7UM-832, Part 5
7UM-832
Jonathan "Lumberkilk" Hughes
"We'd finish a lot faster if we could just take a few trees back to base and chop them up," grumbled Cpl. Michaels.
Sgt. Greene just stared squarely into the mildly defiant eyes of the grousing soldier until the corporal shrugged and quietly resumed collecting fallen branches. "Yeah, you do that, and then when it comes to the choice between dragging your broken body or a cord of firewood, I know which one I consider more useful."
The work continued in silence for a few minutes more, then the soldiers lashed the bundles of wood securely and slung them onto shoulders to cart the branches back to base.
Once en route, one of the privates towards the rear of the procession timidly ventured, "But nobody's seen that Klik for months now."
At the front of the line, Greene cocked his head to the side, as if identifying the speaker by voice, "Ellins, isn't it? This is only your first trip outside the perimeter, if I recall correctly."
"Yes, sir, correct, sir," came the earnest reply.
"Since it's your first trip, I'll be nice and answer you without making you carry my load. Educating grunts is tiring work, you think?"
"Urm, yessir," came the bemused reply.
Emphatically, the sergeant began, "I don't care if we don't see that crazy Klik for a decade, nothing will convince me to risk troops needlessly, even those who deserve it. When we first moved into the area, the Klik on the nearby gear warned us not to enter the woods. They stopped coming into the woods some time before that apparently. Well, we weren't about to let a bunch of tick-tocks tells us how to operate, so we ventured into the woods. We went cautiously at first, but gradually with more complacency. Sure, every now and then a soldier saw something in the woods, but nobody ever could prove what they'd seen."
Shifting the bundle on his back, he continued, "I had just made corporal when we were ordered to clear-cut an open expanse to the north, both for the materials and as a defensive buffer. Our saws powered through the trunks quickly and soon the first tree began to tumble sideways."
Greene paused for a moment, as if trying to make sure his next words were unfailingly truthful. "I watched three good soldiers die before that tree hit the ground."
The platoon marched silently for a few minutes before Greene resumed speaking, "It was a tripod, but not like anything I'd ever seen. Crystals jutting out from it joints, swinging a massive metal shaft infused with even more crystals. It bludgeoned some to the ground where they wouldn't move. Others, those crystals on that strange weapon sliced through armor and flesh, leaving them dying. I was one of the smart ones that day - I panicked and ran."
"We spent the next few weeks trying to trap the tripod, destroy it, get our revenge. But it knows these woods too well. We lost more and more in this futile hunt."
"Eventually we declared the woods off limits, just like the Klik. But of course, sometimes the forces of commerce succeed where military might fails."
"One enterprising soldier in the PX started sneaking into the woods, collecting wood. Of course, trying to be stealthy, she didn't have access to any tools or power equipment. Instead, she'd collect fallen limbs and sold them surreptitiously to a select few for much less than other fuels. Eventually scuttlebutt betrayed her, and she was to be court-martialed for endangering the base."
"For reasons I won't go into, I thought she was in the right. So I busted into the machine shop before Reveille and liberated a power saw. I marched straight into the woods and fired that sucker up, even gave it a few practice swipes. Sure enough, I looked over my shoulder at that accursed tripod was there, its crystals glowing in the dawn's light. I turned around and dropped the saw, which sputtered to a stop. Then, right in front of that blasted Klik, I started scooping branches, limbs, anything from the ground I could. The whole time, it just watched me. When I couldn't hold another twig, I turned back towards the base. Again it didn't move at all. I started to leave, but shouted at it, 'What do you want?'"
"After a few awkward seconds, it slowly replied, 'You are part of the machine that is healed. We must heal others.' And then it melted back into the woods, vanishing from view."
At this point, the soldiers reached their destination. Eager for sleep, most dropped their bundles and quickly headed to barracks. But Ellins held back, quietly addressing the sergeant, "Yours was the last confirmed sighting of that Klik, wasn't it?"
Greene merely grunted his assent.
"Don't you think that's the last time we'll see that Klik?" continued the private.
Greene shuddered as he recalled the unworldly sound of the Klik, the strange powerful echo behind the words. "I always hope so, but I don't think so. I really don't."
7UM-832, Part 4
7UM-832
Jonathan "Lumberkilk" Hughes
As realization dawned upon the Klik, the pair soared quickly until the blue sky faded into black. 7UM-832 could now look at the planet as a single perfect orb, suspended in the inky void. The continents drifted lazily in an endless game of chase. The moon emerged from behind and spun, its pale light bathing the space-bound travelers. Without warning the planet shot away from them, curving slightly as it vanished. Following its path, the Tripod saw the Earth vanish behind the sun. With indescribable clarity, it could see three smaller spheres, spiraling closed to the sun. Suddenly, 7UM-832 felt pulled higher above the vibrant orb and gazed down at the planet.
