nearly incapacitated.
“Evil beast, just die,” Thrag growled as he raised his axe a final time. This time he brought the axe down and severed the creature’s head. Its body wiggled for a few seconds before it ceased all movement. Its head had rolled a few feet back down the hill and Thrag poked at the severed head to turn it so he could look at the rotten face and was finally satisfied that the risen could be slain. He gripped the severed head by its crown, his massive, powerful hand dug into the soft flesh and weakened skull as he carried it back to the cave where his still living tribesmen hid. Thrag strode with purpose and confidence when he entered the cave and tossed the head down before the survivors. “The risen creatures can be killed,” he called out to his tribesmen. “Now grab your weapons and make your ancestors proud. We will wipe this scourge from the face of this land and give our dead the honored rest they deserve!” A cry rose up from the cave in support. The roar of the surviving tribesmen echoed through the cave like rolling thunder and Thrag smiled broadly. Perhaps they would survive this night after all.
The men gathered at the mouth of the cave with their stone axes in hand and their clubs rested on their shoulders. The women and children remained in the cave, no longer did they huddle in the shadows, but they did not emerge to watch the remaining men march to battle. “Take the heads of these risen creatures,” Thrag growled. The men watched as the creatures slowly shambled up the hill toward the sound of the cry that had erupted from the cave. Thrag raised his axe above his head and let out a mighty cry that was followed immediately by the other hunters of the tribe. There were only fifteen of them now, but if the rest of the risen creatures were as fragile as his own father then they just might be able to put their ancestors to rest once and for all. The tribesmen rushed down the hill at the unholy army before them; their own bloodlust matched that of the risen dead. Thrag led the charge into their enemies, lost in his own rage he tore through anything that stood in his path.
As the hunters fought their way through the risen masses they lost track of how many destroyed creatures they left in their wake. It was as if all their burial grounds had risen from the grave. There were so many creatures to fight through. Thrag, along with his tribesmen, noticed that as they tore through their enemies the creatures became quicker. It was as if the more recent dead possessed a quickness and strength the first risen did not. Thrag noticed too late that four of the creatures had moved to flank the band of hunters. They did not move like the shambling, slow moving creatures. These four moved on all fours, their powerful arms and legs driving them forward at speeds that would rival that of the tribe’s hunting wolves. He called out a warning to his tribesmen, but it was too late and two of the creatures leapt over two of the slower risen and drug two hunters to the ground with them.
The slower creatures fell onto one of the men. Their mouths worked frantically as they bit and gnawed on the leg of the nearest hunter to them. Thrag rushed to aid the fallen hunter, Shamafu. His friend struggled to wield his club while on his back. Shamafu brought the weapon up in both hands and managed to block an attack from the faster creature as it tried to bring both its club-like fists down on his chest. Thrag ignored the slower risen for the moment, span around and swung his axe through the top of the creature’s head. It stood there for a second, then turned its head slowly to look at Thrag before it fell to the ground. Shamafu kicked his legs as he tried to free them from the creatures, but they had both fallen across his legs and were gnawing on his left leg. Thrag kicked one of the creatures in the side, knocking it off the hunter, then swung the axe in an upward motion and ripped the head from the risen that remained on his friend. Another hunter broke from the group and brought his club down on the second creature’s head as it rose to its hand and knees. The dark blood and gore exploded from its skull to cover the man’s legs below his knees and he smiled grimly back at Thrag. The other fast moving creature lay in a butchered heap among the hunters, but it had not been dispatched before it was able to kill a tribesman. Thrag turned to his slain comrade and with no satisfaction used his axe to cut off the man’s head before he suffered the same fate as the other risen dead.
There was a brief respite from the onslaught. The creatures waited about twenty feet away from the band of hunters uncertain as to what to do after the faster creatures had been dispatched. Thrag looked about quickly to locate the other two threats he had seen flanking them moments before and noted with some satisfaction they had circled back around behind the slower mass of creatures. He looked down at Shamafu and tears welled in his eyes. The two of them had been friends since birth and now he watched in despair as his friend struggled to his feet. The other hunters stood more than an arm’s length away, uncertain as to what they should do now. Thrag gripped his axe tightly in his sweaty hand, the muscles in his powerful arms flexed as he gripped and re-gripped his weapon trying to decide what should be done.
