THE OFFICIAL SD EZINE

Introduction by Steve UphamThe Pathological Good Samaritan by N.W. DaviesThe Bone Fire by Alison LittlewoodMan of Stone by Bob LockThe Place by Andrew DoneganSeven Years by Paul EdwardsA New Set by Andrew OtewaltThe Autopsy by Sierra BrownThe Wrong Man by Graeme StevensonPestilence Takes a Cruise by Ross WarrenSoulstone Shoals by Mark Howard JonesFalse Pilgrim by Frank Duffy

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Published byScreaming Dreams

The stories in this eZine are works of fiction. Names, characters,places and incidents are either products of the author's imaginationor are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales

or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover illustrationCopyright Steve Upham 2009

All content remains the Copyright of each contributor and must NOTbe re-used without permission from the original Copyright holder(s).

Thank you. No part of this publication may be reproduced in anyform without prior written permission from the publisher.

STEVE UPHAM

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Well there wasnt a Halloween issue of the eZine this year Im afraid. I didtry, I assure you, but sadly no authors had any ween-themed tales readyfor submission this time around. But I hope you enjoy the selection of stories inthis issue. For any authors reading this,dont forget I still need morestory submissions for theChristmas Special, so getwriting! They must havea Christmas or wintertheme. Deadline is thefirst week of December. I am busy working onseveral projects in thebackground, as always, butyou may not see manyupdates on the SD websitefor a while. Ill add detailsto the Whats New page whenI can though, so keep watching. A short intro this time. Ididnt receive any artworksubmissions for this issueeither, so youll have to putup with some of my ownsketches instead! Just something tohelp break up the stories. Some imagesyou may recognize as prelims or variationsof existing work, while others are new ideasfor future illustrations. Dont forget that I would like to featuremore artist showcase pages in the next few issues, so pleasesubmit your work. Artists should send a maximum of TENimages (800 pixels max wide or high, JPG format), details abouteach piece (title, year and any additional info), plus website or blog link.

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N.W. DAVIES

Warren Basil did not normally travel the route alongside the cemetery onhis way home from work, but on Monday there were roadworks and adiversion. The traffic was heavy, bumper-to-bumper all the way, and heconcentrated hard on the car in front. Nevertheless, he saw the old manwalking slowly along the pavement, head down, apparently ignorant of thenoise, the smell of exhaust fumes. Instinctively Warren knew there wassomething wrong, that the old man needed help, his help. He pulled his Ford Mondeo into the edge of the busy road on doubleyellow lines, ignoring the beeping and cursing of other motorists.Inconveniencing a few fellow road users paled in comparison to his need tohelp the obviously distressed old man. You look cold and, he sniffed as he stepped out of the car, obviously inneed of some care and attention. Whats your name? The old man bent and retrieved a half-used cigarette from the pavementnear the railings. There was lipstick on the filter but otherwise it was fine. Hetucked it behind his ear and searched the ground for a match. Can you hear me? Warren raised his voice, speaking slowly and carefully.

Whats your name? The old man turned a puzzled frown on the stranger interrupting hissearch and Warren, priding himself on his ability to read faces, got his firstclear view of the soul needing his help. The man was probably in his sixties, Warren estimated, thin, underfed,dressed in a faded dark suit beneath a beige raincoat that would once havebeen smart but now wore the scuffs and strains of ill use and lack of cleaning.A tidy grey beard covered a narrow, unimpressive chin above sunken cheeksand a sharp, bent roman nose. What do you want? The mans voice was quiet, rasping. For a fleeting moment Warren saw anintensity in the mans blue eyes as they focussed on him, a clearness that beliedthe ageing exterior, before they flicked away, the brightness dying into lifelessblue-grey, the pupils jerking, shuddering, never still. I said, what's your name? You look like you could do with some help. Im fine. And Ive no idea what my name is. What does it matter anyway?Now, go away. Warren shook his head sadly. Didnt know his own name? Obviously no

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N.W. DAVIES

conception of his current condition. The man was blatantly ill and neededimmediate help. He reached out and took a bony elbow in his hand. Come on. Ill get you to the hospital and they can check you over. The man shook free, stumbled slightly, grabbed hold of the cemeteryrailings for support. The sleeve of his raincoat slipped down his arm revealingthin bones visible beneath dry skin that served as a canvas for some of the mostintricate, swirling tattoos Warren had ever seen. He stared, unsettled by wordsthat his limited classical education suspected were Latin, twisting in and out ofthe overall pattern. Here and there faces, almost but not quite human, peeredout. Startled, he stepped back, convinced one of the faces had smiled at him,before the old man released the railing and the sleeve dropped, concealing thedisturbing artwork. This place is important, rasped the old man. I need to be here. Warren, recovering quickly, convincing himself that his imagination wasplaying tricks on him, glanced over the mans shoulder through the gold-topped railings to the cemetery beyond. Here? You mean the cemetery? The cemetery is important. Its my duty to be here. I cant go home. I donteven know where my home is anymore. But why is it so important? Is your family buried here? Your wife perhaps? Wife? The old mans eyes seemed to once again focus for the briefest ofmoments. I never married. It would not have been fair. Warren, despite his eagerness to get the old man to hospital, found himselfintrigued. Not fair? Why not fair? The old mans brow creased as he tried to conjure memories that resistedall efforts to reveal themselves. I I dont know, I just know it wouldnt have been fair. With a surprising ease he sat down on the pavement, crossing his legs,reminding Warren of a yoga teacher he had once had, briefly. I havent slept for such a long time. The rasping voice grew heavy, weary.

I I dont know what would happen if I slept, but it would be bad. I know itwould be bad. Warren sighed, pity merging with the desire to help that his few friendsdescribed mockingly as obsessive. He had to get this old man to a hospital, to

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N.W. DAVIES

Social Services. Is there anybody I could call? Any family or friends who should knowwhere you are? The old man shook his head, eyes glistening with the threat of tears as hetried to remember, tried to understand. I wasnt always alone. Once there were others to share the burden, theresponsibility. But they grew old and died. Now there is only me. He looked up at the young stranger in front of him, the man who exudedpity and concern. Every instinct screamed that this mans ignorance wasdangerous, but he had no idea why. He had lost trust in his instincts, hisfeelings, unable to understand them, unable to remember where they camefrom. Instead he looked at his coat, his suit, his shoes, finding it less upsettingto concentrate on the tangible here and now. I dont remember the last time I changed my clothes. I seem to havealways worn these. A frustratingly vague memory of finer garments, ofcolourful robes and fine silks spiralled across his thoughts but was gone beforehe could focus. Warren sniffed again, wincing at the unpleasant, unwashed odour hangingalmost visibly around the old man. He shook his head sadly. It was tragic seesomeone this confused, this alone. He reached down and once again took theold mans elbow gently in his hand, urging him to stand, to come with him. The old man resisted the pulling hand for a moment and then wonderedwhy. Perhaps the stranger was right? He was cold, had long ago forgottenwhat it felt like to be well fed or to sleep in a comfortable bed, and what wasthe reason for wandering up and down the cemetery railings anyway?Damned if he could remember. The old man felt a momentary panic, which folded into puzzled concernand, finally, confused acceptance. Somewhere there was a reason for the thingshe had done, but they no longer seemed important. At least, not importantenough to bother remembering.

On Tuesday evening, Warren stopped by the hospital to visit the old man. Hewas suffering from malnutrition, exposure and severe amnesia. The doctorswere keeping him in for observation while Social Services attempted to trackdown his family.

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N.W. DAVIES

Warren approved and felt proud of what he had done.

On Wednesday evening, Warren went straight home, the old man all butforgotten as he watched for the next poor soul he could help.

On Thursday morning, at 3am, having seen nothing of Grayador, the lastsurviving Wizard of the Binding, for more than 48 hours, the demons held atbay beneath the rotting corpses in the cemetery ground screamed and roaredand spat their way out into the world of the living.

Copyright Neil Davies 2009

N.W. Davies lives in the North West of England and writes horror and sciencefiction stories. He has a wife, two children and more debts than he cares tothink about. Despite this he still writes stories. Find out more by visiting hiswebsite at : www.nwdavies.co.uk

Hard Winter by N.W. Davies. A new ice age, anapproaching glacier, and driven before it,unimaginable horror.

The winter of twenty-one eighteen was a hard one.A new ice age approached and the movement ofthe glacier over Scotland, while slow, wasconstant and unstoppable. Norman and ChrissieLeonard believed they were safe for a whilelonger, in the almost deserted Liverpool towncentre, but then Norman heard The Roar anddiscovered that man wasn't the only creatureforced from its home by the ice.

Get the ebook here : www.eternalpress.ca/hardwinter.htmlA paperback version is also available to order from : www.amazon.com

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FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

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ALISON LITTLEWOOD

Marjorie shuffled the cards in arthritic fingers, almost dropping them. Elsieand Irene watched; they knew that any offer of help would end in arebuke, and, most likely, the end of the game. They rather liked the game. Orrather, they liked sitting here, exchanging gossip about the village, and usingthe game as a reason to be together. Elsie in particular used it as an excuse toleave her sheltered accommodation for an afternoon.