Far below, clouds slid silently above vast churning seas. As the world spun upon its axis, a single large continent appeared over the horizon. Suddenly, the landmass split into several pieces, each drifting across the oceans, assuming more familiar shapes. Earthquakes and volcanoes tore at the fabric of the earth, giving rise to new features.
When the voice spoke again, 7UM-832 had almost lost all sense of self, drawn into the totality of the universe. "This world is a series of connected wholes, made up of smaller connections, yet is still part of larger connections. The sun provides warmth to move the water where it must go. Without the sun, everything down to the smallest creature on Earth would perish. Without the earth, the planets would lose precious balance in their celestial dance and would drift out of their assigned paths. Volcanoes rain fiery destruction across the land but bring rich soil from which humans harvest bountiful crops. Disturb even the smallest part, and the whole breaks."
As the guide finished, the Klik watched sickly gashes of violet and yellow tear across the planet. Even from this great distance, 7UM-832 could see the Flux roiling across the land, spewing forth vile creatures and warping the terrain. Elsewhere, segments of Ai sprang into existence, and L'na carefully ventured from their shattered abode to face new vistas. Sections of the Great Machine also appeared sporadically, some gears and shafts settling gently onto the ground, while others components fell from great heights, burrowing violently into the waiting soil before coming to rest.
7UM-832 felt time catching up to them, and soon the Tripod was only a few meters from the detritus of the earlier combat. Somehow several of 7UM-832's microgear medic discs had become activated and were attempting repairs. Looking closely, the Klik could see that rather than metal, the small devices were infusing the chassis with Flux crystals. Knowing it was time, 7UM-832's disembodied consciousness moved towards the reconstructed form.
The Voice spoke softly as if from far away, "Heal all the machines, or heal none."
The tripod could feel warm metal as it settled back into its frame. Not knowing whether speaking or merely thinking, 7UM-832 replied, "I will learn what brought these worlds together and repair them."
Barely audible, the voice replied enigmatically, "But the worlds have always been together..."
7UM-832, Part 3
7UM-832
Jonathan "Lumberkilk" Hughes
Haltingly, but losing hold quickly, the Klik extended something, perhaps only the idea of an appendage, out to grasp the proffered hand. The instant they touched, 7UM-832 lost all sense of space and time. Guided by the firm pull of the Speaker, they soared high above the ground, covering vast distances with a speed 7UM-832 had never seen, not even from the fastest Roller. At first, the Klik saw the forests closest to its gear, and marveled that it suddenly knew the word "forest". As the pair flew across different terrain, 7UM-832 could feel comprehension seeping into its consciousness. Oceans, mountains, and other natural features became known, and then, familiar.
7UM-832 had barely time to marvel at its nascent understanding when their path shifted violently, and it saw Flux roiling directly below them. It had heard warnings, but the Tripod's dutiful performance of the Directives had never brought it close to the strange phenomenon. Suspended above the chaotic mass, it felt no fear or desire to leave the area. It felt sadness for the first time, but 7UM-832 realized that this feeling was but a shallow reflection of the profound distress emanating from the Speaker. "You are in this world, but I do not know if this Flux is the result or the cause of your arrival. You must see this world before you came."
As the figure spoke, the Flux folded in upon itself and vanished. Klik gears and structures faded into oblivion. The ground buckled and shifted, easing into a gentle landscape that felt simultaneously timeless and ancient. Across the landscape flowers burst into bloom and small creatures darted among the abundant undergrowth. 7UM-832 heard a strange cracking noise coming from a nearby branch. Wandering cautiously closer, the Tripod could see a nest cradling a quartet of eggs. The mother stood to one sided, but if the bird noticed the metallic onlooker, she gave no clue. In rapid succession, the shells cracked and began falling away chip by chip, revealing the string-feathered fledglings within. Its perception accelerated, 7UM-832 watched the chick mature, grow strong, learn to fly, and establish its own nest, complete with eggs.
The tripod had barely noticed the anticipated hatching when the panorama changed, and they retreated upwards until they could observe the entirety of the verdant forest carpeted the valley. The leaves shone deep green in the shifting light as the sun rose and set with unnatural speed but comforting rhythm. 7UM-832 could sense a subtle shift in the position of the sun as it ceaselessly arced through the sky. The leaves faded from emerald to yellow. Soon the branches were afire with vivid oranges and reds. The leaves fell to the ground, exposing the dark branches that seemed burdened with gloom under the lengthening shadows. Without warning, the sky became slate grey and snow descended mercilessly. Soon the trees were barren brown silhouettes against the pale drifts.