“I can still fight,” Shamafu growled and reached his left hand up to his friend. Thrag paused for only a moment before he gripped his friend’s wrist and pulled him to his feet. That was all he needed to know. It was still his friend before him and not one of the creatures. “It will take more than that for those risen beasts to kill me.” Thrag smiled at his friend’s grim determination and clapped him on his meaty shoulder, then turned to face the horrors that awaited them.
The creatures that had showed caution just minutes earlier now moved toward the hunting party with more confidence. Again Thrag raised his axe, now covered in dark, sludge-like blood, and the hunters bellowed another war cry. This time the creatures roared back at them, drowning out all thought, then rushed the remaining hunters. The group of hunters were an unbreakable wall as the initial rush came upon, but as the fight continued their attacks carried less power and precision. Swings that had earlier felled the risen creatures in one mighty attack now missed their target and left the creatures either maimed or merely knocked them back for a moment before they attacked again with renewed vigor.
The cries of his tribesmen fueled Thrag’s rage as he heard them call out in pain or saw them fall under the risen horde. Shamafu continued to fight along beside him, his injured leg slowed his attacks, but even with the injury he continued to fight back the sea of risen creatures before them.
There was no end in sight. The hunting party’s numbers had been reduced to nine, but then three of the fast, dangerous creatures rushed out mass of rotten flesh and threw their bodies into the hunter to Thrag’s right and Shamafu’s left. When the hunters farther out on the line turned to face the new threat they were overwhelmed by other risen creatures and they were dragged down. The feeding frenzy that followed reminded Thrag of ants when they swarmed over a fallen piece of food that had been left out over night. He reached down and grabbed a club to wield in his left hand and continued to battle. At this point he realized he would not survive the night, but he would not stop. He would never stop.
What seemed like an eternity later Shamafu staggered to a halt. His massive club drug the ground and for a brief moment the creatures backed away just out of reach. Shamafu swung the club in a slow, lazy arc, and the effort caused him to fall to his knees. He cried out in pain at the sudden pressure and jolt to his injured leg. Thrag stepped back to his friend as he tried to stay between Shamafu and the horde they faced. It was then that he realized they were the only two left. One of the fast moving creatures burst out of the wall of enemies with a roar to Thrag’s left. He pivoted quickly and swung his mace low expecting the creature to try to stay below an attack that would normally strike a man in the chest. His anticipation was rewarded and he caught the creature near its waist. Its momentum caused it to flip forward and land on its back at Thrag’s feet. He had already started to swing his axe in a mighty overhand arc and brought it down severing the creatures head.
“I am finished my friend,” Shamafu said hoarsely, barely above a whisper as he looked up at his friend. Thrag turned to face his friend and nodded to him. Shamafu closed his eyes for a moment then lifted his chin and opened his eyes, “Thank you, my friend.”
Thrag yelled with the force of his swing, wanting to ensure that his friend’s death would be as quick and as painless as possible. The stone axe tore through Shamafu’s thick neck, his red blood sprayed across Thrag’s stomach to contrast the black sludge that was already smeared and splattered on him. In that moment Thrag would have let the horde take him. He was utterly alone. His hunting party was dead. His close friend was dead by his own hand. Surely the death of the tribe was certain now as well. But the creatures did not attack. They encircled him, but did not charge. There were still untold numbers of them. As far as Thrag could see the night writhed with their movement. He dropped his weapons and knelt at his friend’s corpse and wringed his hands in the blood that pooled that Shamafu’s headless corpse. He spread his fingers across his own face and smeared the blood from his forehead to his chin. He looked up and smiled at the horrors around him.
Thrag gripped his friend’s mace as he stood. He had never noticed how large, how heavy the weapon truly was. It was no wonder Shamafu had exhausted himself wielding it. He realized at this moment his own weakness. Thrag raised the weapon above his head as he had many times before and let out one last war cry. His voice carried the anger and pain at having failed his tribe. He knew now that none would survive this night. All he could do was send as many of the risen back to the grave as possible. One creature staggered toward him and he swung the mace down into its shoulder, crushing it to the ground. He gripped the weapon with both hands and span around catching another risen as it approached from behind, knocking it’s head over the few creatures who had gathered behind him. Then the onslaught came. He wasn’t even able to swing the weapon again as the risen fell upon him, dragging him to the ground. He struggled as the creatures tore at his flesh, but there was nothing he could.
The last thing Thrag saw was two of the fast moving creatures and several slower risen as they rushed up the hill toward the open cave.
