In Darkness Memories Recall

 
Max's first sensation when he came to was that he was flying. He hadn't really felt the pain at all, since he was sort of used to it. But he knew that pain was like some sort of Voodoo thing for him.

He tried to open his eyes but all he could see was darkness. He slowly brought his hand up to his face - it felt like his arm was in severe pain - and felt bandages. No wonder he couldn't see a thing.

His head was far too cloudy to lift up. He laid there sorting out the confusing images in his head. Max remembered a dinosaur, but how could that be? He knew they'd been extinct for millions of years. His memory was foggy with little tendrils of images coming in and out of focus. Images of angels flying high in the sky, a battle on top of a skyscraper, an airport where he fought himself.

"Where am I?" he asked himself.

There was a beeping sound.

Fear began to set in as Max tried to remember something - anything. He knew that he was in some sort of fierce battle with a dinosaur, but that was impossible, wasn't it?

"What happened?"

The beeping sound answered again.

33 Seconds Til the Big Show

"How much longer do we have?" Max asked Maggie.

They were sitting on the building's edge, a cup of coffee between them, and a package of smokes.

"33 seconds," Maggie replied, adjusting the brim of her hat. She picked up an Uzi and gave it a little tap, then she pointed down to a spot on the street. "The will start to emerge there."

Max checked his guns; he knew the were loaded and ready for action, but it was more like a nervous twitch. He checked the webbing as well and counted the clips; he had 24. "It's not enough is it?"

"Nope," Mags replied.

"Well, when worst comes to worst improvisation will suffice," Trump said as he hopped up on the ledge beside Maggie "And besides Max, we all know how good at improv you are."

Max made his fingers into a gun and mock shot Trump.

Trump purred around Maggie's side, rubbing against her. Maggie glanced down at the feline and gave him a wink.

"You better sit this one out, Trump," Mags told the cat. "This is going to be one hell of a big mess."

Trump was about to say something and then he nodded.

The lights started to go out across the city, and block after block was being enveloped in darkness. Max lit a smoke, and he took a long pull.

As the lights in their section of the city went out, they could hear the guttural roars of the beasts and the strong smell of sulfur as a demonic gate opened on the street below and hordes of foul creatures began to stream forth.

"Showtime," Max whispered. He leveled his gun at the first beast and pulled the trigger.

A Rude Awakening

Max sat on the edge of the building and he thought he heard someone call his name. He leaned forward just a bit to get a better view. He was falling. An endless fall, no escape until he hit the ground.

He awoke without a scream, sweat covered his body like an oil. He hadn't had a dream like this since he was a kid. And he wondered why it came back.

"Hope it was a good trip, that was a nice fall?" a voice said from the corner of the room. Max looked around, his gun appeared in his hand like quicksilver.

He noticed the two standing in his room, a fellow and girl; looked like they were in their early 20's. The fellow looked like a corporate bigwig in a power suit, the girl was a throwback from The Who's Mod fans.

"Hello Max," the two chorused as one. "We know you Max. We've been tagging along in your escapades, always one step behind. We took a gamble and made a shortcut."

He lowered the gun and smiled.

Mirror Mirror

"What's happening to me?" Max whispered to his reflection in the mirror. He was unsteady and placed his arms out for support. He had a sense of vertigo, as if he was becoming two-dimensional instead of three.

"Your true path is beginning to emerge," his reflection said back at him.

Max looked up in the mirror. He wondered if he had said that. Maybe he was going crazy, after all. He was covered in sweat and was leaning forward on the sink. He reached up and touched the cool reflected surface. Was he having a momentary lapse of pure unreasoning, his mind wandering, fading in and out like realities on the edge of a match.

"You're not going crazy," his reflection assured him. "You were a volunteer of Project 52. There's something going on, but you are unsure what it is."

He studied himself in the mirror. But he wasn't quite sure if it was him staring back. He could see the image, but it would change in a glimpse. At one moment he saw an actor starring back at him, as if his life was being portrayed as a serial drama, being watched or read by some unseen forces.

"It's much more than that," his reflection told him. "Your journey is being documented in little fragments so that others can see what your paths have led you to."

Manor of Speaking

Angst stared up at the ceiling and marveled at how high it was. "It's like some mini-mall in here, isn't it?" 

She seemed out of place in her cheerleader outfit, holding a glock. She moved, however, as if she was a veteran police officer walking through a crime scene. For a young woman she was well beyond her years in wisdom. Her hand wiped along the bannister of the stairs, picking up years of dust. 

"It's like that house in the first Resident Evil game," Max said as he looked around. "You know when the STAR agents are chased into the mansion by those demonic-looking wolfers." He was scanning the room, his mind keen and sharp, taking in anyplace where anyone could hide and pop out. Paranoia or years of conflict, or both.

Angst looked at Max and smiled. "Everything is a game to you, isn't it?"

Max paused for a moment and then added, "Not at first."