"It keeps my mind sharp, you know," she'd say, and the young lad on thedoor would nod uncertainly, as though he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

The subject for today's conversation was the village bonfire. Or rather, theend of the village bonfire, for this year's was to be the last. After this Novemberpeople would have to go to Norton for the big fire on the common, holdingtheir children's hands for fear they would get lost.

"There's a lot of strange folk in Norton," said Marjorie, as she offered thepack to Irene. "It won't be safe. Not like here."

"Or neighbourly," said Irene, drawing a card from the pack. "We won't evensee each other, most like. Too many people."

"I remember when everyone knew everybody," said Elsie. "There was us,and those boys from the hill. And the MacKenzies from the school lane. Andthe older ones from the green."

"And we'd all run about in the grass," said Irene. "Do you remember howlong it was? We played cowboys and Indians. And the grown-ups would standthere at the trestle, eating jacket potatoes and soup, and wondering if we werestill there."

It was a proper bonfire, they all agreed. They lamented again thedevelopment that was going to take it away from them.

"Callaloo," said Irene, reading from her card."You know, there are too many folk here as it is," said Marjorie. "With the

new flats on the High Street. And those estates at the top of the hill. We'realmost joined onto Littleham now. Where's it going to end, that's what I wantto know?

"It's not like a community anymore," said Elsie, nodding."A Caribbean soup," said Irene. "A kind of bird found only above the Arctic

Circle."The other two nodded and sighed. "I don't know what they're thinking of,

bringing more in," said Marjorie.

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ALISON LITTLEWOOD

"Comer-inners," said Elsie. Not that they're really in, of course. Not that weask them to our bonfire. Or our dinner at the village hall. Or the tea dance. Theyturn up anyway, though."

"Still," said Marjorie, "It's the bonfire that matters. There's been a bonfire onthe back field since 1445."

"Don't you mean sixteen-something?" asked Elsie. "That's when they triedto blow up Parliament."

"No," said Marjorie sternly, "1445. Don't you know your history? Theyburned a witch there, way back when. And they've had one ever since. To keepthe goodness in and the evil out."

"Well, that's fitting.""It was wonderful," said Marjorie. "The whole community, gathered

together. Purging the one for the strength of the whole. And the wind blew fineand strong, whipping the flames higher, throwing brilliant sparks up, up intothe sky. They could smell it as far away as Norton. So they said."

Elsie stared at her for a long moment."A kind of button fastening used on a gentleman's tunic," said Irene, and

they turned and stared at her instead."Callaloo," she said, helpfully."Oh, that," said Marjorie. "It's some sort of foreign food. We had that one last

week." She passed the cards to Irene, who sighed and began to shuffle."It's a bit cold for a bonfire, anyway," Irene said. "Can't be good for your

arthritis, Marjorie."Marjorie frowned. "Tradition," she said stiffly, "Is what counts. We all know

that."Elsie pulled a card from the pack. "Well, the old ways are the best," she said.

"We all went to those bonfires as kiddies, do you remember? All of us, andeveryone would bring something. Wood for the fire. Home made soup.Sparklers for the children. Parkin, that's what you called community. And wenever had to worry about who owned the field, because it was ours. All of us."

"Except it wasn't," said Marjorie."No. Except it wasn't."Elsie coughed. "Now, she said. This is funny."

"What's funny?" said Marjorie, as though nothing could possibly be funnyat a time like this.

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ALISON LITTLEWOOD

"This card," said Elsie. She began to read, enunciating each word. "Bonfire.From bone fire. From burning the remains of people's dinners, which werepiled outside and burned to discourage rats."

The other two let out a long ooh'. "We could do with discouraging a fewrats around here," said Marjorie.

"Bl fyre," said Elsie. From the Scandinavian. A victory fire whereupon thebodies of one's enemies were piled up and burned."

Marjorie let out a 'hmph'."Of English origin," said Marjorie. "From Edmund Bonner, Bishop of

London, who had three hundred people burned at the stake.""Goodness," said Irene. "That must have been a fire and a half.""Just another 'bone' fire," said Marjorie. "Not much to choose between them,

then. Now, how about some scones?" And she rose to her feet.Just then there was a loud knock at the door. "Whoever could that be?" said

Marjorie, and went to answer it.There were three little boys on the doorstep. One was balanced

precariously on a silver thing on wheels. "Penny for the guy," the tallest said."That's not a guy," said Marjorie. "That's a boy. He's not even dressed up.""Realistic, inhe."Marjorie glared at them. After a long moment, she fished in her apron

pocket, and drew out a purse. Slowly, she snapped it open, still glaring. Shedrew out a coin and presented it with a flourish.

"What's that?" he said."A penny," she said. "For the guy." And she pursed her lips."Toldya we shouldn't ave bovvered," said the guy, jumping to his feet.

"Bloomin' old bat."Marjorie stared as they walked off down her path, dragging the thing on

wheels after them. She narrowed her eyes as the tallest spat into her flowerbeds.Then she closed the door with quiet dignity.

"It has already begun," she said.

Marjorie had on her largest duffel coat, her thickest scarf and her fur-linedleather gloves. Even so, she could feel the cold echoing through her knucklesas she set down a large flask of soup on the trestle table. She could see some ofIrene's toffee apples, and Elsie had baked bread.

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ALISON LITTLEWOOD

"Evenin' Ms Penrose," called a tall grey-haired fellow, who was bendingover the woodpile with a long match.

"Good evening, Mister MacKenzie," she called, pulling her coat tighter. Shedidn't hold with these new fangled ways of talking. 'Ms', indeed. "A fineevening. Cold, though. Time that fire was lit."

"Working on it, Ms Penrose," called the man, and grinned. She rememberedthat grin. Those eyes too, still with the twinkles of light that had once peepedat her through the long grass.

Then two plumes of steam appeared out of the darkness, closely followedby Irene and Elsie. They were huffing out their breath in clouds. Irene swungher arms around herself while Elsie patted her mittened hands together. "Didanyone bring parkin?" she asked.

Marjorie nodded, and the others nodded back, as though all was right withthe world. Just then loud squeals rang out into the night, and there was thethunder of many footsteps, the sound of children crashing throughundergrowth.

"They're so loud these days," said Elsie. "Have you noticed?""Not like us," said Marjorie. "We knew how to behave." She nodded towards

Mr MacKenzie. "Used to, anyway."The children ran around the embryonic fire, whooping. Then one boy

patted his hand to his mouth, making a woo-woo' sound. Irene smiled in spiteof herself.

"Don't laugh at them," Marjorie snapped. "D' you see who they are? That'sthe boy who spat in my dahlias. A penny not good enough, oh no, not for them.Comer-inners, that's who they are; from the estate at the top, I'll be bound. Thenew estate."

The children fled into the grass, their kingdom for a night. Adults gatheredaround the growing fire, chatting, warming their hands, or just staring into itsorange heart. Marjorie stared too, seeing the shapes that danced within it,feeling the red heat on her face, soothing her tired hands. She felt, rather thansaw, Irene jump at her side as something cracked: there came the split and hissof something giving up its centre to the flame.

"Just like then," she said, dreamily. "Everyone there, together. Burning.Purging. Keeping the evil out, the goodness in. Flames, rising higher andhigher..." She stared up into the night for a moment, seeing silver sparks

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ALISON LITTLEWOOD

darting crazily into the sky."Smells like a barbecue," someone said from the other side of Irene. "Are we

having a barbecue?"Marjorie pointed towards the base of the fire where foil parcels glinted,

already turning ashen at the base. Mr MacKenzie had poked jacket potatoesinto the flames, to be scooped out later and eaten. "Be ready anon," she said,still in that dreamy tone of voice. "Be ready soon."

Elsie drew in her breath as something else hissed in the centre of the fire."Did you see that? It looked almost like..."

She was silenced by a look from Marjorie.They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, as the flames burned higher.Then Mr MacKenzie called out, "Let's have sparklers." There was a murmur

of approval. The adults peered into the overgrown grass around them."Ben." One man cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. "Ben.""Jamie," said another. "Come on, we're having sparklers.""Alice.""Sophie.""Tom."They waited. There was silence from the bonfire field. Only the sound of

flames crackling."They're playing hide and seek," said one."Messing about," said another."But where've they gone?" said one young mother, looking anxious."Around and about, I dare say," said Marjorie. "They'll turn up eventually.

Now, how about some nice soup?" She poured some for the woman then wentfor a sparkler. She bent, suddenly nimble, and lit it from the fire. She stood andtwirled it, bouncing up and down.

"Bone fire," she chanted, under her breath. "From burning people's dinnersto get rid of rats."

Elsie and Irene watched as she wrote out Marjorie' with the sparkler."Bl fyre," said Elsie. "To burn your enemies on a pyre.""From Edmund Bonner," said Irene. "Who burned three hundred people at

the stake."Marjorie stood still then, and watched as the sparkler sputtered, and faded,

and died. "Keeping the badness out and the goodness in," she said. "But not

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ALISON LITTLEWOOD

three hundred. Oh no, I don't think three hundred. Not nearly so many as that."And she stared up again, watching the flames dance, the sparks fly, the

dark shapes hidden in the heart of the fire.