Thrag lived for the hunt. He saw himself as predator, and could lead his tribe to take down even the largest mastodon. But this…this was beyond what he knew. The dead rising from their graves, wearing the moldered faces of family, faces of the tribe? This was madness. Even old Turlock, the shaman, was no help.
Indeed, he had been one of the first devoured.
Thrag and a handful of the tribe had sealed themselves up in a cave. Most felt comforted that the dead weren’t getting inside. But not Thrag. He was too much of a hunter to play at being prey.
Thrag did not understand why the dead walked, and why they hungered for the flesh of other tribesmen. He understood two things: the strength of his arms, and the strength of his stone ax. Trusting in those, Thrag moved aside the barricade, his mighty arms complained at the effort of moving the boulder single-handedly. None of the other surviving tribesmen felt the desire to move out into the mass of risen flesh. They all seemed to believe that it was the will of the gods that the dead rise again as punishment for past transgressions. But Turlock was dead and now his mutilated body moved among the dead masses as it shambled about mindlessly. Without their shaman most of the tribe seemed to feel there was no way to appease the gods. Ruination and damnation were all that remained for the survivors.
Unlike the others, Thrag did not subscribe to this belief. The gods in which he believed honored bravery, strength, and the hunt. He would sooner die in battle than be hunted or cornered and left to starve.
Much to his surprise the risen were not at the mouth of the cave in which he and his tribe had sealed themselves. They were more than a stone’s throw down the hill except for two who had wandered up the hill away from the risen masses and one that did not have legs and was dragging its way up the hill toward the cave using only its arms. Thrag moved down the hill toward the injured risen without much thought to stealth. If he was to find the weakness of these unholy creatures then it would be best to attack the injured. When he got near the creature his step faltered and his breath caught. It was his own father. He had been dead for more seasons than Thrag could remember and his desire to test these risen creatures waned. “Father?” Thrag whispered hoarsely, but the only response from the risen was a low groan. It changed its coarse toward Thrag instead of directly toward the cave at the sound of his voice. “Father, what has happened?”
Thrag could see that the creature’s flesh had rotted and decomposed to such an extent that more bone was visible on the once meaty arms than flesh. He circled the creature and approached from behind, yet it did not turn to face him. Thrag then realized that the creature’s eyes had long since been eaten away and it paused momentarily after each difficult stroke to move itself to listen and sniff at the air. “Forgive me father,” he whispered and set his jaw as he raised his stone axe above his head before bringing the weapon down in a mighty arc and hacked through the risen’s left arm just above the elbow.
The creature did not cry out in pain. It did not even seem to recognize that it had been attacked other than it stopped and frantically turned its head from side to side as it tried to determine what had happened. It sniffed the air in short, rapid intakes and cocked its head to the side like a wolf as it listened. Thrag deftly stepped around the creature and brought his axe down again, this time he severed the risen’s right arm at the shoulder. Again the creature sniffed wildly at the air and cocked its head to listen. When it tried to move the stubs of its arms wiggled. When it was unable to make any progress it began to wriggle and snake its body, but only rolled from side to side and found it was nearly incapacitated.
“Evil beast, just die,” Thrag growled as he raised his axe a final time. This time he brought the axe down and severed the creature’s head. Its body wiggled for a few seconds before it ceased all movement. Its head had rolled a few feet back down the hill and Thrag poked at the severed head to turn it so he could look at the rotten face and was finally satisfied that the risen could be slain. He gripped the severed head by its crown, his massive, powerful hand dug into the soft flesh and weakened skull as he carried it back to the cave where his still living tribesmen hid. Thrag strode with purpose and confidence when he entered the cave and tossed the head down before the survivors. “The risen creatures can be killed,” he called out to his tribesmen. “Now grab your weapons and make your ancestors proud. We will wipe this scourge from the face of this land and give our dead the honored rest they deserve!” A cry rose up from the cave in support. The roar of the surviving tribesmen echoed through the cave like rolling thunder and Thrag smiled broadly. Perhaps they would survive this night after all.
The men gathered at the mouth of the cave with their stone axes in hand and their clubs rested on their shoulders. The women and children remained in the cave, no longer did they huddle in the shadows, but they did not emerge to watch the remaining men march to battle. “Take the heads of these risen creatures,” Thrag growled. The men watched as the creatures slowly shambled up the hill toward the sound of the cry that had erupted from the cave. Thrag raised his axe above his head and let out a mighty cry that was followed immediately by the other hunters of the tribe. There were only fifteen of them now, but if the rest of the risen creatures were as fragile as his own father then they just might be able to put their ancestors to rest once and for all. The tribesmen rushed down the hill at the unholy army before them; their own bloodlust matched that of the risen dead. Thrag led the charge into their enemies, lost in his own rage he tore through anything that stood in his path.
