Deep Woods Off

Beyond the horizon, artillery roared. Maggie couldn't stop to yawn, but she was tired. She had been on the go for the past 78 hours and it was starting to take it's toll on her.

With no rest, she had been like a machine. It had been non-stop since the shift had come. Unlike a machine though, she was flesh and blood, and they eventually craved a break.

She leaned up against a tree, catching her breath. From her rucksack a feline head poked up.

"You tired?" Trump asked.

"Yeah," Mags said. "My body is telling me that it's time to cash out for a while."

Trump looked around and he replied, "That seems to be no option at the moment."

Mags nodded. She could hear the sounds of approaching feet as well. "You hold on there, I will get us out of here."

"I know you will, Maggie," the cat said.

She moved forward into the woods, as the shuffling feet of thousands of zombies proceeded to amble towards her.

In a Park on a Lark

The sensation that he was covered with dew was the first inclination that he was outside. The second sensation was that he was naked.

"Now what?" he muttered to himself as he cracked open his eyes into the morning light.

Max awoke in the park; he was lying face up looking at a morning sky. He brought his hands to his face to shield his eyes from the brightness and that's when he noticed that he was covered in tattoos.

He paused. He stared at the tattoos for a bit longer and noticed that they were swirling on his skin. He watched as they moved about, like water on a shore.

"This is new," he whispered. He was fascinated with the dancing patterns on his skin.

Secret Society Part Two

Garner pulled the car over and slid out into the misty urban night, blurred like an electronic Monet print. Black pants and a wide-collar leather coat, thigh-length. Miranda stepped towards him from the diner's vaseline-on-the-lens window, beginning a wave hello then cutting it short, an edit of regret. She was in wine-colored pants, flared from the shin, a cozy cloud-cut jacket, trying to assume a casual but intent posture.

Garner smiled warmly, a relaxing expression, and gestured her into the diner.

"I thought we were just meeting here, to go..." She held the door open for him. Garner's smile shifted into teacher-to-student amusement, slightly patronizing. Miranda checked herself from pouting.

Seated at the counter, Garner ordered a coffee.

Miranda said, "I thought we were supposed to avoid caffeine."

"Different diets for different effects," he responded and she ordered coffee for herself. "Don't take off your jacket," he added, catching her in mid-motion. "We want the appearance of concealing things."

Miranda leaned forward. "Is this fieldwork?" The quiet excitement in her voice. Garner smiled again.

"Not yet. Relax."

As Foggy as Can Be

He was in a world of hurt and he knew it. Looking up from the bottom of the sea, he could see the distant light of the sun shining down upon him. He should be dead, he thought. He knew his bones were broken. He had been thrown from an airplane and had fallen into the sea.

The pain was intense. He thought he was dead as he floated down to the bottom of the sea, but his mind still functioned.

"Test subject 13-56-C is remarkable," he heard a voice say. It sounded like it was coming from a line through a tin can.

Max looked around. He knew that if he opened his mouth and called out a sea of salt would come in and drown him. But he couldn't understand how he was holding his breath for this long...

He was floating there, like a bump on a log. Waiting for death to take him, but why was death taking his time? Why must he suffer like this? Why?

"Reset the program," he heard the faint voice say. "This time add variable pattern Beta."

Max cracked open his left eye; he thought he saw white blobs in front of him. Could they be jellyfish? He chuckled to himself as a Spongebob Squarepants scene entered his mind. The chuckle made him hurt more; he knew his insides were messed up.

"We are getting active brain patterns, Dr. Morganfokker," a voice said.

"Neural wipe, now!" Morganfokker shouted, just as Max's eyes opened in the chamber.

Max saw through the sea and into a clear tube; he was floating like one of those specimens you see in a jar, the ones you see in a school's biology lab. And like a magical dissolve of a camera effect in a movie, Max awoke in a stateroom.

His eyes flickered open and he took in the sights around him. He was lying in his bed, a shaft of light creeping across the floor like a lightsaber. He attempted to sit up but his head was swimming.

His mind was foggy and felt like he had spent the night out, and why shouldn't it? Wasn't he out last night clubbing? He remembered dancing, and the lights. But there was something else... something he should be remembering, but what?

"Morganfokker," Max whispered, as he sat up in the bed. The name had escaped from his lips like a afterthought.

What the fokk is a Morganfokker? he thought.

Platform Shoes

Mags yawned; she was tired and bored. To quote a 20th century poet: 'the waiting was the hardest part'. She stood on the platform looking bored and checked her watch. It was pretty close to 1 AM. She glanced around and realized that she was alone and looked ever the easy mark. 

Two men approached her, looking thuggish. As they walked past her she didn't give them a second glance. She stood there, looking distracted.

"Yo, bitch," one thug said.

Before he had time to bring up the switchblade, Maggie swung around with her leg and gave him a kick. The thug bent over as his family jewels seemed to explode in their package.

The thug's buddy brought up a gun and before he knew it was missing from his hands. He had a weird expression as he realized that his hand was missing along with the gun. He didn't have time to let out a scream as the katana cut him down.

Thug's buddy's jacket fell open and that's when Mags saw the necklace of ears; it made her even more mad. She hated weird cults.

As the Apple Turnover

Max entered the fast food joint and walked up to the counter. He slid a bill on the table and ordered a strawberry milkshake and an apple turnover. He brought the tray over to a corner table. It had been a long while since he had tasted the artificial flavour of strawberries.

The joint was practically empty, except for an old fellow sitting in a booth, reading a newspaper. And the high-school girl that sat by the front counter, her nose hovering over a book.

He bit into the turnover and savored the taste; it was like coming back home and discovering that Ed McMahon had been standing there waiting to give you an over-sized novelty check for the grand prize.

"Maximillianiski," a voice said. Max looked up and saw Pretty George strolling in. "Of all the fucking places to meet. Why here?"

Max held up the apple turnover. "These things are to die for!"

Pretty George shook his head as he slid into the chair opposite Max. "It's been, like, five years man. I thought you'd be dead by now. What you've been doing, man?"

Max took a sip from the milkshake, and cocked an eye at Pretty George. "It's a long story, and I will let you in on it in a while, but first let's get down to business," Max said as he pulled an enevelope from his pants pocket and laid it on the table before Pretty.

Pretty George nodded and dug into his rucksack. He pulled out a huge novel and put it on the table. He slid it over to Max. "That one's a hot commodity."

The Hunt of the Cube

"Just great," Trump said, sitting in the passenger side of the jeep, as he heard thunder rumbling off in the distance. "This really will put her in the mood."

The door to the gas bar opened; Mags stepped out into the warm summer air, her blood red hair flowing behind her. She wore black baggy shorts and a white tank-top.

"West - that is what the old man said," Mags stated as she strolled across the pavement. She hopped into the jeep; Trump sat in the passenger side licking his paws. She pulled out of the gas bar like a bat out of hell. "He's close by, we still have time to find him," she said as the jeep roared onto the highway. She was so close, so close to him.

"Are you positive that this is him?" asked Trump. "It won't be like the last time? Where you ended up putting two slugs in some guy's head?"

"Not this time," Mags said.