Text and Illustration Copyright Alison Littlewood 2009

Alison Littlewood lives in West Yorkshire, England, with a man called Fergus,an unhealthy distrust of cats and a growing collection of books with the word'Dark' in the title. She loves writing and dreaming, and feels uncomfortableunless she is working on a novel. She has contributed to Black Static, DarkHorizons, Murky Depths and Read By Dawn 3. Find out more about Alisonswork at : www.alisonlittlewood.co.uk

ESTRONOMICON CHRISTMAS SUBMISSIONS

Theres still time to submit your work for the fave themed issueof the year - The Christmas Special. Please make sure your stories

have a Christmas or winter theme. Send to the usual address.

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FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

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BOB LOCK

Only the swirling dead leaves were company for her as she tottered homemuch later than she had planned and in much more of a temper than shehad imagined. The staccato clattering of her high heels only compounded theword that she couldnt stop herself repeating, they re-enforced the mantra, andaugmented it with percussion.

Bastard bastard bastard bastard... she muttered with each footfall, untilone of her heels broke and she almost fell flat on her face. She balancedprecariously on one three-inch heel while struggling to remove the other shoe.The errant shoe finally gave up to her struggling and cursing and released herleft foot. The heel fell off into the gutter.

Bastard! she shouted it this time, and then threw the heel-less shoe after itsmissing part. Now limping like a mad woman for a few paces she continuedstomping her way home before finally kicking off the other shoe. Finally, withall control lost, she grabbed it up again and smashed it against a nearby gardenwall. She was so intent on its destruction that she didnt notice the limousinepull up behind her until the window wound down and a voice made her jump.

Are you ok?For a split second she thought it was Michael, hed followed her from the

restaurant and had the gall to actually ask her if she was all right. After hisbetrayal he still had the balls to ask that! She spun around with the ruined shoeheld up like a weapon.

You sack of... she started to say and threw a hand up to her mouth whenshe realised it wasnt him. Oh, sorry, I thought it was someone else.

Are you ok? the man asked again from the cars dark interior. She couldsee he was elderly, his face pale and gaunt in the subdued lighting of thedashboard. His cheekbones were large and protruding, his forehead anexpanse of ashen alabaster. Of the two, she felt she should be asking him if hewas ok.

Im fine, just broke a heel thats all. Kind of lost my temper, its been apretty shitty evening.

Do you need a lift? The wind has picked up, I think its going to rain, theman said and as if by magic she felt the first drop patter down onto her head.Usually she wouldnt have even considered taking a lift in a car with a stranger,but the man was old, the night was getting on and rain was in the air. She nodded.

Id appreciate it. I live about two miles away near the school. You know it?

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BOB LOCK

The passenger door clicked and opened. It had to be remote controlled fromthe dashboard. She was impressed. The waft of leather and expensiveaftershave invited her in. Yes, I know the old school. Please, get in.

She accepted the invitation and smiled while the door closed and the manproffered his right hand. The names Spencer Tracy.

She took his hand. It was cold, hard, knobbles of bone grated beneath theskins surface. She was frightened to squeeze it in case she hurt him. SpencerTracy! Like the film star! I loved Bad Day at Black Rock.

Tracy held onto her hand. I preferred Inherit the Wind, he said as heleaned towards her and his left hand came up sharply and speared into herchest. She gasped, her breath taken away as his blade-like hand pierced herthin coat, dress and body. The ivory-coloured appendage clawed deep into herribcage and before she could scream clutched her heart and squeezed. Thenight grew darker and the wind sighed in unison with her last breath as herhead flopped forward onto the big cars dashboard. Tracys hand remained inher chest cavity and the warmth of her blood gave it more and more flexibilityas it drew in succour, as his body fed off her vitality, as the man gradually flungoff his fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, his genetically alteredmusculature that was slowly turning him to stone. His genetic abnormalitywas momentarily forced into remission until the bone morphogenetic proteinsonce more succumbed to the mutated gene which would again attempt tochange him into a human statue, would force him to go hunt for a respite, fora fix, for another infusion of blood. He withdrew his hand. Gory threads ofcongealing blood, fragments of flesh and bone fell from his fist as he flexed itand marvelled at its suppleness. It always amazed him how quickly his cursedbody recovered. He looked at the girls corpse and at how quickly his victimhad begun to ossify. Tracy leapt effortlessly from the car and raced around tothe passenger side, he had to remove her quickly before she petrified and hewas left with a fossilized corpse on his front seat. It would be impossible toexplain that should he be unfortunate enough to be stopped on his way home.He tutted when he saw the small pool of blood that had collected on the specialrubber matting hed installed in the car, and after he had unceremoniouslydumped the girls body on the pavement, next to her discarded shoes, heplaced the palm of his hand into the quickly cooling blood. The dark liquidseeped into him effortlessly as if he was a sponge sucking up water. He jumped

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BOB LOCK

back into the drivers seat, took a quick look at his now young and virile facein the rear-view mirror and then started the car and pulled away.

Only the swirling dead leaves were company for her as she lay in the gutter,but the staccato noise of her muscles hardening, cracking and creaking seemedto frighten even the wind away and the leaves slowly tumbled to a stop,became frozen in time as she became frozen in death.

Copyright Bob Lock 2009

Bob Lock is a Gower born Welshman, married with two grown-up childrenand two grand-children. After taking early retirement he now spends his timewriting. Keep up with the latest news on his blog at : bob-lock.blogspot.com

Bobs latest novella is available in paperback from : www.amazon.comOr get the eBook version at : www.smashwords.com/books/view/5046

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FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

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ANDREW DONEGAN

Everybody agreed the joint was a dead end...Talk about one-way tickets

The first one opened illegally in an ethical climate fraught with dividedopinion. Theres a word, begins with E, like amnesia but longer. Means theright to take life. Most commonly concerned terminally ill people. Those inconstant pain, addicted to harmful amounts of drugs to dull their ongoingsuffering; blind and bed-bound, senile and stinking. Thats a generally ignorantcomprehension, mind, but Collins for a long time was a generally ignorantyoung man. That was until he suddenly came to his senses, realized what hewas, and wanted nothing more to do with himself.

Collins was young and healthy when he enrolled. After the laws werepassed, you couldnt just pop in on the spur of the moment anymore. You hadto fill a form out and wait ten working days for the thumps-up. The process,likened to a blood-test, was nothing more than an overnight stay at a clinic. Thesuccess of each application largely depended on age. At 27, nobody doubtedyour intentions, but a teenager could never pull it off. The service was not opento people in prison.

There was a small fee anybody could afford. One could even reverse thecharge to a relative afterwards. Anonymity could not be promised this way,however. The biggest downside, most agreed, was the lack of a burial. It wasbelieved almost anything could and would happen with the bodies exceptanything anybody knew about. There were no obituaries, but a monthly list ofnames was printed in a paper available by written request. Not many knew themailing address.

Suicide rates plummeted. Council estates were earmarked for the bulldozer.Organ prices dropped.

The date drew closer. Just a couple of days to burn now. He still had hisgirls pushbike to get around on and say his goodbyes, if the chain could sweatit out for a one or two more journeys. Oddly, it was the brakes that went.

Hardly anyone he spoke to during his final few evenings alive took muchnotice of him when he passed on advice or apologized for certain misgivings.They were used to it from him. The hardest goodbyes were to the people hedidnt love. Walking from place to place, he realized just how few people heactually knew in the world.

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ANDREW DONEGAN

Thanks, sealed the last word from his closet friend, with a firm handshake.No trying to persuade him otherwise like one or two others.

He read Romans 7 during the long shuttle trip, seating himself within sightan attractive woman, and wasnt surprised to find himself sharing a wardwhen they arrived with the only other three people present on that shuttle.

The ground floor of a monolithic gothic megastructure was their new homenow. There were many more shuttles in the car park. Off the occupants wereled, then inside and processed like lemmings onto wards. It didnt take long atall for the lethal injections to be administered.

It was now early morning and he hadnt slept a wink.Hey, the person in the adjacent bed whispered. It was a nice-sounding

womans voice. The attractive one.Leave me alone. Im dead.Cmon... whats your name? Im Tammy.Collins, he sighed, rolling over. What is it?Our blood type must be immune to the poison. It obviously hasnt worked

on us.He rubbed the dried speck of blood on his arm. What time did we get the

shot?Why dont you sit up? You cant just lie there with a death-wish. I wonder

what time it is...The other beds were still. Tammy went round checking, confirming each

occupant dead one by one. By the time she got back, Collins played dead thesame way he had as a child playing Cowboys and Indians: head tilted back,arms splayed, mouth wide open. She found it amusing, but not as funny as theloud fart from the other side of the windowless dorm.

I thought they were all dead...Tammy checked the door. Locked. Electric fob needed. No handle or glass

pane or keyhole. No crack around the frame or underneath. The building fromthe outside had looked like a cathedral to her, but from the inside it looked likea painted bomb-shelter.

Time passed. Lots of it.Collins didnt try kicking his way out until thirst set in but the lock was too

tough anyway. They shouted for help. They felt each others pulse. Theylaughed when someone burped. They discussed every possible scenario before

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ANDREW DONEGAN

eventually talking about themselves.There were some similarities between them, but not many. He had tattoos:

She didnt. He was right-handed: She wasnt. He had sisters and brothers: Shedidnt. She could touch her elbow with her tongue: He could click his toes.