As the hunters fought their way through the risen masses they lost track of how many destroyed creatures they left in their wake. It was as if all their burial grounds had risen from the grave. There were so many creatures to fight through. Thrag, along with his tribesmen, noticed that as they tore through their enemies the creatures became quicker. It was as if the more recent dead possessed a quickness and strength the first risen did not. Thrag noticed too late that four of the creatures had moved to flank the band of hunters. They did not move like the shambling, slow moving creatures. These four moved on all fours, their powerful arms and legs driving them forward at speeds that would rival that of the tribe’s hunting wolves. He called out a warning to his tribesmen, but it was too late and two of the creatures leapt over two of the slower risen and drug two hunters to the ground with them.
The slower creatures fell onto one of the men. Their mouths worked frantically as they bit and gnawed on the leg of the nearest hunter to them. Thrag rushed to aid the fallen hunter, Shamafu. His friend struggled to wield his club while on his back. Shamafu brought the weapon up in both hands and managed to block an attack from the faster creature as it tried to bring both its club-like fists down on his chest. Thrag ignored the slower risen for the moment, span around and swung his axe through the top of the creature’s head. It stood there for a second, then turned its head slowly to look at Thrag before it fell to the ground. Shamafu kicked his legs as he tried to free them from the creatures, but they had both fallen across his legs and were gnawing on his left leg. Thrag kicked one of the creatures in the side, knocking it off the hunter, then swung the axe in an upward motion and ripped the head from the risen that remained on his friend. Another hunter broke from the group and brought his club down on the second creature’s head as it rose to its hand and knees. The dark blood and gore exploded from its skull to cover the man’s legs below his knees and he smiled grimly back at Thrag. The other fast moving creature lay in a butchered heap among the hunters, but it had not been dispatched before it was able to kill a tribesman. Thrag turned to his slain comrade and with no satisfaction used his axe to cut off the man’s head before he suffered the same fate as the other risen dead.
There was a brief respite from the onslaught. The creatures waited about twenty feet away from the band of hunters uncertain as to what to do after the faster creatures had been dispatched. Thrag looked about quickly to locate the other two threats he had seen flanking them moments before and noted with some satisfaction they had circled back around behind the slower mass of creatures. He looked down at Shamafu and tears welled in his eyes. The two of them had been friends since birth and now he watched in despair as his friend struggled to his feet. The other hunters stood more than an arm’s length away, uncertain as to what they should do now. Thrag gripped his axe tightly in his sweaty hand, the muscles in his powerful arms flexed as he gripped and re-gripped his weapon trying to decide what should be done.
“I can still fight,” Shamafu growled and reached his left hand up to his friend. Thrag paused for only a moment before he gripped his friend’s wrist and pulled him to his feet. That was all he needed to know. It was still his friend before him and not one of the creatures. “It will take more than that for those risen beasts to kill me.” Thrag smiled at his friend’s grim determination and clapped him on his meaty shoulder, then turned to face the horrors that awaited them.
The creatures that had showed caution just minutes earlier now moved toward the hunting party with more confidence. Again Thrag raised his axe, now covered in dark, sludge-like blood, and the hunters bellowed another war cry. This time the creatures roared back at them, drowning out all thought, then rushed the remaining hunters. The group of hunters were an unbreakable wall as the initial rush came upon, but as the fight continued their attacks carried less power and precision. Swings that had earlier felled the risen creatures in one mighty attack now missed their target and left the creatures either maimed or merely knocked them back for a moment before they attacked again with renewed vigor.
The cries of his tribesmen fueled Thrag’s rage as he heard them call out in pain or saw them fall under the risen horde. Shamafu continued to fight along beside him, his injured leg slowed his attacks, but even with the injury he continued to fight back the sea of risen creatures before them.
There was no end in sight. The hunting party’s numbers had been reduced to nine, but then three of the fast, dangerous creatures rushed out mass of rotten flesh and threw their bodies into the hunter to Thrag’s right and Shamafu’s left. When the hunters farther out on the line turned to face the new threat they were overwhelmed by other risen creatures and they were dragged down. The feeding frenzy that followed reminded Thrag of ants when they swarmed over a fallen piece of food that had been left out over night. He reached down and grabbed a club to wield in his left hand and continued to battle. At this point he realized he would not survive the night, but he would not stop. He would never stop.