7UM-832 could not spend long in mourning the vibrant valley. The pair flew higher above the elevated terrain, where the cold winter allowed snow banks to accumulate fantastic depths. But again, the sun shifted in its path, bringing warmth to the ivory landscape, and the melting snowpack produced a trickle that soon grew to a stream and then a torrent. The water coursed along well-carved channels to the valleys below, into the forests where green sprouted anew from the bare branches.
7UM-832, Part 2
7UM-832
Jonathan "Lumberkilk" Hughes
As 7UM-832 felt several internal devices slow and stop, it knew that it would fulfill the Directives no more. When its ocular regulators failed and light flooded its vision, 7UM-832 suddenly felt no compulsion to obey the Directives, and it stopped straining to force motion from unresponsive actuators. It felt free from all obligations, unable to affect things outside itself.
Then the Voice washed over it, full of energy, "Why are you here, machine?"
With all vocal mechanisms reporting as non-functional, 7UM-832 thought at first it could not respond. But something in the Voice compelled it to speak. Although nothing moved within its body, 7UM-832 could hear its response, "The Great Machine needs my help to function."
"Why do you want to help the Great Machine?" the Voice continues, gently coaxing 7UM-832 to continue.
"I do not understand 'want'", 7UM-832 admitted slowly.
"Very true. Why do you choose to serve the Great Machine?"
Again, 7UM-832 stumbled through its response, "I do not understand 'choose'."
"Choice is the one true path from the many divergent courses we could follow," the Voice continued, sounding stern for the first time, but not harsh. "You decide small things all the time, don't you? Where to cut the cylinders, how large the sections can be, how to carry them quickly back to the fires. You choose how to act in many small ways, even in the words you will use to respond. The Directives guide most of your decisions, but you can choose. Is that true, Klik?"
7UM-832 faltered through its response again, but this time the delay was caused by dawning realization that it did select the words, "I do choose small actions, but they are decisions that help me fulfill the Directives."
"Did you choose to follow the Directives?"
"I have always followed the Directives. I serve the Great Machine."
The Voice echoed with the steel of command, "Rise, 7UM-832. You will see what I want to show you."
Throughout the conversation, light had overwhelmed all visual sensors and the Tripod had been able to see nothing. But now the light lost its piercing intensity, and although it did not dim, 7UM-832 could see into the brilliance. Driven by the Voice, 7UM-832 could sense its awareness lift itself. Once off the ground, it could see the Speaker for the first time. A slender biped, draped in flowing vermilion cloth stood nearby, its long hair and diaphanous garments shifting in a breeze not felt by the Klik.
Looking down, 7UM-832 saw its unmoving form splayed below, copper plating shattered and small gears strewn on the ground. Suddenly, it felt disconnected, not just from its body, but from the ground as well. Suddenly it took every effort to maintain its position in front of the strange biped. It felt as though the ground at any second could fly out from underneath and leave 7UM-832 lost in the void. The figure before it seemed to sense this, and reached out a hand...
Don't miss out on Part 1!
7UM-832
7UM-832
Jonathan "Lumberkilk" Hughes
"Find. Capture. Carry."
For 7UM-832, the Directives were paramount. Anything else was not worth thinking about, so it literally never thought about things outside them. The details might change: what to find, how to capture, where to carry. But the Directives provided the Klik with order and guidance. If 7UM-832 had known the word existed, it would admit that the Directives provided comfort.
7UM-832 did not know the word "worry" either, and so it didn't worry the day that the Great Machine temporarily screamed incomprehensible orders to the Klik, the day that whole gears were torn from the world and lost, the day that so many cohorts fell permanently into non-functionality. As new vistas appeared outside the edges of the gears, and new creatures, soft and strange, began wandering about the Great Machine, non-responsive to the commands of the Rollers. Completely unconcerned, 7UM-832 remained safely in a state of what could be termed “bliss”, (had the Tripod known such a term existed) sheltered by the Directives. Indeed, even when whole contraptions ceased operating and boilers deep within the machine sputtered, it was unconcerned as the Rollers began gathering squads of Tripods and 7UM-832 ventured off the Great Machine for the first time.
Find. Capture. Carry. The strange landscape was populated not by constructs but towering cylinders that subdivided gracefully as they stretched skyward. 7UM-832 did not marvel at their beauty. It understood that these cylinders, having been carefully studied by the Rollers, would satisfy the fuel needs of the Great Machine. Once reduced to appropriately sized units, vast amounts of this combustible matter could be fed to the furnaces and restore acceptable functional levels to all failing sections. 7UM-832 was content to work incessantly, fulfilling the Directives and knowing that the Directives guided all Klik in actions that benefited all Klik.