The dorm seemed to chill. They pulled their beds up next to each other.They faced each other. They swore they would not resort to cannibalism.Someone would have to return soon. And someone did. A lonely old white-bearded night-porter guy with a baseball cap and sterling bracelets.

Theyve been doubling the dosage on your types since the latest results twomonths ago. Did you fill out the forms correctly? Formula needs more rework.I can send the pair of you packing at exactly the same time right now if you like,save you going though the rebooking phase. Theyll want to test you andchange your mind, see. My way is better, too. It wont just knock your lightsout. Youll have a recreational feeling.

Once they were tucked up under the covers again, the night porter gavethem capsules to be dissolved under their tongues. This was the pricey method,he told them, how the high-rolling professionals with gambling debtspreferred to go. He had access to every drawer and cupboard in the building.

Itll take about ten minutes, he said, leaving the room. Cross your indexand middle fingers together if you have a change of heart at the end. I haveanother ten minutes or so in which to bring you back.

Locked in again, Collins and Tammy soon fell into a blissful embrace.Words were not needed. It was pointless trying. Their brains were racing toofast to pause and pluck a phrase from the voice-box. They seemed to be fallingthrough the very fabric of the bed into a welcoming well of silky never-endinglinen. They were very still, but it felt like they were tumbling over each other.

Collins had a change of nerve as their world gently dulled, seizing a pieceof his mind back just before he feared it would be too late, but Tammy wouldntlet him cross his fingers. He kept trying, all in a bother, yelling Christianmurder at the top of his lungs with no sound coming from his mouth, butTammy was stronger than him in more ways than one and had linked boththeir fingers together, so it was impossible for him to throw the towel in. Whenhe stopped struggling he realized he had fretted for nothing and was calmagain, thankful to her for knowing this oblivion was what he really wanted.

Her presence was what he had always needed. That certainty, by his side,

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ANDREW DONEGAN

no matter what. Things would have been different a lot earlier, and for a lotlonger, if only he had found that company, that comfort. Things, at the veryend, for a short while, were different now.

At least.At last.

And in the place where they had gone to die they for the first timestarted to live.

REAWOKEN, like toys with a change of batteries, all those whoflocked to the place were forced to fight with each other in aspectacularly brilliant chamber dazzling with bleached blast-lighting.

On the stark white floor their blood looked brilliantly crimson,almost neon.

There were weapons on the walls. There were trapdoors beneaththeir feet. There were nasty surprises rigged to timers.

The objective couldnt be simpler: Slaughter another human beingfor yet another human beings entertainment.

Win or lose, everyone in the place was dead anyway.Youre up, Collins was told by a disembodied voice over the

intercom.And if I dont fight?Youll be raped by a machine. Refuse twice and youll be

impregnated by it.Collins stepped naked into the arena. His opponent was none

other than Tammy. She could hardly walk. Each step was only severalinches long, as if her ankles had been tied together. Her face was ajellied mask of sedated howling pain. She dragged a heavy axe besideher.

Whatever you do, she said, dont refuse to fight.TammyShe tossed him the axe and collapsed to her knees before him, her

hands on his hips. Kill me quick, Col, please. If you love me youll killme quick. Take my head off. Take my head off. Take my head off andthen kill yourself.

Movement behind him spurred him into action. There was no

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ANDREW DONEGAN

time to consider. This was euthanasia! He lifted the axe high, lininghis swing up, but he couldnt do it. He could see himself lodging it inher shoulder or the side of her head; he would then have to wrench itfree to repeat-swing the job, and that he just couldnt do.

Tammy looked up at him with her big wet eyes and pasty drainedface, before orderlies dragged them both away.

Whats your name?Tammy.Im Collins.Hi Collins.You look tired.Im fine. How long was I out?I dont know. You were already asleep when I got on the shuttle.Why did you sit next to me? She glanced around at all the empty seats.

There were only three other people aboard. One of them sneezed. Anothercoughed.

He shrugged. You were talking in your sleep. Sounded like some kind ofnightmare.

What did I say?You said hey there good-looking, park your butt here next to me.She sat up. I dreamt we were sent to an underground lab to be eaten by

genetically-engineered monsters.Thats weird.Why?Because Ive just dozed off for five minutes, and I had a bad dream too.

Probably caught it off you.What did you dream?It doesnt matter, but I didnt like it. Their eyes held. What happened? In

your life, I mean.My house burned down. She drummed her fingers on his knee. What

about you?I run a seven year old boy down on a pelican crossing.You have the greyest eyes Ive ever seen.You, he thought, have the bluest. Why dont you go back asleep? You can

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ANDREW DONEGAN

lean on me if you want.Can you wrap your arm around me? Im a little cold.Nee bother, Collins said, and through the window he glimpsed The Place

peeking over the horizon, thunderhead-piercing Gaia spikes or turrets atopits externally-lit gothic curtain wall. It is getting a bit chilly.

Copyright Andrew Donegan 2009

Andrew Donegan started writing when he was 16 to cope with the pressures ofadolescence. At 30 he has now completed 12 novellas and won a short storycompetition judged by Nicholas Royle. His goal is to have at least one of hisbooks published and available to rent in the local library. He enjoys watchingcomedy horror movies and listening to foreign symphonic metal. His hobbiesare weightlifting, football, and synthesizers. Andrew is from Widnes.

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- 24 -

FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

- 25 -

PAUL EDWARDS

Its been seven years. Seven years of pain, hardship, guilt. Im going back to the start, to where it all began.

Handing over my ticket, I board the train and search for a seat at the back. Asmall family watch me, and I note that the teenage girl is roughly the same ageI was when I rub my eyes. The girl smiles, but I cant bring myself to smile back. Instead,I sit by a window and stare out at the snow-banked hills, the trees brittle withfrost, the empty farmhouses, the black clouds fragmenting in the sky

Shes unreachable. A small room. Dr Brookes at his desk, frowning as I sit in tense, awkward silence.

How you feeling? the doctor asks, peering over his glasses at me. What wereyou thinking, eh? Nothing, I whisper, softly, and I blink from my reverie and turn to seethe girls still watching me, her head cocked a little, the shadows thrown bytrees flickering across her face. Tests. Scans. X-rays. No discernible damage.

Well monitor it, Dr Brookes said. Operate if necessary.Time passed, and I rarely thought about any of it.

Only very recently, when things have got bad.

My hairs damp with sweat. I feel apprehensive, despite the fact that there willbe no one at home to greet me. Daddys gone now. He died of a heart attack onmy twenty-first birthday. Im going to claim whats mine, but Im afraid. A partof me wanted this, to return, but not under these circumstances. I think ofDaddy, and the person he was; the person I was before I fell ill. I dont remember a thing. Who was it that said happiness paints white?

Im going home.

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PAUL EDWARDS

An argument. The bitter taste of self-loathing. When I smashed that mirror, didI really see what I thought I saw in the glass scattered across the floor? And then, in blind rage, I tried to eat the glass, to end it all, but I onlymanaged one shard before Daddy burst in, found me, dragged me off to thehospital. He spent nights and nights trying to reconstitute that old, silver-framedmirror. Eventually he gave up, tired, miserable, half-mad, and I watched himthrough the keyhole of my door hide the pieces under a floorboard in my room. Seven years. Seven years lost in a wilderness of my own making. Abusive relationships.Violent, black depressions.

You can ever only see parts of yourself, the doctors said. Never the whole. The girl is talking to her brother, sharing a joke, laughing. I cant rememberthe last time I laughed like that. My stop approaches. I stand, grip the seat in front, shuffle along thecarriageway. The girl watches and whispers something to her brother. I onlycatch the tail end: in her own purity and innocence of heart.

I let myself in with my key. I slip into the hall, then edge slowly, inexorably, upthe stairs. Im inside my room now, and nothing here has changed. Everything is as Ileft it a rocking horse in the corner, music box on the dresser, a pile of clothesfolded neatly by the side of the bed. I crouch, then twist the screws in the floorboard until theyre free. I lift thefloorboard, pick out the little red pouch amongst all the dust and dirt and deadwoodlice. Then I loosen the drawstrings and tip the fragments out on to thefloor. I piece them together slowly, like its a puzzle, fitting each segment of glassin its own rightful place. Shadows creep, lengthen. A large shard slots into the mirror, and I can almost see myself. A sighescapes me, a sob, and then, frantically, I scrabble around for the last piece but I know its not there. I stare at the image, at the hole where part of my face should be, and I touch

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PAUL EDWARDS

and then rub my stomach.

I charge downstairs. I rattle through the cutlery drawer. I take out the longestknife I can find. Then, upstairs again, I kneel and tremble beside the mirror. I grip the knife, grit my teeth. Plunge the knife deep into my belly. Red. Everythings a terrible, searing red. The knife clatters to the floor.

It has to be there, it has to be there, it has to beI scream, bend over, tear pieces of myself out on to the floor.I cant see it, I cant see it, I cant

Something sparkles, catches my eye. I lean right over, hands smearing jelly and gristle and blood, hair trailing inthat dark, glutinous mess. Then I grip the fragment between thumb andforefinger and I scrabble over to that old, ruined mirror on the floor. The piece slots into place. I cock my head, cough blood. Darkness blurs the edges of my vision. I lookbeautiful. Fourteen years old again. Frozen. Gorgeous. Complete. Missed you, I smile, then everything goes black.

