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Contact Mizeta at mizetasworld@live.com, or Howard at fhschneider@comcast.net

I Never Thought I'd . . .


It was a bright sunny day and every window in the lumbering station wagon was down because the air conditioning unit had spent its Freon a long time ago. Justin and Gilbert were on their way to Justin’s sister’s house when a patrol car pulled into the tight spot behind them. The patrol officer had done so without his lights flashing, but Justin knew it was only a matter of time before he was pulled over. The tags on Justin’s car were expired. In addition to that, Justin didn’t have insurance. When they were pulled over, Justin feared the result would be the impoundment of his vehicle along with a hefty fine in the form of a ticket. This thought just cleared his head when sure as Oregon rains, the lights of the cop came on.

Justin did not tell Gilbert about the cop behind them as everything played out, but he disclosed that they were being pulled over. Gilbert went into an immediate panic and said, “I’m going to jail.” Justin told him about the plates and insurance but assured him the worst to happen would be the inconvenience of having to get home by bus. This did nothing to reassure him.

“I’m a Mexican, they harass me all the time. What do you know? You’re white.” Gilbert spit out.

“Just keep calm, this shouldn’t involve you at all, you’re a passenger. You don’t own the car and you weren’t driving.” Justin said, again trying to reassure him.

Just as he said this, the officer was standing outside his window asking for his drivers’ license, proof of insurance and the vehicle Registration.

Justin rolled to his right and snatched his wallet from his left buttock pocket and produced his license. Before the cop could speak, Justin told him he had just bought the car and did not have it in his name. The officer gave him a quizzical look and told him “Ah, don’t tell me that. Look, just give me your insurance card and let me run your name.”

Justin shrugged his shoulders innocently and sheepishly told him he didn’t have time to get it since buying the vehicle.

Again, the cop gave him a quizzical look and told him “Ah, don’t tell me that. Look, wait here.” The cop went back to his car to run his name. Gilbert, throughout the exchange with the cop, remained silent and as invisible as he could but, as soon as the cop went back to his car, Gilbert went ballistic.

The officer came back to the car as both of them waited for the boom to lower. Much to their surprise the officer handed Justin’s license back to him with a stern warning to get the issues fixed, then walked back to his car.

“I told you, you weren’t going to jail.” Justin bragged.

“Yeah, that’s true but, the one and only reason you got off was because you were white. No registration or insurance and no ticket. Come on man, if I was driving what do you think would have happened?” Gilbert lamented.

“I’d never thought I’d say this but, I think it was white privilege.”      


I Never Thought I . . .


I’d never thought I . . . would live this long. I mean it wasn’t in the plan at all. Live hard, die young and leave a handsome corpse was my motto. I practiced what I preached in every sense of those words during my youthful immortality stage. Now, I look in the mirror and that handsomeness is replaced by lines of experience etched by my pre-planned largess. I really thought I would be taking the old dirt nap by thirty, but now I’m 60. I found that living so fast and loose has given me such valuable insight and knowledge it should be shared with those who are still young and immortal, but like me, those young’uns don’t have the time to listen as they are busy living hard, to die young, so they can leave their handsome and ignorant legacy that came from such a short life span.

South of Houston Street Socrates


I remember it was in the summer of my youth when I first met Socrates standing at the mouth of an alleyway. His lowing white robes and hair, what he had left of it, were the same flowing white. It didn’t matter that it was the dead of winter; there he was in his robes. He was like an enigma to most because his origin in SoHo was unknown.  Some said he lived in a nearby retirement home while others said he just appeared one day. The story I heard was that he lived above a Chinese restaurant.  For me, it was 1962 when I first met him.  There he was, standing proud and tall with his fists clenched to the fabric of his tunic in a dignified manner.  It was raining hard and he seemed oblivious to it as he espoused philosophy. I was the only person stupid enough to be standing in the rain except for Socrates.  I was also his only audience that day.  He caught sight of me as I got near to him. He turned to face me without missing a beat and continued making his finer points, then stopped. 

“Wisdom is lost on the youth and that includes you young man.  You shouldn’t be out in this rain lest you catch the super flu,” he said.     

“You’re in the rain mister!” I threw right back at him with a little attitude.

He let loose a guttural laugh, then went into the subject of rain. In a weird way, I understood it.  He was getting into the effects of rain to alter moods which in turn could change the fate of the world, or something as significant.  But there I stood, listening to an impassioned man make an impassioned speech in driving rain.  Afterward he sat on the closest thing resembling a stoop, brought out a silver flask, and then took three healthy swigs.  I didn’t know why, but in that moment my mind chose to listen to this man.  I mean really listen.

The real magic of Socrates is what lies “between”.  When I listened to his ramblings and relaxed my anguished thoughts an understanding came to me from “between”.  It’s hard to explain, it’s more aptly described as a second vision.  For Socrates, reality is laced with factual events that are interwoven, yet invisible.  It’s there, but only if you know what to look for. 

Once you have trained your mind to look into the between you start to see what reality is!  It came to me quite naturally and since then I have been at Socrates’ side whenever possible.  His wisdom was all encompassing and it didn’t take long for others to join to hear him speak in the rain.  After ten years he no longer stood in the rain soaked streets to speak.  It was done indoors, thanks to the generous donations of the citizenry of New York for $18.50 admission fee. Socrates now arrives to his speaking gigs in the back seat of a Silver Cloud Rolls Royce motorcar.  Secret is, he bought another just like it, and it is being stretched as we speak. 

Since those days Socrates has become a household name with a laundry list of endorsements from some of the largest ad agencies in Lower Manhattan.  He is at the pinnacle of his fame.

I can’t say that I haven’t benefitted from being in his orbit all these years.  I too have made a lot of money in his shadow.  He is very generous and calls me “number one”.  Up until that point in my life I was never first in anything.  Not in love.  Not in Life.  His words made me see and understand.  To this day, the things that Socrates brings out in the open for others to see and consider are wonderfully insightful.  I didn’t see anything that could remotely be considered dark or cultish. 

Not in a long time has a single individual made such a profound impact on such large and diverse groups.  All the media is ready to pounce, then share, whatever tidbit that comes from Socrates.  Only a handful of individuals have had as much of an impact with their words.  The charisma that these individuals exude, which I consider Socrates a member of, is most palpable.  Those like Ghandi, Hitler, Reagan and a few others have made both positive and murderous influences.   The sheer number of his followers and the constant demands from the media puts him right up there with the same kind of crowd strength. 