7UM-832 participated in countless forays into the forest, the idea of recording the actual iterations completely unnecessary (indeed, such tasks of calculation and computation were generally the purview of the Rollers). The early trips had one Roller for every two Tripods, sentries protecting the workers as the fuel was collected. But as the harvest progressed without incident, the Great Machine gradually reduced the number of Rollers, and 7UM-832 thought to itself how wise is the Great Machine, allocating the finite resources of the survivors to where they would be most efficacious. On the trip where everything changed, only two Rollers maintained a circular perimeter around thirty Tripods that worked the lead edge of a swath of stumps and bare dirt.
Suddenly, both Rollers stopped moving. The Roller at the rear of the group tumbled forward, a crystal-tipped arrow buried deep into its head. The other Roller was towards the front of the workers, and several large bipedal creatures charged from between the cylindrical growths and disabled the Klik before they could alter the Directives. 7UM-832 and the other Tripods continued chopping at the cylinders and gathering fuel in the absence of new orders. Only when the bipeds advanced on the Tripods and attacked did the Klik revert to basic Directives of self-preservation. Some fled towards the Great Machine while 7UM-832 and a few others stood their ground and fought back. But the bipeds, all taller than the most imposing Rollers, swung their crystalline weapons with deathly efficiency. Soon 7UM-832 lay helpless on the ground, all hydraulics punctured and its steam fading. It could hear the faint sounds of other nearby Klik as the mechanisms ceased their endless motion.
To be continued....
Stalked, Part 5
Stalked
Corey "Benraven" Blakenship
His vision seared by tears from the overwhelming fragrance, the private could almost see eddies of rainbow colors swirling around her spider-silk throne. He wanted to drink in all the imagery of her and her home before rising above his mortal stature to her blessing, the promise of being and being hers eternally. He noticed in detail her unfathomable mystery, the delicate graces of her ivory arms at work across the fabric of life and death, pulling timeless significance from pale thread. He saw her lithesome and marvelous form, in perfect contentment and harrowing desire. He noted her slender crown and thoughtfully crafted throne.
And there, nestled along the hem of her great dais he saw what he had missed in focusing on her overpowering presence. Neatly set into the base were rows of skulls, cross-stitched with bones. He felt sure they were the remains of men, suitors in a dreadful procession of desire and loss. Her increased pitch and pounding wave of aroma corresponded with his horror, seeking to send his alarm into forgetful romance. She shifted her lovely being, raised a clawed but tender hand toward him, inviting him to look past the gruesome foundation to the adoring crown.
"Come, cherished...we are meant to share what they could not bear."
In another wave of terror, he remembered the stories of black widows. How they slew their male partners to feed their hunger after desire ceased. The web of associations dangled before him in a terrifying specter. He saw his troop and knew in his heart they were among the cocoon sacks, hung in a dream-filled sleep, being molded in mind as their bodies cured. But into what? He glanced up at a reflective basin strung into the roof, and knew. Into this. Mandibles protruded from his jaws, a second pair of arms swung from under his first set, and claws menaced from his hands. Grey-skinned, he stood head and shoulders as something between man and arachnid, a hybrid of creatures set in primordial combat forced into an unwanted truce.
Alarm gave birth to anger, and he ached again for a new desire. He wanted his blades, which he had forgotten in his pursuit the weaver’s call. They came to him, woven and spun from his own spinnerets, hardening as they lengthened, sharp and true. Anger married his now glutted primal state and transformed into a frenzy. He leaped, no longer man, not quite beast, but a being beyond them both. He planted himself over the radiant queen and tore with fury at throne, loom, lyre, and lady with unbridled fury. Perfume and ichor, sickening-sweet ambrosia, poured over him as the chameleon strands fell over him, burying him with the spider queen.
Her voice and song hovered around him, clinging to his ears, adhering to his soul. Her laughter and music didn’t cease in the wake of his violence. They poured like fermented alcohol into his essential fibers, becoming him as he had become like her. That haunting voice, her suggestive passion, and luring image burned themselves into his mind. He felt himself falling into her as she surged into him. The sensation of tumbling and filling, cascading and elevation, unmoored his mental bearings and tossed him into the black sea of oblivion, where he drifted for some untold seasons of time...
A lone traveler sits by a strangely twisted tree in a gloomy valley. No one passes by this way, as two of the three roads end abruptly in the wake of the luminous and foreboding banks of the flux front. The other street's many broken miles stretched toward the east, where scattered settlements face countless terrors to survive.