Copyright Paul Edwards 2009

Paul Edwards resides in Frome, Somerset. When he's not working, or spendingtime with his family, he writes horror fiction. To date he has had over thirtyshort stories published in various magazines and anthologies. He has had twohonourable mentions in the Year's Best Horror and Fantasy, and in 2005 a shortfilm was made by students of Surrey Institute of Art and Design based on oneof his stories. You can follow Paul at : www.twitter.com/pauledwards666

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FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

- 29 -

ANDREW OTEWALT

Well, they were on sale. They looked SO good. Soft, warm flannel. Yellow,the exact color of butter. It was the start of summer, and the winter bedsets were being cleared out for beach wear. So, I brought them home, andwashed them and folded them and crammed them into the hall closet to waitfor winter. Winter arrived, as it always does. About the third time I woke up inthe night cold, I remembered I had the flannel sheets. I was late to work thatday, because I changed the sheets. That night I slipped into bed, ready for awarm nights sleep. Indeed, it was warm. As if they were already bodytemperature. I don't know why people say they slept like a baby, have you evertaken care of a baby ? They wake up every 4 hours and cry and you have to feedthem and change their stinky diapers. I slept like the dead. The flannel was soft and combed and little hairy. You know, those littlehairs that make the inside feel a little like fur. Once I slid into bed, they held mein place. Every night, I slept better than the night before. Every morning, itseems like it was harder and harder to get up. The flannel sheets would seemso smooth at night, when I slipped in, and kinda grabby when I had to climbout in the morning. Odd as it seems, it was almost as if they gripped more thelonger I had them. Once I was awake, they seemed fine. It was a long winterand I slept more and more. On weekends I found myself so tired that I wascancelling things to do, so I could just sleep. Spring arrived, as it always does.I waited for hot weather to change back to my cotton sheets. What a difference! It was as if I had a different bed. Mid-summer, a distant aunt came to visit. We really didn't know each other,she wanted to move to this area and was only going to stay for a few days whileshe looked for a place. But, we liked each other right away, we drank coffee andtalked until a very early morning hour. It was too hot for a blanket or quilt, soshe used the flannel. This morning, when I awoke, she was caught tight.Wrapped up like a mummy. The sheets had her and wouldn't let go. I triedpulling, tried to unwrap her. I used my good kitchen scissors, and tried to cuther out. The sheets would stick to her even if I cut it into small squares. But, all in all, this is fine. I mean, I was lonely and I really hate to sleep alone.She always seems warm. As if she is always at body temperature. And shenever rolls off her side of my bed.

Copyright Andrew Otewalt 2009

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ANDREW OTEWALT

Andrew Otewalt is busy with two pretty good kids, and is married to his bestfriend. He writes a little, reads a lot, and sometimes sails on San Francisco Bay!A New Set was inspired by an original idea from Marie Headley.

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- 31 -

FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

- 32 -

SIERRA BROWN

This month had seemed to completely swamp Doctor Adrien Miless workschedule. So many dead bodies, and only 24 hours in a day. The entireHamilton county medical examiners office had begun to wonder why so manydeaths were occurring lately. Doctor Miles had thought to himself that perhapsthe planets were aligned in some way that made everyone go bat-shit crazy forthirty days or something. But alas, so goes the life of a medical examiner, youreally never know what kind of firestorm youll get hit with next. The job wasneither for the faint of heart, nor the lazy, and being neither, it fit him perfectly. He sat in the break room and ate lunch with his diener, Melissa. She wasfresh out of grad school, but was proving to be quite an efficient assistant. Hecould tell she was going to be a fine pathologist one day. They both consumedchicken parmesan sandwiches atop a long stainless steel table not unlike theones used in the autopsy room. There had been no conversation for at least thelast ten minutes, apparently they both had worked up voracious appetites andwere happily chewing away. Melissa finally broke the silence; Thank god were nearly done for the day. Tell me about it, these past few weeks have had me exhausted. We needto get out of here early today or were going to start looking like corpsesourselves, he replied. Hate to tell you this, but youre already halfway there she joked. Why thank you dear, he said sarcastically, I take no offense to beingcompared to the dead, they are often more interesting than the living. How true, and speaking of the living, I think our peaceful lunch is aboutto be disturbed. They both turned to look and quickly developed frowns. Here wasdetective Strott, walking towards them, clearly intent on being heardimmediately, lunchtime or not. Strott always seemed a little like he was on theverge of a heart attack, sort of red faced, sweating, and winded 24/7. Doctor Miles, he panted, Ive been looking everywhere for you. Right, well as you can see Im having lunch. Whats the problem? We thought you had left for the day, and weve just brought in anotherstiff for you. Christ, people can sound so ignorant sometimes, Adrien thought. Youve

brought in a stiff for me?! Like its a gift on my fucking Christmas list? Figures, Adrien responded with irritation in his voice. Whats the scoop

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SIERRA BROWN

on this one? White male, John Doe, around thirty maybe, he was found just lying deadin the road. Hit and run? Doesnt look like it. Seems like he just laid down in the damn road to takea nap and died! Some realweird shit, I tell ya. Well, as soon as they get the body settled in, well deal with it. Thanks doc. As Strott walked away Melissa got an exasperated look. I knew today was too good to be true. she said. Of course. I suppose its back to the grindstone with us. Adrien said ashe cleared the table and began the long walk back to the morgue.

The morgue was housed in a small building adjacent to the police station, aplain brick building far more impressive inside than out. The average personin town was totally unaware of what the building was actually used for, andthe police preferred to keep it that way. They thought it cut down the risk ofvandalism. Doctor Miles and Melissa walked through the front door, past thesecretary Linda. She spent her days sitting in this small, yet comfortable office,tending to all the matters relating to the average citizens death. They regardedone another with a smile and wave, and continued through the second doorinto the only other room in the building besides the autopsy room. It was usedfor a lab, and also as a place to get prepped to enter the autopsy room, or cleanup afterwards. They both began the process of scrubbing up to their elbows,and suiting up in full sterile scrubs, booties, and gloves. Melissa donned asurgical mask, but Adrien was accustomed to the stench of death. He didhowever, make sure to grab his chain mail glove he wore, to prevent nickinghis left hand with the scalpel in his right. There was far too much risk thesedays of aids, hepatitis, and god knows what else to not take precautions. When they entered the main room, another of Dr. Miless dieners was there,and had just brought in the corpse. His name was Kyle, and had worked forAdrien for over a year now. His job was more or less to fetch the bodies afterthe death investigator at the scene had looked over it. The body bag lay on theautopsy table, still unzipped, like a giant package of meat waiting to be opened.

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SIERRA BROWN

The main autopsy room was a large cold room with three tables in themiddle. Rarely did Adrien have three autopsies going at once, but they werethere just in case. The room was extremely bright and sterile looking.Everything was either bright white, or gleaming stainless steel. There wereseveral drains in the floors for any bodily fluids that may come gushing out ofa body at any time. At the side of each table was a smaller table for holding thetools of the trade, ranging from small scalpels to large bone saws, all polishedto a perfect shine. There were also scales hanging from the ceiling, much likethe ones you weigh your fruit in at the supermarket, only these were used forweighing dissected organs. It was certainly far from a pretty place to be, but forthe small size and old age of the building, all agreed that they had done quitewell in putting together a fine medical examiners office that any forensicpathologist could certainly appreciate. Good luck with this one, Miles, Kyle said strangest scene Ive been to ina while. So Ive heard. Would you mind giving us a hand here? Adrien unzipped the black body bag, and was surprised to find the corpsestill looking fairly decent, and not much odor at all, compared to some of thereally gooey ones he had encountered. On the count of three, the two men liftedthe body up, while Melissa carefully slipped the bag out from under it. Shethen took the liberty of cutting off the clothes the man was wearing, andplacing those in a container. The hands had been wrapped in paper bags andzip ties. There wasnt much need for it most likely, it didnt seem like there wasany assailant in this case, but it was standard procedure for the investigator tobag the hands to protect any trace evidence that might be left under a victimsfingernails, or anywhere else on their hands. Adrien scanned, swabbed andscraped the body to look for any such evidence, or any strange marks. Hefound nothing obvious yet, but was glad to see that this one was still quite fresh.Lividity had barely even begun to set in, there was only a minimal amount ofblood pooling in the bottom half of his body where he had been lying, and itwas still a faint light purplish color, not the deep purple, almost black that yousee in the later stages of lividity. He pushed open the corpses eyelids andfound a severe case of petechial hemorrhaging. Bright red splotches hadformed on the whites of the eyes from tiny blood vessels breaking inside. Thiswas one thing Melissa never could get used to seeing, it was still really creepy