What seemed like an eternity later Shamafu staggered to a halt. His massive club drug the ground and for a brief moment the creatures backed away just out of reach. Shamafu swung the club in a slow, lazy arc, and the effort caused him to fall to his knees. He cried out in pain at the sudden pressure and jolt to his injured leg. Thrag stepped back to his friend as he tried to stay between Shamafu and the horde they faced. It was then that he realized they were the only two left. One of the fast moving creatures burst out of the wall of enemies with a roar to Thrag’s left. He pivoted quickly and swung his mace low expecting the creature to try to stay below an attack that would normally strike a man in the chest. His anticipation was rewarded and he caught the creature near its waist. Its momentum caused it to flip forward and land on its back at Thrag’s feet. He had already started to swing his axe in a mighty overhand arc and brought it down severing the creatures head.
“I am finished my friend,” Shamafu said hoarsely, barely above a whisper as he looked up at his friend. Thrag turned to face his friend and nodded to him. Shamafu closed his eyes for a moment then lifted his chin and opened his eyes, “Thank you, my friend.”
Thrag yelled with the force of his swing, wanting to ensure that his friend’s death would be as quick and as painless as possible. The stone axe tore through Shamafu’s thick neck, his red blood sprayed across Thrag’s stomach to contrast the black sludge that was already smeared and splattered on him. In that moment Thrag would have let the horde take him. He was utterly alone. His hunting party was dead. His close friend was dead by his own hand. Surely the death of the tribe was certain now as well. But the creatures did not attack. They encircled him, but did not charge. There were still untold numbers of them. As far as Thrag could see the night writhed with their movement. He dropped his weapons and knelt at his friend’s corpse and wringed his hands in the blood that pooled that Shamafu’s headless corpse. He spread his fingers across his own face and smeared the blood from his forehead to his chin. He looked up and smiled at the horrors around him.
Thrag gripped his friend’s mace as he stood. He had never noticed how large, how heavy the weapon truly was. It was no wonder Shamafu had exhausted himself wielding it. He realized at this moment his own weakness. Thrag raised the weapon above his head as he had many times before and let out one last war cry. His voice carried the anger and pain at having failed his tribe. He knew now that none would survive this night. All he could do was send as many of the risen back to the grave as possible. One creature staggered toward him and he swung the mace down into its shoulder, crushing it to the ground. He gripped the weapon with both hands and span around catching another risen as it approached from behind, knocking it’s head over the few creatures who had gathered behind him. Then the onslaught came. He wasn’t even able to swing the weapon again as the risen fell upon him, dragging him to the ground. He struggled as the creatures tore at his flesh, but there was nothing he could.
The last thing Thrag saw was two of the fast moving creatures and several slower risen as they rushed up the hill toward the open cave.
That Time of Year Again
It's almost Halloween and true to form another Saw movie has been released. There's blog up talking about the king of horror movies at http://blogs.amctv.com/horror-hacker/2009/10/saw-most-successful-horror-franchise.php by the FDO, Scott Sigler. I'm not entirely on board with the results, but going by how Hollywood measures success I suppose it represents itself. Even if inflation and rising ticket sales pad the numbers. Too bad there isn't a way to measure ticket sales and the worth of the dollar during the hay-day of the horror flicks we all grew up with versus what those stats are today. I don't think the Saw franchise would even come close, but alas that's just complicated a formula for our peanut-brained society. It's like comparing the sales of the new Star Trek movie versus the original Star Wars release. The new stuff doesn't really compare as far as the type of phenomenon, but there's easy to explain that people so no matter what the new "blockbusters" will always outsell the classics that truly hold the title.
So since it's that time of year again, let's have a little fun with it. How about comments about your favorite scene/s from a horror movie or better how about a vignette of original horror fiction. Hook it up folks. Let's get interactive with this social media nonsense instead of just taking the quizzes that tell us if we'll be rich in the future or what our phobia is by questions that are entirely random and have nothing to do with fears.
So since it's that time of year again, let's have a little fun with it. How about comments about your favorite scene/s from a horror movie or better how about a vignette of original horror fiction. Hook it up folks. Let's get interactive with this social media nonsense instead of just taking the quizzes that tell us if we'll be rich in the future or what our phobia is by questions that are entirely random and have nothing to do with fears.
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