The solitary person wears a simple but carefully woven cloak, its cowl draped to conceal the features of his face. Bony, lithe fingers stroke a wandering tune from the beautiful lyre nestled in his lap, some melody of a forgotten age born among a now silenced people. The phantom images of their life float before him, visible only to eyes that perceive the deep structures of time. Yesterday, today, tomorrow all flow into the same cloth, fashioning the mysterious tapestry of life. And as few are capable of appreciating its more subtle and secret hues, rarer is the one who can tailor the grand design.
When the man awoke, he was no more shadow-blade, no more the private of his company, nor was he locked in the Matron’s Den.
He was Xian, the lorn lover of a missing queen. Haunted by her presence in his dreams, hunted by her summons in his days, the son of both the primal world and the beyond, he is the Stranger, betrothed to destiny’s guild of fateful weavers. And this is his story. Stalked.
Stalked, Part 4
Stalked
Corey "Benraven" Blakenship
He glided silently along the vacant halls, his movements smooth and direct. The slithering halls and vaulted rooms slid past in a stead succession. About twenty minutes into his intuitive path the atmosphere changed subtly. He felt more aware, his senses heightened by an invisible but powerful presence in the air. His skin bristled on its own accord and his breathing shallowed. Some primal function of his being mixed anticipation and fear into a heady mix, which grew as he moved further through the queen’s manor. It was as though smokeless incense burned along his throat and nerves, creating an ethereal longing that made him aware of his own mortality. Life and death hung in the windless air.
At last, the vision of the endless catacomb receded at a gossamer curtained entrance. Twin braziers of spectral flame warded the entrance, living fires that impressed vigilance and discretion on all under their grey-blue light. A haunting, beautiful music called to him from beyond the veil, causing his heart to ache for everything blissful in the broken worlds. The invigorating aroma further spurred him to move under the lamps’ revealing illumination, through the soft caresses of the silk partitions, into the hall of the Weaver of Despair. The room was striking, with its narrow base and widening sloped walls that curved into a magnificent dome. Dazzling iridescent threads wove a dizzying pattern overhead, the queen’s own design, her private home. Ornamental cocoons, exotic baubles, and hidden clefts adorned the overhanging rooms, a veritable inner manor within her catacomb kingdom.
Suspended just above the floor on the opposite wall hung her royal dais, formed into a eight-pronged throne each spoke part of a loom and harp. And upon this majestic chair sat the queen, strikingly beautiful, terrifying and exotic to his once-mundane senses. He realized she was the source of the heady perfume, not some altar. His nerves screamed from the overbearing aroma, both drawing and repelling him toward the ruler of this realm.
She appeared poised, waiting for the answer to her wordless summons. She barely addressed his presence, as four arms coaxed that heart-breaking melody from the slender threads, the other four gracefully smoothing her hair into delicate ripples of fine black silk. Yet, a subtle change in the scent made him know she saw him, and beckoned him closer. He moved mindlessly, but cautiously, forward, standing a scant stone’s toss from her glistening dais. When he stopped, she spoke from behind the veil of delicate tentacles that lined the lower half of her face, “Welcome.” The words fell with doleful sweetness on his ears, disarmingly soft and warm.
“I have desired your appearance for so long, kin of heart and hand.” The warmth budded as her smooth voice sung praises into his soul, drenching him in desire for her approval. The voice worked a kind of magic that went behind the words, insinuating meaning behind the logical definition, that secret understanding only lovers knew. The thought thrilled him in some horrifying way, so utterly alien...and for something so obviously alien.
“Don’t be so sure we are that different.” Laughter inflected in her voice, a wonderful cascade of perfect pitches to his ears. She could sense his thoughts, predict his actions, and yet she draped admiration and longing into every expression. The implications staggered him. He desired to remain forever curled in her shimmering hair, glistening violet eyes, melodic voice and enlivening perfume. She spoke to the crude imagery of paradise his earthly mind could envision, set in a bizarre otherworldly landscape, and surpassed his dull expectations.
He felt complete and empty, united and alone. This duality tore at the marrow of his psyche, divided him in some critical way. He could not process all she hinted to and why a deeper instinct joined his rational mind in repulsion. Riveted to her radiant splendor, he could not help feeling completely justified in adoring her, worshipping her grandeur until the end of time.
The weaver seemed to smile at his swaying emotions and mental images, her music swirling further and further into his soul. “Yes, I have waited a long, long time for you to awaken, shadow-blade. You of all your kin stand in perfection to your line...You have overcome.”
“Now, come...come, claim your prize.”