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SIERRA BROWN

every time. Melissa fingerprinted each finger for identification purposes andset the prints aside in an envelope to send over to the police. This part made herhappy the corpse was fresh, because if theyre too badly decomposed, thepathologist often has to pull the skin off the corpses hand and slip it onto theirown like a glove to get a good print. The external examination was complete,and now it was time to go internal. Kyle, I guess we can manage from here on without you. Theres no needfor all three of us to be locked up in here all day. Adrien said. Thanks, Doctor Miles, are you sure?? Kyle asked. Yea, go on home Kyle headed to the lab to clean up and change clothes before leaving. Adrien made the first incision beginning at the right shoulder, just abovethe collarbone, and then brought the scalpel to the center of the corpses chest,and all the way down past the left of the navel to the pubic bone. He then cutalong the left collarbone the same way, so that the two cuts made a perfect Yshaped incision. He did this with the quick skill and ease of a man who has cutopen many, many bodies. He pulled back these two flaps of skin and flesh toexpose the ribs and chest cavity. Melissa grabbed a large device that resembleda pair of long handled garden pruners and cut along the side of each rib, so thatthe ribs could be removed for the organs to be examined. This always made aloud cracking sound that severely disturbed anyone else around to witness anautopsy, but the two of them were used to it. They lifted out the chest plate, andAdrien took to removing each organ, weighing it, and dissecting it to look forany abnormalities. He did this with extreme precision, yet still it seemed histrained hands were moving quickly. While he was busy with the organs,Melissa was cutting across the back of the scalp, pulling the flap down over thebodys face to expose the skull underneath. She fired up the handheldmotorized saw with its circular blade used for making clean, small cutsthrough the thick bone of the skull, and cut along the under side, and then thetop until the entire piece could be removed. She used a tool that was like asmall crowbar to pull the bone away from the membranous tissue and braininside. It pulled away with a surprisingly loud popping sound, from thesuction still attaching it. Meanwhile Doctor Miles was growing puzzled; he still hadnt foundanything to show any real cause of death. He examined the brain, the cranial

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SIERRA BROWN

cavity, no inch of this body had been spared by the time he was finished, andstill nothing. They had finally placed all the inspected organs into a bag, andlaid it back inside the large cavity of the body. Melissa dear, you take a break, I need to sit for a moment and think aboutthis. He said Sure thing, Ill be out front. Adrien sat in contemplation of what he could be missing. Sure, the cause ofdeath was undetermined occasionally for every pathologist, but thecircumstances surrounding this one were just too odd. He paced and hethought for who knows how long before Melissa walked back in. Come up with any ideas yet? I wish I could say I have Hmm, maybe we ought to ask him she said as she strolled over to thebody, laying splayed open across the table. What happened to you, John Doe?Tell us something, for petes sake. Suddenly the corpses eyes shot open, causing her to reel backwards andnearly fall over a table of surgical instruments. She gasped and was trulyterrified for more than a few seconds before remembering that occasionally afresh corpse will still have involuntary movements of the hands, arms, legs,and even the eyelids. Adrien looked quite startled as well, but he had seen thiskind of thing happen before. It was still scary every time, nonetheless. The twoof them began to laugh at themselves but Melissa still found herselfapproaching the body very slowly, as if she thought it was going to jump upand grab her any moment. Nothing to be scared of Adrien assured her but damn, was that creepyor what? He reached down and closed the bodys eyes. Wow, I need some fresh air after that, care to join me? Sure The two of them walked outside and found that it was already getting dark.They had been working for over 10 hours today. I think maybe we ought to call it a night, I need to sleep on this one beforeI give up for good. Sounds like a good idea Melissa said, lets go pack up for the night andget out of here, Im starting to go crazy.

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SIERRA BROWN

When they went back inside, Adrien froze in his tracks. The corpses eyeswere wide open again. He distinctly remembered closing them, and now herethey were open again. Involuntary movement or not, this was just weird. Heheard Melissa behind him swearing at the sight of it, and now found himselfapproaching the body extra slowly too. He reached over from a distance toclose the eyes again, when they actually shot over and looked at him. In thatsplit second, before Adrien could even move, the corpses arm jolted up andgrabbed Adrien by the wrist. The force this thing was grabbing him with wastremendous, he knew it could easily crush his wristbone if it wanted to, andnow Melissa was screaming Oh shit, oh shit, Adrien!!! She ran over and tried to pry the cold deadfingers from the doctors arm, but it just wasnt going to happen. Then she sawit actually scanning the room, looking at her with those bloodied eyes,confirming this was much more than natural involuntary movements. Adrienwas still struggling with the corpse, pulling away with all his might, but hisstrength was no match for this undead man. It sat straight up on the table, thebag of organs spilling out and hitting the floor like a sack of rotten potatoes. Hefinally wrenched his arm loose, and could already see the handprint beginningto bruise. He stumbled backwards, as he couldnt take his eyes off what he wasseeing. He knew he should run, he knew he should get Melissa out of here, buthe was in such shock that he couldnt do anything sensible. Melissa on theother hand, was attempting to take control. She ran to the janitors closet, andfrantically searched for something she could use as a weapon. It becameapparent that John Doe had gotten a hold of Adrien once more, because shecould hear the two scuffling around from down the hall. It was amazing howquiet an altercation could be when one of the people was a cadaver. She finallyfound a small hatchet the groundskeeper had used last fall, and it lookedsufficient enough to her. She went running back down the hall, eyes wild,hatchet waving, and began swinging viciously at the corpse as hard as shecould while it continued to wrestle with Dr. Miles. It showed practically noresponse in its cold, dead eyes, as the hatchet left huge gashes in its soft flesh.In any other circumstance, blood would have been spraying all over the threeof them, but fortunately, corpses dont bleed much. As it fought with Adrien,the incision in its torso was starting to flap open, like two wings on the front ofhis chest, exposing a massive empty cavity inside its body. Melissa was getting

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SIERRA BROWN

tired from swinging the hatchet over and over and she tossed it aside. Adrienhad gotten the corpse in a headlock and was wondering what he should donext when it sank its teeth into his arm and bit out a mouthful of flesh. Adriencould already feel the warm blood running down his arm as he lost his grip.Melissa paled at the sight of it, and his fear was finally beginning to show whenhe screamed How are we supposed to kill something thats already fucking dead!!?? Any other time Melissa would have made some joke about how he neededto watch more zombie movies, but the fact is, seeing a corpse reanimate andattack you and your boss pretty much wipes anything you would normallythink out of your mind. For the first time, John Doe seemed a bit distracted, maybe even occupied,chewing away at his little slice of Dr. Miles. Now is the time, they thought, toget the hell out of dodge. Melissa was directly in the corpses sights, whileAdrien was to the side of him, crouched beside an examination table. He hadsort of just landed there after it had bit him, and there was a huge pool of bloodforming underneath him. They made eye contact under the table, and Adrienmotioned towards the back door. The space behind them and the door waslarge, and with not much to hide behind, the only hope they had was that Dr.Miles was extremely tasty. Tasty enough to distract John Doe, anyway. Melissa started first, taking small soft steps, careful not to move too quickly.It was almost more terrifying that the corpse wasnt looking at her at all, like itwas just playing around with her. Adrien followed, only on a separate route fornow, trying to stay down behind tables and desks. He wondered if in death,this man had the same amount of intelligence he had in life. He hoped not. Hehad finally nearly made it to the hall leading to the back emergency exit, andwas waiting now for Melissa to continue on a bit further first. She looked at himand he mouthed go on and gave her a little hand wave. This single momentof distraction between the two of them was enough for John to take notice of,and he rushed Melissa, tackling her before she could reach the door. Heslammed her head up against the brick wall of the hallway, and everythingwent black for her. Adrien had gotten up and was running towards Melissa,also toward the exit of this hellhole, but he was not fast enough. John Doeclotheslined him in his tracks and as he fell backwards he saw what was in thecorpses hand.

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SIERRA BROWN

John Doe was holding his scalpel, the very scalpel he had been dissectedwith just moments ago. Was this some kind of vendetta? It didnt matter, Dr.Miles wasnt about to be the next body autopsied in this room. He scrambledto get up off the floor, but the corpse pushed him back down with one of hiscold, bare feet. Adrien wondered where such an inhuman strength couldpossibly come from, then decided he didnt want to know the answer. Beforehe could react, the scalpel was slicing through his flesh, so sharp he couldnteven feel it as first, but slowly the pain came creeping up, growing moreintense every second. The wound stretched from his sternum to his abdomen,like a shoddy version of the Y-insicion he made during autopsies. Blood wasgushing out at an alarming rate, and he knew he was doomed. He could barelymove now, and thought that this must be what it feels like to have surgery withno anesthesia. The corpse picked him up and laid him on the table, ignoring ormaybe not even hearing his cries of agony. John began slicing away at Adrienlike a butcher methodically prepares cuts of meat. He first took a large chunkfrom Adriens side, starting at the side of his ribcage, down to his hipbone, thenhe took pieces from the tops of both thighs, and finally rolled him over andtook each meaty cheek from his ass. When it had finished carving him, itfeasted on his flesh, devouring every last bite as if this were the first meal it hadever eaten. Which in fact, it was. All the while Adrien was watching, still barelyalive. By the time it had started in on his legs, he no longer really felt anything,he just wanted to die and get it over with. And soon enough he did. Melissa woke up in complete blackness. She was freezing cold and couldntsee a thing. As the grogginess wore off, she immediately felt claustrophobiasetting in. Where the hell was she, and how did she get here? It felt like she wasin a cold metal coffin. When she began to kick and bang on the walls of it, sherealized she lay inside one of the refrigerated drawers they used to store bodies.They latched from the outside and there was no way out from inside them. Shepanicked and screamed for help. No answer. She screamed for Adrien.Nothing. The last thing she remembered was trying to escape. Surely Dr. Mileshadnt just left her, had he? Or was he trapped somewhere too? Or dead? Therewere too many questions with no reasonable answers. She lay there for whatfelt like hours, cold, terrified, and was beginning to have trouble breathingwhen she thought she heard the front door shutting. She reverted back tokicking and screaming for help when finally someone opened the vault door,