I go to after parties where the prevailing question asked of me is “is he evil“?  Is he good, or is he bad?  I scoffed at the notion, at first.  Then I took a good look around me.  Wherever I went, while in his presence, I saw the sheer number of the crowds.  His believers.  Then I started to randomly look in this crowd of believers to examine individual faces.  Thousands of them since I started to see between the lines, so to speak.  I came to a startling conclusion.  It wasn’t the man that we should be looking at, it should be his followers.  While I was looking at individuals, I was looking at the wrong ones.  I should have looked at his early followers.  The ones that came after me.  There was an unofficial inner circle of certain people who do certain things.  Specialized things.  There was Hector, who worked at a postal center sorting mail.  He did all the mailing.  There was Saul the butcher who always seemed to smell like blood.  There was Lucy the hospital nurse who happened to be a man.  How he got the name Lucy is anybody’s guess.  As hard as I thought, I could not recall what exactly it is, that Lucy did. 

He liked to flash money about and bought a lot of friends with influence he parlayed into success outside the hallowed halls of the hospital ICU unit.

Lucy spends the most time with Socrates outside of myself.  He never seems to be in the room with both of us at the same time.  I did remember a quote attributed to Lucy when at a luncheon, he said “Who do you think owned the alley Socrates first spoke in? Me”

I decided it was time I look behind the curtain of Mr. Lucy.  If I was right, then Mr. Lucy should currently be in the company of Socrates, because of the simple fact, I was not.  I was going to confront him with posing questions and get to the bottom of this question.  I looked at my reflection in the mirror to adjust my tie one last time before meeting them, and turned to go out the door.  As I turned, there he was standing in front of the door.  “How did you get in here”?  was the very first thing that came out of my mouth.  I saw him for the very first time in his full glory.  The power levels in the room went up exponentially.  The façade he wore was gone and what you saw was what you got.  Lucifer.

“It makes sense why you took the name Lucy. I suppose you think it’s clever?”  I said as bravely as I could under the circumstances.   

“I have kept an eye on you for a long time now.  I have allowed you to travel this path of yours since the beginning.  Now that everything is in place, I only thought it appropriate we should meet because you sure think we should.”  He said as smooth as molasses, while giving me a wink before continuing.

“Let me tell you something.  Call it a courtesy if you will.  There are two outcomes in the present time.  Outcome number one has you giving me all the followers and in return I make you rich, famous and having what you want when you want it.  The second outcome is you disappear.  Only you and I share the oracle. Once you are eliminated from the equation, I control the message.  Look at it like this, you and I are standing shoulder to shoulder and there is this monkey straddling us.  I turn and walk away and the monkey jumps to your back and then it is yours.   It’s a metaphor you moron”.  He hissed.

“How long do I have?  To decide, that is.”  I inquired.  After all, he was the Prince of Darkness.

He ran for and won the election for President of the United States under the name of John Smith aka, Socrates.  One day I was approaching the East gate of the White House.  I was on a short break in between movie sets and it was time I saw the man whom I followed for good portion of my very successful life.  He met me with a wink on the East Portico.



The large and misshapen boy stepped outside and immediately scanned the playground for his next victim when his eyes settled on a boy sitting on a swing eating his lunch alone. Like a laser he made a beeline for him before he had a chance to eat everything in the small brown bag sitting perched on his lap. When he stopped, he was standing in front of the small, yet frail, boy effectively cutting off any route the victim might think he had in escaping his wrath. His stance yielded an added bonus because his shadow overtook his victim like a solar eclipse that giving him a more menacing look. The bully liked it when he noticed the fear in the younger, smaller boy when he looked up to see what caused the sudden change in his surrounding light.

The bully slapped the crust of bread from the other boy’s hand and quickly demanded he turn over the contents remaining in his lunch sack. The blow was so sudden and severe that it knocked the glasses perched on his nose. He frantically tried to focus on this threat without the benefit of a good pair of eyes. The young boy quickly held out the bag for the other to take hoping that this would suffice. It didn’t. Like a savage animal that smelled fear, or worse, blood on his prey, it only encouraged him to inflict more pain and suffering on his helpless victim.

Little Tommy knew that the only thing he had left in this peace offering at the bottom of the sack was an apple and this knowledge only fed his fear it being discovered. When the bully standing astride him looked into the semi-empty sack his fears quickly turned real. Like a volcano erupting in front of him abuse rained down upon him with great fury. Each strike seemed to be feeding the next without any hope of stopping. After the first hit to his head he let himself fall backwards onto the soft earth, but this only angered his tormentor more as he quickly closed the gap and was now on top of him. With his energy finally fading, the bully stopped, and the bloodied boy was relieved. The bully looked around to see if his handiwork was noticed and satisfied it had not, told Tommy to “keep his mouth shut” because he would be looking for him again the next day and the bag had better be full.

Tommy did as he was told and kept quiet about his injuries until the end of the school day and went home. Tommy would have to tell his mother because the cuts and bruises were too many to hide. Besides he trusted she would know how to handle this. When he walked into the front door of his house she saw that he was injured, she immediately took him into her arms and asked “what on earth happened to you peanut”. There was something in her touch and her voice that immediately soothed his fears and pain. She always had that effect on him.  It wasn’t just that she was his mother it was something deeper that penetrated his consciousness all the way to his soul. He told her what had transpired in all of its hellish detail, leaving nothing out. He told her that it was his fault somehow.

After his father had died two years earlier, it was just the two of them, but somehow it was enough. The loss of his father weighed heavily on him, but his mother filled that void somehow.  he sat him down and said, “I want you to hear a story and then after you hear it you'll understand that it is not you that caused this, but something as old as time itself.”

Before she began, she got up and went to retrieve something out of the old chest in the dining room. She spent quite some time searching its contents before she plucked it out and brought it to him. It was a stone set into an old necklace made of silver. She draped it over his head until it rested just above his heart. She turned and picked up three candles, then lit them before she placed them onto the table in front of him. He was intrigued. He had seen her do these types of thing before and they seemed rather magical before. She continued “There is an evil that gathers every Halloween and performs a ritual called the corruption spell. This spell then goes forth and enters the minds of people who are most vulnerable and changes them in such a way that they become evil and every act they do is channeled back into those that performed the spell. This gives them great power and each year they become more and more powerful. The amulet that I place around your neck will be your shield. When one of these surrogates come in contact with you and attempts their evil practice on you, that which they wish to do to you reflects back onto them. More important, it also amplifies this back onto those who gain from this evil and diminishes their power. Finally, if there are others anywhere near the one attempting to harm you, it also affects them as well. You will therefore begin to reverse all evil everywhere once you infect the one. There are many of these evildoers walking around who are unaware they have been infected. The power of the Amulet is a powerful tool, but if you use it on Halloween day it will be much more effective." As she ended the story and finished the ritual in a tongue that Tommy did not know, she began to blow out the candles one by one. When all of the candles were extinguished, a strange and powerful feeling washed over him.