Internetally Speaking

The glass tumbled off the tray and zeroed in on the floor. Before it impacted and shattered, Mags' hand caught it and she placed it on the table. The liquid cargo of the container was lost though, jettisoned.

"So sorry," the waitress said. She had been trying to juggle a few plates and cups in her hands. 

"I know the score," Mags told her. 

The waitress picked up the glass and walked back to the counter. Mags turned her attention back to the laptop sitting before her, fingers dancing across the keyboard like angels in the night.

She was searching the internet. Trying to locate something, some weirdness that was happening around the world. Trying to pinpoint exactly where she might be able to locate the weirdness central.

A dog with two heads in Missouri. A baby that was the spitting image of Elvis born in Canada. Jesus' face appearing on a toaster oven in Mexico. Ninjas attack brothel in Seattle. She scanned each of these items looking for a clue, looking for something to jump right out at her.

"Eureka," she whispered, as she found the something. Elvis spotted at Canadian border. She was heading for Canada. That was two references with Elvis and Canada: she had found the trail.

Can You Tell Me Who I Am

The hobbit didn't know what hit him. His brain felt as if it was on fire and there was nothing he could do to put it out. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, to shake the feeling like he was wandering down a long dark tunnel.

He brought his stubby hands to his face; they felt numb, as if he had fallen asleep on them. His brain still felt like some kind of spell was trying to confuse him. Maybe that was what was happening.

The hobbit staggered from the dizziness; he really didn't know what was going on. He thought he had heard a voice whisper in his ear, and since then it felt as if some spellcaster had entrapped him somehow.

"No, that's not it," the voice whispered softly in his ear. 

The voice seemed familiar but he couldn't place it. He figured it was one of his companions playing a trick on him. But they were all in plain sight. Maybe one of them was throwing their voice, so he watched their faces.

"You okay, Virian?" the gentle fighter known as Amber asked.

"Virian. Is that my name?" the hobbit muttered. "Virian. No..."

Am I Virian? the hobbit thought to himself. I think so.

Amber stood beside him. She took out her waterskin and handed it to him. A look of concern crossed her face like a shadow from a tree.

"Thanks, Mags," the hobbit said.

"Amber," the warrior corrected him. "And who is this Mags?"

"I don't know," the hobbit said. A more puzzled look crept across his face. "Am I being played?"

The Coffee at Ling's Lotus Palace

The grungy looking punk with the skateboard sat at a booth by himself. The one thing that looked out of the ordinary was the bible plopped down before him. He had a dinner of chicken fried rice and some sweet and sour ribs on a plate, yet he hardly touched it.

"What you reading?" Max asked the kid. He had emerged from the bathroom, saw the bible and paused to make conversation; he had this feeling that the kid might be involved in something that might be happening.

The punk looked startled at first; he closed the book and looked at the man standing before him. Then he slid the bible back into his trenchcoat, and picked up his chopsticks.

"Ummm," the kid started, trying to figure out what angle this stranger was working. "Just doing some research actually. For a thesis. That's all."

Impressed, Max nodded, turned and took his spot down at the counter. The old woman placed a new cup of coffee before him. Max had left his cigarettes on the counter; he opened them up and took out a smoke.

Three Tongs came through the front door and up to the cash register.

"Bù, nǐ zuótiān lái. Zuótiān nǐ ná qián," the old woman said nervously.

"Ń, zhè shì zuótiān," the leader of the Tongs said with a wicked smile. "Jīntiān shì xīn de yītiān."

"Méiyǒu, yīdàn xīngqí. Xiéyì." The woman sounded desperate.

"Kàn biǎo zi," the leader said angrily. "Wǒ hé nánshēng xiǎng qǔdé yīxiē huà hén. Gěi wǒmen de qián, wǒmen bù huì dǎrǎo nǐ xià zhōu."

"Wǒ méiyǒu qián."

The leader was about to say something, but that's when a huge bald man in a leather jacket stepped up from a nearby table. He held a badge in his hand to show the punks who they were about to deal with. "Is there anything going on here?"

Max glanced at the cop and nodded. That fellow too, he's here for a reason as well, he thought as he sipped his coffee.

"Nothing at all, just mistook this place for something else," the leader said. He looked at the cop with disgust. He knew this one by rep: a real hard-ass honest cop.

"Yeah, something classier," one of his boys added in. They backed out of the store and ran down the street.

The cop turned to the old woman and asked, "How long have they been shaking you down?"

The old woman looked up and shook her head; she was scared.

Years of combat duty and several more years on the force had honed Dexter Washington's reactions. As soon as he heard the squeal of tires he dove behind the counter, taking the old woman down, right before hundreds upon hundreds of rounds came a calling.

The front window imploded and let in a special delivery of hot lead. Everyone was taking cover, ducking under tables.

Max just sat there as bullets destroyed everything they touched. As he reached for his coffee, bullets danced along the counter, and hit the area where Max's coffee had been sitting. He brought the mug to his lips.

Damn, Max thought, that is one good cup of java.