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SIERRA BROWN

and slid her out, the light sending sharp pains through her head, which wasalready throbbing from the injury earlier. It was Kyle. Jesus, Melissa, what the hell happened here? Weve gotta call the copsright now. The expression on his face was one of more shock than she was even feeling,and when she sat up and looked around, she understood why. There was bloodspattered all over the examination room, and on the main table, lay a mangledmass of bones and meat that used to be Adrien. She stifled a scream in herthroat, and noticed that all the autopsy tools were disheveled on their tables,and the drawers had been rummaged through, as if the corpse had beenlooking for just the right tools to use on them. What are you doing here? She asked I lost my wallet, I thought maybe I left it here, and when no one answeredthe phone, I just came by. Melissa, what the fuck is going on? She started to try and give Kyle a rundown of what happened, knowing hewouldnt believe her anyway, when suddenly he got a pained expression. Hiseyes went wide, and he became very still, and a small squeaking exhalereleased from his throat before he fell backwards to the floor. Directly behindhim loomed John Doe, with a large, bloody meat cleaver in one hand, and oneof Adriens arms in the other. He had been eating it like a giant chicken legbefore he cracked the back of Kyles skull in two with the cleaver. Melissawished this could have happened in a building that supplied less dangeroustools, like maybe a salon, not a coroners office. The only good thing was thatit could work to her advantage also. It was clear that hitting him with anythingwas pointless, so Melissa had a better idea. For now, she just had to get pasthim. She made a beeline back to the janitors closet. John Doe lunged at her, butshe was expecting it, and dodged him just quick enough to send himstaggering the wrong direction, which she took advantage of by shoving himfurther in that direction, causing him to trip and fall down on all fours. Ha, sothis corpse is clumsy, she thought. Her instinct was to kick him in the ballswhile he was down, but decided that probably wouldnt phase him. She wiselyused this extra few seconds to get back to the janitors closet and shut herselfinside to hopefully buy a few seconds more. She searched around until shefound exactly what she was looking for, a handheld propane torch. Now forsomething flammable. The corpse was pounding wildly on the door now,

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SIERRA BROWN

breaking his way in. She spotted a can of disinfectant on the top shelf. It wasntquite what she had hoped for, but it would have to do. There was only way out of this closet, and it was past John. She turned thenozzle and lit the propane torch, readied the spray can, and prayed to god thiswould work. Like a warrior, or a lunatic, she flung open the door and sprayedthe chemicals into the torchs flame, creating a makeshift flamethrower, andaimed it at the pissed off cadaver, dowsing him in flames. He seemed stunned,and fumbled backwards, like he suddenly didnt know what to do next.Melissa ran out of the closet, and started backing towards the front office, stillspreading a six foot flame out in front of her. The corpse still continued tofollow her, but much slower now, and the stench of his burning flesh filled theair. He was stumbling around the room, on fire, knocking over bottles ofchemicals, causing more small fires all over. It was getting to the point thatMelissa knew she had to get out of here before this place went up in flameswith her in it. After pausing to pick up the hatchet she had dropped earlier, justin case, she bolted towards the front office, then out through the front door,into the cold night, reminding her of the morgue vault she had just awoken in.Through the glass in the front door, she could see the flaming body still comingafter her, though still moving slowly. This had to end now. She waited for him to come outside after her. At least outside there wassomewhere to run. Finally he exited, still burning, while smoke bellowed upfrom the roof, and flames were becoming visible from outside the building.Abandoning her torch, she gripped the hatchet with both hands andrelentlessly started chopping at his neck. God damn, this blade was dull, butshe swung it hard and fast, and wouldnt let up until he fell to the ground, hishead barely hanging on by a thread, and she put one foot up on his chest andwith one final chop, severed his head from his body. The thick black smokecoming off the body had been nearly suffocating her, and finally, she let thehatchet fall to the ground and walked away, exhausted. She found it ironic thatright next door was the police station, yet the cops were oblivious while thisbloodbath had occurred.

Melissa sat in her lounge chair, sipping a mimosa as she gazed at the ocean. Hernew bikini looked good on her, and she was going to spend all day in it. Whatshe was not going to be doing was anymore autopsies. She had quit her job

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SIERRA BROWN

right after being attacked by the walking dead, and was soon offered a largesum of cash to keep quiet about what had happened. The status of that incidentwent far beyond their local police, it involved government agencies that no onewas even supposed to know existed. There was a huge cover up, made to looklike the work of a deranged murderer, and thanks to that cover up, Melissa hada beach house in Key West, and would never have to work again. She felt guiltyevery day that she was the one to survive, what if she could have saved Adrienor Kyle? All the FBI psychologists had asked her if she felt guilt for killing JohnDoe, and she always responded with the same thing that Adrien had asked her;How do you kill something thats already dead?

Copyright Sierra Brown 2009

Sierra Brown is currently just having a lot of fun with writing and trying to gether work read by anyone and everyone who might enjoy it. She is a twenty oneyear old student of forensic pathology, living in Cincinnati, Ohio. She lovesreading horror and dark fiction, plus enjoys watching classic horror films. Shealso has a deep appreciation for heavy metal, mainly older thrash and deathmetal. Sierra draws inspiration from all sorts of things, whether it be from otherwriters, the weather, good music, or just her own crazy thoughts.

Readers can visit her page at : www.myspace.com/sierrabrownhorror

WATCH FOR THE NEXT ISSUE

FantasyCon Edition

The following issue of the eZine willbring you a report and photos of theFantasyCon event, held inNottingham, September 2009. Plusseveral short stories from theattending authors. Dont miss it!

- 43 -

FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

- 44 -

GRAEME STEVENSON

I can hear the rain pouring down outside. Ive never seen her before, but Iknow her name is Cayleen. She has bled out across my lap. Her belly andchest were opened by the razor in my hand, but I never struck her. He did.

There are another five people dead in the room behind me. Ive never beenin this house before. But he has.

I also know that theres a car sitting in the driveway with the enginerunning. I cant hear it over the sound of the rain on the roof, but I know itsthere. Just like I know the car doesnt belong to me. He stole it from an addressin Park Street earlier this afternoon.

These are the moments of my life. So far, Ive had ninety-eight.

Im slowing down at the exit for Brooklyn. Thats roughly seven hundred milesfrom Cayleens house. Theres a sports bag in the trunk with six heads in it. Imheading for 1353 Racine. He wants to add them to his collection.

The steering wheel feels sticky in my hands and its vibration forms a ghostroad in my mind. My moment is almost over, but I have time to appreciate thestreet lights swimming through a wet windshield. Another black wait is coming.

These are the moments of my life. Ive had one hundred and three.

There is a police car outside. Flashlight beams dance against the bedroomwindow. My hands are sticky again, but now Im holding a mass of somethingtangled in my left fist, with a weight swinging on the end. It takes me a momentto remember the saw in my other hand.

The door is kicked in downstairs and I hear shouts of Police! His car isparked behind a stand of trees a hundred yards away - I know hell never makeit.

These are the moments of my life. Ive had one hundred and twenty.

Theres a man staring down at me in a black gown. I cant move my hands theyve been handcuffed behind my back. The man is a judge and Im in Court1 of the Supreme Court in Richmond. Hes just been sentenced to death bylethal injection.

It would be foolish for me to protest my innocence. I didnt do these terriblethings he did.

But I still feel the guilt. Ive had moments one hundred and twenty-six of

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GRAEME STEVENSON

them. I could have made a difference. I could have stopped him, if Id beenbrave. I wasnt brave though God forgive me. My moments were all I everhad. My diamond moments. Stopping him would have meant stopping them.

The black wait is almost upon me I just have time to savour the feel of awell-cut suit and smell the polish in the air.

This is the last moment of my life. Im not sure it was worth it.

Copyright Graeme Stevenson 2009

Graeme Stevenson is a member of the Glasgow SF Writers Circle. No furtherdetails are available about this author!