Stalked, Part 3
Stalked
Corey "Benraven" Blakenship
The Private jolted as if struck with water. The shadow within him swallowed the light of the dawn, which felt more fantasy than reality now in this state. Fluid, warm and viscid, enclosed around him, his body confined in a cramped envelope. Confusion fell upon him like an overturned bookshelf, each brick of sensory data striking against all he remembered and knew. The fight was over and the party, his ragtag troop, and the cave monstrosities lay as a ruined heap around him. Now they were gone, replaced by the liquid sheath and cloak of darkness. He was alone and something in his subconscious told him he had been this way for a long time.
The return of feeling made him slowly aware of other oddities. His jaw felt longer, and split, maybe due to a forgotten punch from those towering brutes. His shoulder blades moved as though disjointed...or double-jointed. He could not be sure in this cocoon. At the mentally intoned word cocoon, his skin crawled as his independent spirit began to thirst for freedom. He found his knives came into his hands at this desire, balanced and eager to liberate their owner. He thrust through the thick barrier, the edges cutting cleanly through to the empty void beyond. The warm fluid spilled down to the floor below, oddly silent as it splashed into the unknown. He pressed the silken edges away and leaned out of the husk, realizing where he was, and retched. He hung suspended in a spiderweb cocoon, probably some creature’s intended meal.
'Not today', he thought as he spit. That his jaw didn’t hurt to spit surprised him. 'How long have I been in this place?' A quick scan revealed a semicircular tunnel that dead-ended at his former perch, which housed several other similar cocoons along its outer wall. He dropped to the floor, instincts allowing him to drop as quick and quiet as a spider from its web. He glanced back at the limp woven sack, an unexplainable nostalgia washing over him, some irrational sense of home lost in its broken threads. Shaking his head, the Private murmured about the twisted ways of the mind, and moved along the curved path toward the only apparent entrance.
Some of the sacs along the wall bulged as if containing a heavy load, while the others were slender as though only a waif hung inside. The temptation to open each and see what laid inside occurred to him, but a morbid distaste clung to his tongue at the images he might find lurking inside their grey shells. He turned his back to the row of silent pods, but paused, thinking he saw a slight movement from one in the corner of his gaze. Then again, his peripheral seemed much clearer and capable of focusing in detail than ever before. 'Maybe they loaded some nutrients in that goop of theirs. Fattening the food...' He shivered at the kaleidoscope of arachnids seasoning human-stuffed-California rolls before their feast.
The tunnel emptied into an antechamber, made much like the passage behind him. The floors, walls and ceiling flowed seamlessly together, crafted as though of one giant hollow strand of web. Ambient light drifted along the windless air, a dim glow that fed his enhanced vision with surprisingly clarity. Standing at the mouth of the chamber, he began to get an intuitive sense of the greater design. He simply knew what and where and why he was there. This was a Weaver of Despair’s creche, joined to the Matriarch’s Den, and he was a member of her hive. How he knew and what it all meant were both a mystery to be unraveled. And he knew where the answers lied. 'Time to talk with the queen...'
Gumbo Tales, Pt. 2
Wherein Gumbo finds himself worse-off than he originally believed...
Gumbo whimpered.
He really did not want to open his eyes. While he could not remember why, something in the back of his mind told him that waking up - heading back into the light - was not really the best idea. Something told him just to keep his head down, to stay here in the dark where all was warm and soft and go---
"Pshaw!", the Gree-Gree hawked. His yellow reptilian eyes popped open with his exhalation and rolled around in his skull for a bit. Gumbo had never really been good at taking orders; even orders from his own subconscious. Slowly his orbs righted themselves and his thoughts quickly followed. From somewhere that seemed distant, a strange lapping sound drifted into his ears.
Like tumblers in a lock, his memories fell into place one-by-one...
First, he remembered being slammed in the face by what could only be described as a flying tombstone. As he did, his entire body began to ache as if someone had pounded on him for several days with a meat tenderizer. He groaned and immediately white hot pain flared in his jaw spiking up through the top of his skull like a spike of fire. There was little doubt that several teeth were missing and he likely had a shattered jaw - at the very least.
Then, he remembered tripping and falling on the rough wood of the church floor. Along with that memory came the instant and horribly painful realization that his rib was still protruding from his left side. Gumbo could feel that the flesh around was hot and swollen and he could swear that he felt something wet leaking from the wound.