When Tommy went to bed that night, he had dreams of cloaked figures chanting in a circular room that had a dais in its center with a small baby. He caught brief glimpses of golden masks under dark hoods and each one was more frightening than the last. He knew, or rather sensed, that these were the ones his mother spoke of as if he was there in the room with them.  They were agitated as they too felt his presence but could not see where he was.  The amulet was shielding him from their gaze, this much he understood.

At noon the next day he went back to his favorite lunch spot but this time with a new courage that he did not know existed.  He was not fearful of the impending meeting with the bully. In fact, he was looking forward to it. He sat on the swing and opened his lunch bag because he was hungry. As he began to eat, he saw the kid that terrorized him the day before heading in his direction until he was standing in the exact place he was the day before as if some recurring nightmare was rearing its ugly head again. He continued eating his sandwich which he could see angered the Bully and knew that the volcano was about to erupt on him at any moment. He didn’t have long to wait when the Bully screamed at him to stop eating HIS lunch. Unmoved by the threat this time, he continued to enjoy his meal without fear.

The looming Bully broke the stalemate when he started to rain his fists down upon him again. One, two, three punches in rapid fire succession came down. It was then that the Bully screamed. It was a scream of anger, but also one of pain.  Timmy looked up at the Bully and noticed gashes opening up on the bridge of the kid’s nose, cheek and eye. Timmy felt no pain when he should have but then remembered his mother’s words of the power of reflection. The amulet was working. Not just on the Bully who was terrorizing him, but two others in his vicinity began to scream in pain when they too had injuries manifesting in the same areas and the Bully. He could not swear to it, but he thought he saw a wave of energy leave him that travelled outwardly in all directions at once. The Bully started to run away from him with his bloodied hands covering his bloodied face.

Timmy couldn’t wait to tell his mom the news. Later that night while watching television there was a breaking news story. It seemed there was an outbreak all around the country of mysterious injuries being inflicted on so many people it had the police stumped.

Later that evening as Timmy was going to bed, somewhere in a distant land in a remote castle hooded figures gathered. One by one their robes fell to the floor until all had been destroyed, leaving only a pile of fabric and intricate gold masks scattered in a round room.



There are those who will tell you not to do things that invite evil into your home.  Home being a metaphor for your heart.  Never play the Ouija board game, and under no circumstances, ever, I repeat, ever hold a séance!  Those words echoed in my brain as I took the hands of those to the left and right of me at Miss Nellies.  I was not at a prayer meeting at St. Anthony’s, I was at a séance!  We took advantage of the group rate—$100 for five of his friends, $20 apiece!  Only one of the five will have a visitation, and you won’t know who until the “electric meter” begins its rise.  It really depends on who Miss Nellie chooses.  We began when she asked that each of us tell her about someone who recently passed until she made a connection.  The connection could occur on the first story, or the last, it just happened.  I would go second, by the order in which we sat.  My friends and I from college had talked about doing this for some time, and we were looking for something to jar us out of the malaise we were in as a group.  I thought of a great plan to scare the hell out of them all.  They would expect it from me the least.  My friend Dillon went first and joked his way through the demise of his rabbit.  After a painful performance, he just said, “the rabbit died, get it?” 

I looked at all the faces around the table, which were looking at me now and sheepishly said, “My Uncle Mike was just killed, last night at Joliet Prison.  As I said it, I lowered my head and closed my eyes, for effect.  When I opened them, everyone else was in a deep sleep.  Carmen was so slumped over that drool was coming from the corner of her mouth.  It was so viscous it hung without breaking the strand until it reached a pool on the floor to her left.

The fictional Uncle Mike was real, to a point.  There was a man on death row executed the previous night and his name was Mike, but he wasn’t my Uncle.  I'd heard it on the news that morning.  Problem was, he was standing in the corner of the room and everyone else as soundly sleeping.  It was him!  The man still had IV needles hanging from both his forearms. 

“I’ll be damned, it worked!”  Uncle Mike stated.

“I must be dreaming, or maybe Miss Nellie has put me into some kind of trance.”  I stammered.

The implication this was real disturbed me on every level.  What if?  Why couldn’t I just have gone to the movies instead?  The normal Saturday night, kind of stuff!  I gave him a good look over, thinking I had missed something revealing it as an illusion.  Nope, he seemed all too real for me. 

“Don’t look too surprised, you let me in.  In fact, your energy drew me straight to you.  It was like the great beam of light penetrating a violent storm emitting from a lighthouse.  Hooo, what a ride!”  Uncle Mike hollered. 

“You are not real!”  I asserted.

Uncle Mike took a couple of steps forward and grabbed Miss Nellie by her collar, cleared her space at the table for himself and sat.  For the life of me, I did not know what to do in circumstances such as these.  We sat that way for quite a while, looking at each other until he got bored.  He slammed his fist down on the tabletop with such force and sound that a picture fell from its place on the wall behind me , and he yelled, “There are two ways this will end for you.  First, you can stay in this dark place with everyone else asleep forever, or the second option is simply “Let Me In”.   Come on man, let me in and we can go out and have some fun.  You look like someone who’d be great to take along for a murder.  What do you say?  Let’s get wet!”  He implored.

Just the thought of letting him in, it couldn’t be the choice.  The possibilities and debauchery to be committed by his hands was unimaginable.  I hadn’t paid close enough attention to the news to remember what it was Uncle Mike was convicted of.  Then again, one didn’t have to have an active imagination to think about the crimes he committed because he was executed for them. 

I took a step outside with my passenger firmly in tow.  It was like a human meat-bag Uber service.  I stopped and took a deep breath, which was more Uncle Mike behaving than me.  The sweet smell of freedom was at the forefront of my thoughts.  I was still there, but so was Uncle Mike.  I could best describe it as Uncle Mike was a well of compulsions bubbling up to the surface of my mind.  These compulsions were strong.  It took everything I had to keep from giving in to them.  This allowed me the comfort to know I was really in control of my body and not Uncle Mike.  The other creepy aspect of this shared body experience was that Mike’s memories came along with him.  Not at first, but in dribs and drabs. 

It also felt as though Uncle Mike was getting a stronger toe-hold into my consciousness.  Little pieces of me were falling away into nothingness.  I would have to do something, anything, soon.  I had to rid this miscreant or he would be death of me and probably many more if I wasn’t smart about the situation.  Death of me!  That was the solution to the situation. 

“Now, now let’s not have thoughts like those again.  What do you say?”  Uncle Mike teased.

 “Look, before we go getting all wet, we need to go to the bank.  I don't have any money on me.  We can’t get the things we’ll need if we don’t have any money.”  I countered back at him.