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- 46 -

FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

- 47 -

ROSS WARREN

Pestilence decided it was time for a holiday. Business for him was slow,modern medicine and extensive vaccination programs had left himtwiddling his thumbs whilst his fellow Horsemen of the Apocalypse; Death,Starvation and War were as busy as they had ever been. Before he could talkhimself out of it he booked three weeks on the Caribbean cruise ship Aureliusand set about packing a bag. This being Pestilences first vacation in a millennium he intended to spareno expense and took the most luxurious cabin available and booked to take allhis meals at the Captains table. Prior to his arrival on board he took the humanform of a tall, late forties man, handsome but with enough character in the faceto be mysterious and interesting. All in all he felt he looked quite like a youngMax Von Sydow. To complement his new visage he took great joy in constructing a detailedhistory for himself. He was Maximillian Stoker, a millionaire commoditiesbroker out of London. To complete his new persona he arrived at the cruiseliner in a chauffeur driven 1968 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith II with enoughmatching Luis Vuitton luggage for a family of six. Good morning Sir, a chipper young porter said, hurrying towards theboot of the car. Ill take care of your baggage Sir. Pestilence thrust a twenty pound note into the porters hand and strode upthe gangway, exuding just the right air of self importance. The porter busied himself loading the suitcases onto a luggage trolley.Placing the final, smallest, bag onto the top of the towering pile he felt hisstomach clench and lurch. Staggering to the dockside he let forth a powerfulgush of half digested scrambled eggs and plum tomatoes that had been thestaff breakfast choice that morning. He looked down with a sense of detachedamazement at the island of sick and stomach acids that floated in the choppywaters below. Pestilence was delighted with his suite. Brightly lit, spacious andluxuriously furnished with a Super-king size bed and soft leather sofas.Pestilence couldnt resist spreading out on the bed to test the softness of themattress and was snoring loudly within a minute of his head touching thepillow. While he slept soundly the holidaymakers in the adjoining berths werefinding it considerably harder to relax. The neighbours to the left were Mr and Mrs Tony Monroe, semi-retired

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ROSS WARREN

owners of a chain of do-it-yourself stores. Whilst Pestilence slept like a well fedlion, Tony was taking the opportunity for a quick shave before dinner. Being atask that he had undertaken untold times, in the forty two years since he hadshaved for the first time at sixteen when the small, wispy amount of bum-fluffon his chin had barely warranted it, he allowed his mind to wander to thoughtsof the holiday ahead. A nice big steak for dinner and some expensive Merlot, he said to hisreflection. No expense spared on this trip, youve earned it. Pointing his razorat his mirror image he let go a small fart that eased out with a distinct whistle. Ahh better out than in! he said with a hearty laugh. The laughter stopped abruptly when he felt the tell-tale warmth of whatcould only be diarrhoea begin to trickle out from his boxer shorts and down thebacks of his legs. Acting on instinct he darted into the shower, eased out of hisboxers and tossed them into the sink. Once he had the shower at an acceptabletemperature he hosed the liquefied shit off himself and away down theplughole. The smell of faeces lingered in the static air of the small bathroom soTony reached out to grab the string of the extractor fan. In stretching to do sohe let rip an enormous fart, ejecting a turbo charged fountain of shit all over thetiled wall of the shower. He fell to the tiled floor of the bathroom and stareddumbfounded at the pebble dashed shower cubicle that now resembled aparticularly un-artistic childs brown mosaic. The occupant of the right-hand berth was one Paco Pasquale, worldrenowned pet stylist to the rich and famous. The Brazilian animal fanatic wasdressing his own pet, a Pekinese by the name of Mr Booboo, ready for their tourof the ship. A regular of this particular cruise, it wasnt so much the ship Pacowanted to see as the new additions to the crew. With Mr Booboo neatly dressed in his little sailors outfit and elasticateddeck shoes, Paco reached down to fix on the sailor hat that would complete theensemble and the pooch promptly upchucked onto his bare feet. Lookingdown on the mixture of warm regurgitated premium dog food and hair, Pacofelt his own gorge rising and set off for the bathroom. He got barely a stepbefore tripping over Mr Booboo and releasing a fountain of puke and bile outover the bed. As he lay sprawled on the floor, thanking the good lord there wasnobody around to witness the embarrassing episode; Mr Booboo began to lickthe dog vomit from between his toes.

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ROSS WARREN

Pestilence awoke from his nap refreshed and eager to explore what delightsawaited him on-board. Following a quick shower he dressed in a light-weightcotton shirt and khaki shorts and set off for a walk around the deck to build hisappetite for dinner. Sometime during his slumber the ship had left port and he was treated toa pleasant sea breeze and a not altogether unpleasant aroma of fish and sea salt.Half way around his second circuit of the deck he stopped beside the pool andstretched out on a sun lounger to read the copy of The Da Vinci Code that he hadbrought along. So early into the cruise and with the ship only a third full, therewere only a dozen or so holidaymakers enjoying the pool, mostly children. One of these children was Frank Bucket, a humungous boy of thirteen who,due to excessive hair growth, looked closer to thirty. Fat Frank was at thismoment preparing to launch himself from the diving board and make hisentrance into the pool. At which time half the chlorinated water of the pool wasapt to make its exit. Frank edged to the end of the spring board and made towave to the imaginary crowd he was picturing cheering him on, as he raisedhis hand he felt a crippling twinge in his bowels and involuntarily bent double.This caused him to over balance and he toppled into the water like ademolished building. From beneath the surface of the pool a mass of diarrhoearose up like a brown version of a shark hunters chum. From the middle of thisshit patch appeared the distraught face of Fat Frank, a few putrid lumps offaeces clinging to his face. Screams went around the pool as the otherswimmers realised what had happened, three more shit themselves before theywere able to pull themselves from the pool and a pair of newly-wedssunbathing opposite Pestilence, turned lovingly towards each other andsprayed vomit all over one another. Pestilence rose from his sun lounger,placed his bookmark into his book, and walked off to get ready for dinner atthe captains table. Behind him the pool resembled a large bowl of Coco Pops. The main banquet hall was bustling with noise as Pestilence weavedthrough the tables in search of his seat. The volume of conversation wasalready beginning to irritate him so he was delighted to discover that theCaptains table was situated within its own dining room. Pestilences seat wasone of three still vacant at the round table of twelve. The remaining two placeshad the place names of Mr Tony Munroe and Mrs Diane Munroe. They hadfailed to appear by the time the starters arrived.

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ROSS WARREN

Introductions were made around the table by the head waiter, giving thefollowing roster of diners. At the head of the table was the Captain, to his leftwas his deputy and next came Mr and Mrs Reginald King, a pair of brashTexan oil millionaires. Following these were the Monroes empty settings, thenPestilence, introduced of course as Mr Maximillian Stoker. To his left was asingle lady introduced simply as Lady Astor. The final four members of theparty were Mr and Mrs McMahon and their twin teenage daughters who wereperpetually engrossed in their mobile phones. Starters came and went without incident and as the main course was beingserved the First Mate rose from his seat to raise a toast to the Captain. Ladies, Gentlemen and Honoured guests please raise your glasses in toastto your C Before the word Captain could be completed a rumbling geyser ofpart digested prawn cocktail erupted from the First Mates mouth andsplashed down onto the centrepiece of the table. Opposite him Lady Astorfainted at the sight of the steaming puddle, her seat toppled backwards and shelanded on her back with a heavy thud. Her own recently enjoyed starter rosetwo feet into the air from her gaping mouth before gravity asserted itself andthe masticated foodstuff coated her face like a Caul. Mr King took his wifeshand and attempted to escape the mayhem. They had barely made it to thedoor when Mrs King sent a shower of puke all over the back of Mr Kings twothousand dollar suit. He paused as if contemplating something ofinconceivable complexity and vomited all over the door. The Captain stood,removed his hat, and as befitted his social standing upon the liner, wasdiscreetly sick into it. Pestilence barely noticed the commotion, he was tucking into his topside ofbeef, pausing only to take the occasional sip of a rather fine 1968 ChteauxNeuf du Pape. At the sound of their parents losing their own stomach contents theMcMahon twins finally looked up from their mobile phones. Identical looks ofbemusement appeared briefly on their faces before they were violently sickinto each others laps, covering their mobile phones in a thick coating of vomit. Having finished his rather excellent dinner and wine, Pestilence decided awalk on the deck and the chance to enjoy a cigar was the order of the day. Heexited the Captains dining room to find the main banquet hall in a state ofchaos. Suppressing a chuckle he set off for the deck, a sea of vomit parting

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ROSS WARREN

before him like the Red Sea ahead of Moses. Standing on the deck, lighting hisfat cigar, he looked out at the sun setting on the horizon and said aloud to thepeaceful serenity of the ocean. Best. Holiday. Ever!

Copyright Ross Warren 2009

Ross Warren is married with a little boy of three. He lives in Cheltenham andcan be found on the World Wide Web at : www.rosswarren.co.uk

ARTWORK PRINTSAvailable from Screaming Dreams

A4 size prints (210 x 297 mm) : 10 eachA3 size prints (297 x 420 mm) : 20 each

FREE POSTAGE. Prices are for prints ONLY (no frames or mounts included)

www.screamingdreams.com

- 52 -

FANTASY CHARACTERS

Copyright Steve Upham 2009

- 53 -

MARK HOWARD JONES

"Do you think that when God was nano-engineering the fly he added thatbuzz just to annoy higher life forms like us?"Peter frowned across the desk at his colleague. "Including yourself in that

category now, are you?" He smirked and returned to his reading.A huge hardback book landed in the middle of his desk with a bang,

disrupting his papers and splashing coffee onto the floor. "Hey, stop fuckingabout! We've got work to do. We've got a meeting with the sponsors on Friday,in case you'd forgotten," snarled Peter.

Sean looked slightly sheepish at the failure of his childish bid to defuse thetension. He didn't really need the reminder.

They both knew they had to come up with another 'bi