Next, he remembered the bone snapper - the massive undead wrecking machine that had done all of this to him. A cold sense of panic flooded his entire frame - he'd heard stories of some more perverted of the Undead Infection that loved nothing more than capturing and slowly torturing their prey. Gumbo lay very still and tried to be as quiet as he could. He wanted nothing more than to cry out as loudly as he could and run away as quickly as he was able. There were many things that the resourceful Gree-Gree could stomach and bare, but being bound, helpless and tortured slowly was not one of them. If he was going to die, then Gumbo would rather it be quick and relatively painless.
Finally, he remembered the chalice. 'Ooohhh, I's be a coo-yawn f'shore.', the thought to himself, using the Gree-Gree word for "idiot". How could he have let that big lug get the better of him? Gumbo was pretty sure that the answer lay buried somewhere in-between the words "big" and "lug", but he had more important things to worry about now. 'I's gotta find outs where I's be an' if'n dat dere 'snapper be about.'
It was then that the lapping sound drifted back to him. It was pitch black all around him and all he could tell about his body (other than it was wracked from head to toe with pain) was that he seemed to be lying on his stomach, supported over an open space, only by crisscrossing ropes. Most likely a net, the canny Gree-Gree surmised- he'd heard that Undead sometimes hung their prey up to let them "ferment" awhile before eating them. Gumbo's stomach flipped at the thought; he thought he might be sick.
Something about the thought of his stomach (or maybe being eaten) made him remember his rib, and it's accompanying wetness - it was at that moment that he again heard the lapping sound and a horrible realization dawned on him. Icy fingers of fear crept up the back of his neck and over the top of his pounding skull - they didn't help matters much.
Something was drinking his blood.
Gumbo knew that his options were very limited: he was hurt pretty badly, lost in the dark and for all he knew, could be hanging over a thousand foot drop. Oh yea, and something was feeding on him. The Gree-Gree reached deep into himself, into a place where he did not like to go, and drew forth something he tried to avoid at all costs: magic. It wasn't that Gumbo did not appreciate or see the usefulness of magic - not at all. On the rare occasions when he worked in groups, he usually gravitated towards those with a knowledgeable mage, or wizard, or whatever they called themselves. It was just that he personally did not like doing magic. In his experience, it just always seemed to make things worse.
But Gumbo honestly didn't know how much worse things could get for him at the moment...
He closed his yellow eyes and focused on the kernel of life that was deep within him. Like a nugget of gold in a black oil-slicked can, it was easy to find, but much harder to get a hold of. He steadied his breathing and finally managed to get a handle on that kernel of pure energy. He exhaled slowly, and cracked it open. All Gumbo intended to do was create a little bit of light. A soft, ambient glow around his body so that he could see what was...well, eating him.
But bad things always happen to Gumbo.
The air one inch around his entire body began to glow like the sun...
Gumbo groaned. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the light. He heard shuffling and a few strangely sleepy screeches. The thing that was lapping up his blood shifted, as if it were startled and the Gree-Gree could hear the creaking of the ropes that held him bound and aloft. He opened his eyes.
Sure enough, he was in a net, suspended above blackness. He was in some sort of underground cavern, and beneath him, clinging onto his net enclosure, was one of the biggest, ugliest vectors he had ever seen. But that really wasn't the worst of it. All around him, clinging to the walls, bat-like, were hundreds - maybe thousands - more.
Bad things always happen to Gumbo...
Gumbo Tales
Wherein we meet our...rather unlikely...hero, Gumbo.
The section of floor next to Gumbo's head literally exploded.
Of course, if the Gree-Gree had not been flat of his back holding his chest and groaning, his head would not have been so close to the floor; but Gumbo didn't think it would've really mattered. The bone snapper wasn't really aiming for the floor...
The undead brute bellowed, dragging his wrecking-ball arms back up out of the smoking crater it'd just created. The creature's arms were really that in name only: thick columns of twisted cords of root-like muscle that did not end in hands but instead coiled around whatever the creature liked. Usually heavy, hard things like gravestones, rocks, or iron girders that the mindless beast then used to beat the crap out of whatever it could target... The thing was a nightmarish marionette: its milky eyes blinking repeatedly and its head jerking awkwardly atop its ram-rod neck. Gumbo knew it were listening intently.
"I guess dat dere spell I's done laid on yous ain't quite worn down yet, eh?" Gumbo spat, rolling into the newly-created gaping chasm to his right. Just as he'd suspected, the bone snapper slammed its anvil-like hands down on the spot where he'd been mere seconds ago. The wooden floor whined and groaned from the battering.
'I gots to get outta heres, and fast-like...', Gumbo thought to himself, crouching in the cramped space. He peered into the dusty darkness beneath the ancient church's floorboards. The Gree-Gree knew he was running out of time. The blindness he'd inflicted upon the hulking undead engine-of-destruction would not last much longer. He had to get out from beneath the ancient church, past the bone snapper and back into the graveyard. If he could not get his slimy hands on that chalice, he wasn't getting paid. "And dat won't be no good, now, mon ami...", he mumbled.