I was able to make his feet turn easily as it seemed when both our thoughts were in sync, there was no bodily resistance.  Away to the bank we sauntered.  I say sauntered because it was quite difficult maintaining a natural walking rhythm when two of us steered the ship.  It was equally as difficult to keep my thoughts bottled up and away from Uncle Mike.  My plan needed a lot of things to be present, and happen in order for me to rid Uncle Mike from inside. 

We entered the bank to the “lunchtime crowd” inside.  I pulled out my wallet and took a withdrawal slip, and then started to fill it out.  I glanced around the interior to find what I needed.  It was standard protocol to have one of them present in case of emergencies.  As I scanned the room, my eyes came to rest on the item in question.  A defibrillator mounted in its glass case.  The problem was it was mounted in an area “off the beaten path.”  I would have to walk in the opposite direction than the tellers.  I thought about Uncle Mike and quickly realized he was lost in criminal fantasy and distracted by it.  The idiot was actually visualizing robbing the bank, in both their minds.  I made my move.  It felt like I was walking through mud.  Uncle Mike seemed clueless, so I kept on with the slog towards freedom.  I must have been a sight trying to walk with only control of half my body.  It alarmed a nearby customer so badly they asked me if I needed help.  I ignored her because of the continuous effort required in getting from point A to point B.  When I reached my destination in front of the glass case, I opened it.  A shrieking alarm sounded.  I turned around to look behind me and began ripping my shirt from my chest.  I must have looked like a madman.  My chest was bare, and covered in sweat from the constant battle I had with my body on the way over.   

I began to apply adhesive pads with electrode wires.  I did all four, in a “boxlike” pattern and held the machine up, as in victory, and pushed the little red button.  There, right in front of everyone in the lobby, I committed suicide.  Right before the lights went out I wondered if there would be a final, yet symbolic fight between our souls.  It didn’t matter now as the die was cast.  When the paramedics arrived and revived me, I felt free of Uncle Mike. 

“I swear, I will never place myself, my soul, in such jeopardy again.”  I said to the ER doctor with great relief. 



Bill Maxwell prides himself on his ability to think quickly on his feet, but the predicament he found himself in will take his best to maneuver through. After all, how often has he found himself tied (naked as the day he was born) to a wooden post, in the middle of the forest? This was something he had never encountered, nor could have imagined, happening to him. For the better part of an hour, (since he regained consciousness), he watched as wolves brought wood to the fire in front of him. One-by-one they came in a quiet procession to add to the conflagration. This alarmed him because the flames were growing quite large now. In fact, it was the flames licking his torso that awoke him, and the heat was becoming unbearable. The heat, in turn, was making him very thirsty which probably meant he was in the beginning stages of dehydration. This macabre procession was like something out of a nightmare. If the wolves didn't stop soon the fire would slowly burn him to death.

He was relieved the number of wolves bringing wood started to dwindle and then finally stopped. Perhaps he would see his human captors now he thought. The immediate danger of being burned alive also passed, so  finally he had time to think about his predicament. He was in Budapest on business. He expected to be here a week but had surprising success with his client so the need to stay evaporated. He was free to fly back to San Francisco any time.

He noticed the silence of the forest for the first time. The wolves were nowhere in sight, or hearing. The only sound he heard came from the crackling of the fire raging in front of him. Then, he started to see people coming from different directions towards the makeshift camp. As they arrived, they silently stood around the fire watching him. "Please help me", he pleaded to those nearest, but they remained silent.


He was mesmerized by her. Every bone in his body screamed at him to have nothing to do with her, but he was powerless to resist her allure. At first, she was a free spirit. That was all an act and somewhere down in his memory he knew she was a Gypsy. He went to the mini bar in his suite and pulled out two bottles of vodka and downed them unceremoniously. He felt the warmth creeping down his body and was actually feeling better about his situation. In a way, she was responsible for her own death, because she really was trying to rob him. He didn’t mean to push her off the steep rock embankment, that was an accident. It was just a “he said, she said”, kind of thing. He picked up his cell phone to check for messages. Might as well earn his living he thought, when there was a knock at his door. Suddenly, that new-found confidence to control his situation, took an alarming turn. 

He took a deep breath. It was probably wayward room service. The door opened to the sight of four menacing looking men. The one in front had a scar that ran down the side of his temple ending somewhere under his shirt. The air suddenly became oppressive and dangerous at the same time. He could almost taste it, it was that thick. Quickly and quietly they came in as one and shut the door behind them. Why did he let them in when all he had to do was shut the door? He wouldn't be in this confined area with no avenue of escape. 

They immediately bound and gagged him. The one with the scar told him to keep quiet or they would just hurt him now. He found himself being lifted off the floor and slung over the shoulder of one hell of a giant man. He almost peed himself in the process. He needed to talk about the fact they have the wrong man, but all in all, he knew why they were taking him. It was because of her. How they managed to find him, or her for that matter, scared the hell out of him. Creepier still, they didn’t say a word about her in the trussing process. It was done quietly and business-like.

Bill was disappointed to see there were no witnesses to his abduction from his room all the way to the van. The confined space of the van made it a tight fit given the size of his captors. 

“Look, it was just an accident” He blurted out through his gag which made it sound like he was saying “Loop wager dent.” The van came to an eerie stillness as they all looked at him as if to say, “Yes that is why you are here.” He knew then, that they knew. An unspoken truth was just divulged and now he would have to reap that wind. 

Sitting on a makeshift bench across from him, was Scar. Scar looked at Bill, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a knife and leaned forward with it.  He reached behind Bill's ear and cut the gag free, then put the knife away before sitting back as if to have a chat between men. 

“So, you admit to killing our sister! This is good for you, but it will not change your destiny . . . tonight.” He said with a glint of gold catching what little light there was off his tooth. 

"It was an accident!” He tried to reassert, like a businessman would when trying to sell his wares.

“The terms are stuck. In just compensation, you will forfeit your life tonight, for hers. The fact you pushed her by accident is not relevant. For you, your suffering will only cease tonight with your last breath. Our law demands your bloodline will suffer until the end of time. That will be sufficient for our justice,” he said.

The van came to a halt in a wooded area somewhere east of the city. When the doors finally opened, he was amazed to see a campsite filled around a central bonfire. There had to be at least 15 motor homes and various trailers parked in a large circle with hundreds of people milling about.

He was marched across the enclosure until he came to a stop in front of a non-descript RV. The two biggest brothers pushed him down onto his knees without much effort to await the official family questioning and judgment. As the cabin door opened, he noticed that everyone was now standing around awaiting the trial, yet no one spoke and somewhere in the distant night he heard an owl over the roaring of the fire.

Three men stepped forward and stripped the clothing from his body until he was naked as the day he was born. It was obvious now he was in for some painful justice meted out by those directly impacted by the loss of their family member. He began to weep uncontrollably at what was about to be. One by one they came to him and smeared red paint over his body in patches of orb-like patterns until he was covered in them head-to-toe. A hush fell once again.