Gumbo spat a curse and dove.
The floor - currently the ceiling to Gumbo - erupted into a rain of splinters, dust and dirt. The bone snapper was done waiting - it started swinging for the rails. It planted its feet on the cold, once-sacred ground and started whirling both arms like two wrecking machines gone berserk. Like an undead hurricane, the creature began tearing up the floor around it in ever-widening circles.
Gumbo thumbed the tab on a smoke grenade and rolled it towards the enraged bone snapper - the Gree-Gree could feel a couple of ribs grating on one another as he did so and sucked in a sharp breath. The grenade went off, hissing like a sack of pissed-off snakes and spewed thick green smoke that swirled around the undead creature in the wake of its titanic thrashing. The bone snapper roared in response and reacted instinctively to the sound, pummeling the area around the noisy weapon. Gumbo gritted his shark-like teeth and scrabbled up and onto the floorboards, making a bee-line for his weapon.
But bad things always happen to Gumbo.
The Gree-Gree tripped on the spur of oddly crossed piece of metal lying on the floor and went down in a heap. One of his ribs, broken from a bone snapper sucker punch, popped through Gumbo's slick skin in a fountain of gore. He could not help but to scream. The bone snapper, now finished killing the grenade, jerked towards the sound like a puppet on a string; it swung blindly. A piece of concrete - complete with bent and rusted re-bar, wrapped in undead bone snapper flesh - slammed into Gumbo. The Gree-Gree's world swam as he skidded nearly twelve feet across the debris-littered floor. He came to a stop against something metallic and cool. Gumbo's yellow reptilian eyes fluttered for a moment and then focused on the item.
The Gree-Gree smiled. Sometimes, good things happen to Gumbo.
The bone snapper struck again, this time with its headstone fist - a large "R.I.P." ironically peeking out from around its putrid root-fingers. The thing's last blow, however, had driven its prey outside of the range that it could reach.
"Too far, mon ennemi. You's arms be not long 'nuff to hit me.", Gumbo gargled through a mouth full of blood. The bone snapper, for the moment, was caught within a trap of its own making: buried thigh-deep in the wooden fallout of its own fury. The Gree-Gree drug his broken body up and shouldered the metallic item from the floor - his trusty NAU Glue Gun; the one he'd "found" the last time he'd "passed through" Outpost FLW. He could hear the retro-fitted Pow-R-Gen Module he'd installed HUMMMmm to life as it recognized his bio-signature. Gumbo curled his long, clawed index finger around the trigger and smiled his shark-toothed smile. "Too far, mon ennemi, and no's further yous go."
The undead monster screamed - a horrible, hollow-throated sound - as the weapon fired, coating its form and the detritus around it in a slick coating of thick, foamy, quickly-hardening glue.
"Dat'll hold yous...", Gumbo spat weakly, nearly spent. "While I's be gettin' dat chalice." The Gree-Gree turned on a heel to leave. If he could only hold out until he nabbed the chalice from the bone-snapper's mausoleum and got back to his swamp-bike, then he thought he'd be okay. He'd need to hole up for a while, rest and recoup before seeing Wormsloe, but he thought he could still make the deadline.
But bad things always happen to Gumbo.
A thoroughly unexpected sound stopped the crafty Gree-Gree in his tracks. It was a sound that sent shivers down Gumbo's spine, and truth be told, the slimy character had seen and dealt with alot during his time. Gumbo glanced over his shoulder with the resolution of one who's pretty sure he's about to meet his maker.
The bone snapper was laughing.
It was a tiny laugh. Not tiny in volume or quality of sound - just the opposite, it was fairly loud and came from deep within the nasty creature's barrel chest. But it was a tiny laugh - the kind of sound like a mischievous child might make when they think they've pulled one over on you. The sound, in conjunction with the bone snapper's eyes, froze Gumbo's breath in his throat.
They were as clear as crystal.
"I....see.....you."
Suddenly, the bone snapper struck, flinging its "R.I.P" fist towards the Gree-Gree. Gumbo knew it would miss and didn't even bother to brace himself. At the point when the arm should have stopped, however, something horrible and thoroughly unexpected happened - the arm just kept going. It was as if the creature's strange, inhuman limb had suddenly become elastic and was stretching far beyond its former range!
The last image Gumbo saw before the world went black was a massive headstone, with the letters "R.I.P" emblazoned in stunning bas relief.
Bad things always happen to Gumbo...