The one with the scar stepped forward and explained the markings. Each one of these represents “a pound of flesh” he stated. 

“You should know that they are not only symbolic but also have value. Those who have a claim to your flesh, for your actions, can barter them in the festival of skin that took place today. You see when we discover one of our own has passed, the family is identified, and they get their portion depending on the greater of the loss. They can then sell them, or barter them, to anyone in the clan. This is a complex way to settle financial scores that the loved one leaves behind. Such is our way. These marks are their claim for your crime. It doesn’t take long for the process to break down the bond your skin has to your frame. Each marking will fall from you until you stand here completely devoid of flesh. You will of course feel every bit of it. Eventually, you will drown in your own vomit. Finally, with each patch of flesh that falls to your feet, one family member will be afflicted with the same fate whereever they may be.” He said authoritatively.

Before he could plead for his wife and daughters, a plate sized piece of skin fell off of his chest causing searing pain. He started to scream uncontrollably. The group around him filled his head with their singing and chanting. One by one the patches fell and eventually Bill succumbed.


Brittany sat at her make-up table trying to get ready for her date. Since Dad hadn’t come home last night, as scheduled, she had use of his BMW. It wasn’t out of the ordinary that he didn’t come and go with accuracy. Sometimes business comes up and now she scores with the use of the car another night. She was applying her lipstick when she noticed a ring-like blemish appear on her forehead. It really began to itch so she reached up to scratch it. When she started to gain some relief from the irritating itch, she felt like her face was on fire. She screamed at the intensity of it causing her to rub furiously at the location to put the fire out. She pulled her hand away from her face and with it came a good portion of skin still attached to her ring, which it snagged on the way out. She yelled for her mother, who was having issues of her own at the moment.  


Dead Man’s Chest


He awoke sometime around three in the afternoon. As his eyes flittered open he was disoriented to the point he wasn’t even sure he was awake. His whole body hurt. It was hard to breathe. Every inhalation brought a deep, stabbing pain in his chest that took the breath along with it. He tried to sit because the realization of his pain meant he was no longer asleep and harsher pain. He looked down at his body and found his shirt drenched in blood.  His legs seemed to be unscathed. He reached for his head and found an immediate soft spot on the top of his skull, drenched in blood. He gingerly opened his shirt to see the cause of so much blood and found three bullet wounds bubbling just beneath the shirts surface. He was shot? With this realization, darkness crawled back up to claim him. When he awoke two hours later, it was to the sound of the ocean slapping against the hull of the sailboat which was currently adrift. Now that he knew what to expect on the pain front, it seemed a lot less intense. He managed to roll over onto his stomach and get up into a crawling position before the pain overcame his ambition. He was in this position for quite some time while trying to get his breathing under control. As his conditioned waned, he was alarmed by the surroundings and their unfamiliarity.  He didn’t know where he was.  Everything his eyes took in seemed foreign. He realized he was in the cabin of a boat by the décor, but who’s?

He looked around until his eyes fell upon a white box mounted to the wall next to the radio, marked “First Aid”. He crawled slowly towards it. He needed to tend to his wounds. He was swimming in and out of consciousness; he needed to stabilize, medically. First, he needed to stop the bleeding in his chest where he had three active wounds, two on the left side, and one on the right.  He gingerly took off his shirt and packed his holes with gauze. He then tightly wound the gauze across his chest and around his back, then over the three bandages that needed constant pressure. He needed to wash his wounds properly, but from what he could tell whoever did this took all of the food and water. The cabin was tossed and the radio smashed.  He needed to find some charts and then get some kind of fixed position to plot a course to the nearest hospital.

He needed to do a bunch of things to assess what his personal situation was. How much food and water? Is there any fuel? Who, the hell was he? The anger welled inside him to the point he stood up to look on deck. When he mounted the three-step riser and took his first look topside, he saw at least three men lying dead. From that vantage point, he could only see the back half of the ship. The entire bow was outside his sight line. He stepped forward and picked up the semi-automatic pistol the dead man had dropped, ejected the clip and saw that nothing had been fired from this gun, and reinserted. Stupid bastard, he thought. After a brief respite to clear his swimming vision, he started towards the bow in a concealed position. There was a soft thumping sound coming from that direction. It didn’t sound natural. Cautiously, he crept forward with his gun leading the way. As he rounded the last impediment to a clear view, he saw her. She was on her stomach crawling towards some kind of bag tied to the railing, bleeding. Once he was confident she was the only other soul on the boat, he stepped forward.  She stopped crawling and rolled over on to her back and looked him in the eyes.

She said “Go ahead you bastard, finish it. You know you want to.” 

“Finish it?”  He yelled at her. “Finish what?  Look. I have nothing against you lady, tell me what the hell happened here.”  He asked.

The woman’s whole demeanor changed. First, she looked confused, or, cautious. Then she opened up to him in such a manner that his first instinct was to run. 

“Darling, put that gun down and help your wife. I need help,” she pleaded.

“Come now, you don’t think I had anything to do with this?  I’m wounded, shot, and I do not have a gun.  You, on the other hand, have one.” she said.

He looked down at his gun and realized how useless it really was. His wife, if that is who she is, was so wounded she didn’t pose a threat. He didn’t know where they were or where they were going, or how long it would take to get there. He would die of thirst before he would succumb to any of her actions. Then, in a gesture of hopelessness, he threw the gun overboard. 

He knew he was bleeding internally,and was getting weaker by the minute.  He took a seat next to his wife, leaving her to fend for her own injuries. He was exhausted and pretty sure it was written all over him like a neon sign, in Times Square.  

“So, tell me, what happened here.  I’m no longer a threat,” he asked her again.

She sighed and said, “What happened was that you arranged for this little romantic getaway so you could kill me and throw my body overboard. What happened, dear husband was you,” she spit back at him.

“Intimate, why would I have planned an intimate anything, then invite the three dead men?  They obviously aren’t the staff? Something else happened, and I want to know what it was before I come over there and start plugging your bullet holes with my thumbs,” he said.

“Why can’t you be the stupid, clueless, bastard you always are?” she asked.

“Look, where I sit now is where I will die. I’m not moving anywhere. So let’s dispense with the crap and lay our cards on the table because by the looks of it, I am your only chance to move from the spot you sit,” he said indignantly.

She looked at him and began to laugh. Not a wounded woman on the bow of a boat kind of laugh, but a gut splitting one. Her laughter was getting softer and softer until he must have passed out again. One minute she was across from him, holding onto her knowledge of what happened like a piece of gold from a leprechauns’ bucket, and the next minute she was gone.  Why didn’t she kill him? Perhaps she thought he was already dead and posed no threat himself.  God, he was so tired. He had never felt this drained of energy in his lifetime.  He fought the urge to go back to sleep because somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew he would never wake up. He was at a crossroads, as they say. He needed answers and the answers were never to be revealed to him, fatefully so. He would get his answers. One way or the other, he damn sure would. He marshaled the strength to get to his feet, making sure his right hand was clutching the railing for support. One foot in front of the other is what this moment came down to.  He reached the point he could now see the backside of the boat and the three dead men who still lay prone. She must have gone into the cabin, he thought, and then looked through the port hole that was just below him to see if he could see her. There was no movement in the galley. He stopped and listened for any sounds she made, but all he heard was the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull. He started aft again, coming to a halt in front of the stairs that took you below decks. He was reduced to a game of cat and mouse while bleeding to death. But curiosity is a fickle creature—it can make you do things that you never knew were possible. The unknown to some is a very scary landscape to be in, while others fall headlong into a “curiosity trip.” He knew he was dying, yet he needed his god damn questions answered. To die and not know who you are is unacceptable. He needed to find her and pull the answers out of her. His anger started to rise and in turn his motivation level rose above his wounded body, to participate in the end game. His entire weight accompanied each footfall down into the interior of the vessel as his body was on full automatic. He reached the lower level and stood there, nostrils flaring, looking around the small cabin for her. There she sat, in the corner, dead.



The chief of police stood at the window of his office looking at a sky so angry that it matched the mood of the community he had sworn to protect. In the last three weeks, a homicide has occurred each week like clockwork, and he had no idea who was behind them. When the first body of a young woman was discovered, it left no doubt that “homicidal violence” was the cause. The crime scene had a subtle yet dramatic flair to it, giving Rick Masters the impression that it had been staged, yet it didn’t.  Then another body of a young woman turned up, and with it, a little heat from the community. They wanted answers, and a palpable fear began to spread across the sleepy small town nestled in rural Alaska when none were offered. Now, last night, another young woman was killed, and he knew the impending storm would be more turbulent than what he saw outside his window. As he turned away from the sight, the phone on his desk rang, and knew it was the mayor.

“Chief Masters,” he said reluctantly.

“Chief, Mayor Bartlett. First, let me start by saying that the community is up in arms over these killings. Do you have any idea what three dead kids out of a class of fifty looks like?” the mayor complained.

Rick rubbed his temples as he felt one of his headaches screaming down the tracks toward him. Now that it was obvious they had a serial killer operating amongst them. It was only a matter of time before the Alaska State Police would enter the fray. Frankly, at this point he would welcome the help finding this monster.

“Look, Mayor, we processed the crime scenes, so you know what to expect at this point. Unfortunately, the crime scene of the woman we found last night had to be processed in driving rain. I don’t have to tell you what effect that has on trace evidence collection. We did the best we could. Her autopsy should be performed in about thirty minutes, and as soon as I know something, so will you,” Rick said as professionally as possible under the circumstances.

The back wall of the conference room was cleared for him to build his own. He set everything he had collected from the three crime scenes— personal effects, files, and official case notes—on the conference table, then walked over to the blank slate and pinned up the photos of the girls. Regina Carmichael, Isabella Johnston, and now Celeste Criss looked back at him as if they were demanding answers from him also. He shook off that thought and walked to the dry eraser board mounted in the center of the wall. He drew a vertical line across the stark white background, his timeline of the killings. Starting from left to right he wrote, in the order of their deaths, their names and the dates they died. It pained him to leave room on this line for more victims, because at this point it seemed inevitable. Once done, he took a note pad from the tabletop and grabbed one of the chairs, dragging it across the tiled floor making an annoying sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.  He positioned the chair directly in front of the timeline and took a seat to study the information. 

It didn’t take long to see that the killer of these girls is on some kind of schedule because the TOD’s (time of death) for the first two victims were late evening on successive Saturday nights.  He would bet a month of his wages that the current victim will be the same. If Rick were correct, then he had six days until girl number four turns up. He sat staring at the wall and the similarities began to pile up to the point at which he was flooded with information.  The girls were the same age. The girls all went to the local high school. They all had brown hair. When he thought about it, the profile he was building in his head of the killer was “too textbook,” to the point of being cliché.  There was a wealth of information in front of him, but he was a good analytical thinker with an uncanny ability to look past things that are noisy, to see a minute connection screaming at him.  “Forest through the trees,” he muttered over and over again to no one in particular. It bothered him that he already had a “sense” about the case, ever since the first body turned up. It was as if something was nagging at him. There was a familiarity, unseen, but felt instinctually all the same. His head began to ache again.

Deputy Sam Thurston was more tired than he could remember. In a department the size of his, it was bad enough trying to cover the expanse of their territory, but now, the added detective work of the homicides. It was taking a toll. His circadian sleep was already off because it was that time of year when the long Alaskan daylight hours drug on. This was the first time in his young career in law enforcement that he got to work on a homicide. The chief wanted him to compile everything he could on the victims. He got their school records, friends names, clubs, everything. He already had a good start on the first two victims, and he refined his approach with the latest one. The one thing that he has learned from his chief was the old school nature of his superior. This fact gave Sam the ability to grow because he was the polar opposite of the Chief. He brought the chief into the twenty-first century with all its technological wonder. 

For instance, he amazed the chief with his deployment of GPS markers of the crime scene, with the first homicide thus giving him the ability to create a 3D visual recreation of the scene instead of a two-dimensional image of a normal crime scene photo.

He could overlay this information onto a digital topographical map to gain further insights and or clues. This in turn cut down officer transit times when scheduling their physical patrolling of strategic spots while trying to solve the homicides. 

Sam sat at his computer and began the mundane task of entering the data he collected as a result of his efforts today. It took nearly three hours to compile everything electronically until he got to the point where he would push the proverbial “enter” button to start the data crunching wizardry. He hated to admit it, but the third homicide data should provide some good insights. When they only had two victims, they could only draw a line between events, but the third will allow them to triangulate the positions geographically. Geometry is wonderful and sacred knowledge but using it to solve crimes is exciting.  

It didn’t take long before he got a “ping” response. The ping was the result of a complex algorithm he had written the week before. He read the incoming data. The triangulation of all the victims pointed to an exact point in its center, which coincidentally was in the middle of town.  

That spot had an address. 

The address had a history.

That history pointed to Chief Masters.  A chill ran down Sam’s spine.  The chief is right down the hall, in his office.  Sam had no choice but to take him into custody himself.

In the end, everything came together for them all. The town breathed a sigh of relief because they were sure of Rick’s guilt, beyond any doubt. 

It didn’t take long before Sam’s handiwork came to light in the town. The algorithm he had written, and that had filtered all that data, cemented the case. When the address and its history came to light, it was found to belong to the chief’s parents. They both perished in a fire when Rick was a boy. It was determined that he had started the fire intentionally and then tried to blame it on his sister. According to sealed court records, the problem with the boy’s story was that he didn’t have a sister. Ultimately, he was placed in a psychiatric facility until his 18th birthday. According to the law, if he stayed out of trouble, he could request his that records be expunged when he turned 21, which he did. When the chief did this, it was as if his past conviction had never occurred. In hindsight, it would have been extremely difficult for anyone to have known or suspected. The final piece of the puzzle came to light in the form of the victims’ names and the order in which they died.  “R” “I” “C” were the first initials for Regina Carmichael, Isabella Johnston, and Celeste Criss. When the algorithm finished its probability factor, it predicted the next victim would have a name that started with the letter K. School attendance records confirmed a young girl in the same class that fit. Her name was Kayla Rabinowicz. RICK was a mathematical certainty, and the possibility that RICK was someone other than Chief Rick Masters was improbable. 




Elois Weismann fell in love under the most impossible circumstances. She would never forget the first time she saw the man she would eventually marry on a day filled with a sky as angry as the guards who worked in the camp. Hyme was standing in the worker section on the other side of the razor wire when their eyes met. She saw sorrow in his eyes from such a long distance until his gaze locked onto hers. The transformation that washed over his face gave her hope.  How could there be any hope in a place called Madjanek, she thought to herself these many years later? Though she did not know him, she knew he shared a singular fate each of them did. As she looked at him he seemed to be oblivious to a guard walking down the line he was in, shooting every third man. She frantically tried to do the math in her head to see if it was his fate to die that day. Her worst fear was realized when she saw that the guard stopped in front of him and raised his pistol to his head, yet his gaze at her did not waver. Her own eyes filled with terror with the realization that he was about to perish when the guard pulled the trigger. Even from the distance she could hear an audible click as the gun dry fired. This angered the guard, so he cleared the chamber and raised his pistol once again to finish his task. The horror and dread she was witnessing was too much to bear.  She looked away as she knew this time would be different. Click.  She looked up and saw the man was gazing at her with serenity that told her he would maintain his human dignity and grace at a time most men would plead for their life. The guard screamed something in German she could not interpret but understood the gist of. Maybe it was the fact that he took too much time off from a tight schedule, or something as simple as losing interest, but the guard decided to beat Hyme with his failing sidearm instead, before moving along the line.

Three weeks later, they were wed in a secret ceremony performed by a former scholar who doubled as a rabbi.  Less than a month later, her husband was transferred to another camp and that was the last time she would see him again.  Hyme Weismann gave her a faintest spark of hope and enabled her to endure her existence until the camp was liberated by the Soviet Army after the war. 

She spent the next 30 years searching for him, but as meticulous as records the Nazi’s kept were, she was unsuccessful in locating him. She never remarried and lost her entire family during those horrific times.

Jennifer Smith moved to Minnesota with her family after her father purchased a farm in order to raise his children in a place safer than New York City. She acclimated to her new surrounding well and was editor of her High School Newspaper her senior year. She wrote articles about her classmates’ achievements, but her real passion was doing human interest stories. When Jack Nesbitt, a fellow senior who also lived on a farm in the neighboring county found a time capsule, she just knew she had to write about it. According to her classmate, he found it by accident when digging a hole behind his house in order to bury his family dog. The contents were over 80 years old because some of the items were newspapers dating back to January 15, 1946. She called Jack the next day and agreed to meet him at his house to view the contents and write an article about what he had found.

After school, she had her Mother drop her off at Jack’s house. When they sat down at the dining room table for the interview, she saw a wooden steamer trunk sitting on the floor off to the side. It appeared to be in remarkable condition after spending so much time in the earth. She asked to see what was inside. Much to her amazement there was a treasure trove of old newspapers. She picked up each one and they all had something to say about the aftermath of WWII and the progress of the Allies. When she lifted the last one out of the trunk she noticed two old hat boxes underneath; each was bound with a satin tie. She picked up the first and opened it. There, right on top was an old patch stitched in gold she immediately recognized because the word JUDE was emblazoned on it.  Underneath the word JUDE was the number 91643-12. In addition to these were other personal items that appeared to belong to a man. An old, but worn, pair of shoes wrapped reverently with a striped shirt both worn and filthy, folded neatly on top. Finally, in the other box were beautiful and intricate drawings of a young woman. There had to be at least 30 of them in the box, and though they were hand-drawn, it appeared to be the same woman. 

Jennifer took photos of each of the items in the trunk and completed her in-depth interview about Jack’s story of finding the time capsule. Later that evening, she decided to write her article from the angle of the person who wore the JUDE badge. If she could locate who it was issued to by the number stenciled on it, it would really be an impactful human-interest story. She had some investigative work to complete.

It took three weeks of gumshoe work; canvassing any organization that could identify the JUDE badge, but it paid off. She contacted her mentor at the local newspaper who promised to help and was excited to get his call out of the blue.  He informed her that he had in fact found out who the badge was issued to during WWII. It was issued to a prisoner of war liberated by the Americans from Auschwitz named Hyme Weismann. Her mentor said that wasn’t the only good news as the man was still alive and lived locally with his son and daughter- in-law.  He then offered Jennifer her own byline in the paper because they were interested in the story.  He told her that he made contact with the family and they were invited to their home that night. Arrangements had been made to have the trunk and the young man who dug it up be there. She was excited. She only had a couple of hours to come up with an interview plan, but already knew the angle she’d envisioned since viewing the trunks contents.

The next morning, after the interview, the article ran in the local paper. Within a week it went to all the nationally syndicated papers and newsrooms. The article included photos of the badge, Hyme, and the drawings he made of his young bride that he lost after the war. The article was powerful because of the love gained and lost at the hands of the Nazi’s. It dramatized his own search for her after the war, hence all the newspapers in the trunk and his heartbreaking conclusion that she perished because Majdanek camp in Poland was one of the main extermination camps liberated by the USSR at the end of the war. He failed to get any information out of that government after these many years and finally placed all of the items in the trunk, then buried them in remembrance. 

He had buried his past under a darkened sky, not unlike the day he first saw his beautiful wife standing there that morning on what he thought would be his last day on earth. It was her face amongst hundreds that he found, as though he was pointed to her by God himself to ease his pain in that world. He reminisced that when he saw her for the first time, he was no longer afraid of his mortality because her beauty was so encompassing he was grateful she would be his last vision on this earth. 

Elois Weismann sat in the comfort of her daughter’s home in a rocking chair her son-in-Law had built with his own two hands while watching the news. She was just telling her daughter about her day when she saw the picture of the JUDE star and the number she would never forget. She stopped talking in mid-sentence and could only point to the television set through tear-filled eyes. When her daughter finally broke through to her, the only thing she could say was “Hyme.”

A rental car pulled up in front of a ranch-style home in a quiet lovely neighborhood of Portland, Oregon.  Hyme was helped out of the back seat and started up the walk with the help of Jennifer and her mentor from the paper.  When they were half way to the front door it opened and there stood Elois.  Hyme stopped and looked up at her with that same look he had on the day he first saw her.  He stood there for the longest time, thinking she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen to this day.  That was, of course, before he met his daughter for the first time who was standing next to Elois.  A daughter conceived out of love amongst all the ugliness in unimaginable circumstances.  

What Happens in The Triangle Stays in The Triangle


The situation was desperate. All of the instruments in the cockpit were wonky and unreliable an hour into the flight to Puerto Rico from Florida. In the captain’s seat was one of the best pilots the Air Force had produced and if anyone could get this C130 aircraft safely on the ground, it was he. Every time the crew made this journey with a payload of small arms, ammunition, and a couple of tactical nukes on board they joked about the “Triangle.” Payload specialist Clive Coleman wore his Halloween devil horns on each and every one of them in spite of regulations about uniforms. Superstition ruled every time. When the problems began, everyone was kind of nervous that maybe there was something to the legend, and those tales of people gone missing without a trace might have a kernel of truth to them, but grown men work the problem. Weather reports showed a clear path to their destination, yet an ominous storm that stretched across the entire horizon was developing directly in front of them. They had no choice but to punch through the storm because of the instrument issue. Turbulence was starting to throw them around and the captain ordered everyone to buckle up and stow any items that might cause a “missile” hazard in the cargo bay. The lumbering nature of this particular aircraft was not suited for hasty and sharp turns, so when the rift appeared directly in front of them, the evasive maneuvers were quite limited and unsuccessful.   

Just as the turbulence couldn’t get any worse, the sky broke into sunshine and they were over land, which should not be. Instruments were still haywire, and now would be a good time to set her down. The captain had trouble locating an open area where they could land, although he didn’t need too much because of the nature of his craft.  He banked, and as soon as he looked to his right, he saw something he could not explain in the distance just off the coast. Ships run aground everywhere, and a lot of them! Some were normal looking, but some were old, hundreds of years old. Most were listing where they ran aground, and some were burned out hulks rusting where they stood.  He leveled off and banked the other direction.  He saw an open patch of ground, but this too was strange because now he saw planes scattered about. Again, some of the planes were old and some fairly recent models!

It was as if he was circling some odd museum, but he didn’t have time to digest any of this as he needed to get on the ground safely and soundly. He reached forward and lowered his landing gear, and then noticed another strange sight, a battlefield with two opposing sides going at it and a great wall of fire between them shooting into the sky. He informed his crew and began his descent.

The plane came safely to a halt, considering the open field as not a smooth one, so he powered his engines down, then off and ordered the crew to break out their side arms because they might have trouble ahead. As soon as they were armed, he briefed them as to what he witnessed as he was landing. He told them there were “hostiles” engaged in some kind of battle and wanted to be ready for any contingency. As soon as the cabin door was opened they saw an armed greeting party heading in their direction. Fortunately, there were only three of them, a man and two women, so if they were to engage them they would have an advantage. As they got closer, the man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief and waived it to show they meant no harm. Cautiously, and from their elevated position within the aircraft, they motioned them forward but kept their weapons trained on them until they were sure it wasn’t some kind of ruse to get their guard down. 

“Hold it right there. Identify yourself and state your purpose.” the Captain shouted.

“Hello, we mean you no harm, but as you can see we are under assault from the Old Ones.  My name is John Lockland, and this is Jenna Frio and Glenda Payton.  We have come to ask your help as we are faced with overwhelming numbers and quickly running out of ammunition. If you noticed on your way down, the only thing keeping them at bay for the time being, is our fire line. Once they breach that they will become your problem too,” he said as a matter of fact.

“How can this be our problem?” the captain asked.

“I wish we had more time for a proper introduction, but if they breach that line and overrun us, you and your crew will be next. Believe me when I tell you they are savages, cannibals actually, that cannot be reasoned with. Is there anything on your craft that can help with the situation? Honestly they outnumber us 50-1 by our estimates?” John stated.

“OK, hold on a minute. Can you tell us where we are?” the captain asked.

“We do not know where or when we are, Captain. We came through that vortex just like you and your crew. I do know that everyone here has done so, at one time or another, which is why we call them the Old Ones. What we do know is that side of the island’s inhabitants came through from an older time period than we.  They came on ships. We, on this side of the island, came in aircraft just as you did.  At the moment, we have a technological advantage in weapons but, by my estimates, we will be out of ammunition and fuel by tomorrow. If that happens, we are all dead, because they just keep coming no matter how many we kill,” John stated.

 “So, what you are saying is this is a real-life “Lord of the Flies” kind of thing?” The captain half joked.

“I don’t know what that means, but they go back to their camp at night before resuming their relentless attacks during daylight. With their numbers, it will be impossible to keep up regardless of the losses we inflict. We are dead, but we haven’t fallen down yet, even if your plane is loaded to the rafters with ammo,”  John said

“Look, right before I landed I saw their camp on the other side, tucked into the cove. I think I have a solution to the problem. If they all, or most, go back to the cove, then I have some ordinance that I can put right into their lap. It is powerful enough to kill them all. The only thing is, we will need to dig some fortifications underground before I set it off. The good thing is, the cove will provide natural containment of the blast, keeping it contained on that side with minimal risk to us. The falling debris is what we need to protect against. Once we set this off, we will never be able to set foot anywhere near there again due to residual radiation that will contaminate that area for hundreds of years. Until it gets dark, we can provide enough small arms and ammunition to hold off being overrun this day.

They have to work ferrying boxes of ammunition to the front lines, and forward positions to help. While the tunnels were being dug, the crew turned the plane around and got it ready for takeoff while plugging into the tactical nuke and entering the firing codes. Just before nightfall, the old ones started making their way back to their camp for the evening and the crew of the C130 took off into the night skies. The bomb was ready and placed at the back of the cargo area.  It was set for an air burst at 50 feet. They would have to drop it from an altitude of 1000 feet in order for them to get a safe distance away before detonation, which would shut them down due to the EMP effect, but with the bomb’s parachute and their air speed, they should miss the aftereffects. Once they climbed to 1000 feet, they changed course to place them right off the coast within the cove. They hadn’t been in this dimension, wherever it was, for more than a day and they were using one of the worst weapons in the history of mankind. They were in position and let her go out the back ramp of the plane, then high-tailed it out of the area. T minus 30 seconds and the nature of this little war would swing in favor of those he met first. Right or wrong didn’t matter because it was in God’s hands now, and you know what they say about letting him sort it out!  


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