The Platform

The lean man stood nervously on the train platform, idly referencing a pocket watch affixed to a paisley vest. He already seemed to be well aware of the time. Looking out into the distance the lean man saw an empty set of train tracks that spun off to the east, disappearing into a mountainscape miles away. The tracks were absent of any sign of a train. The sun was setting on the dry plains, but the sad sticks of scrawny cacti could still be made out despite the increasing absence of light.

The lean man returned the watch to his pocket and looked up and down the platform. Seeing other people walking to and fro seemed to do little to ease the man’s tension. At the same time, the man gently nudged a beaten leather bag at his feet, reassuring himself that it was still there.

“Howdy stranger,” a short man in a bowler approached and held out his hand.

Not startled, but wary, the lean man shook the outstretched hand.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance I’m Francis Stillwater.” Stillwater was pale, even against the weakening pink-orange of a lowering sun.  

The lean man just nodded, noticing Francis spoke too fast. Francis also had a tow sack slung over one shoulder.

“You a salesman?” the lean man asked.

“Not exactly. Why, you looking to buy somethin?”

“Not from you. I’d be obliged if you just occupy a different part of the platform sir.”

“I didn’t catch your name friend…”

“You’re awful persistent.” The lean man paused, “Not a salesman exactly...carpetbagger then? I don’t know this town well, but folks ‘round here don’t seem thrilled at the idea of a centralized government, or elected officials.”

“Sir, I’m simply askin’ your name. I’m tryin’ to be polite.”

The lean man growled a bit, stroking his beard, “You aren’t very good at it. Can’t seem to take a hint,” he concluded the sentence by tapping his right hand on the handle of a revolver that hung high on the holster at his waist. The lean man narrowed his eyes at Stillwater, “You don’t seem armed friend?”

As the lean man finished his statement, he noticed the few would-be passengers that were also waiting on the platform drifted from view. Some walked out of sight, disappearing beyond the threshold that led back to the ticket counter. Others still were wandering off towards the stagecoach that was parked beyond the tracks, waiting on the fares of new arrivals. The lean man absently noted the ticket counter held no attendant and there was no train yet, so no new arrivals would be present.

“Hints,” Stillwater laughed, throwing back his head in a way that should’ve made the bowler topple from his head. “Do you see what’s happening around you?”

It drew darker. Not in the way it would from a gently setting sun, but rather in the way that it might before a major storm.

The lean man failed to answer. Without giving tell he glanced beyond the platform, seeing how much fog had rolled in. He could barely see past the platform on which he stood. The mountains were obscured, the sticks of cacti were no longer visible in the distance. The lean man thought it was most unsettling that the sun had not set, but rather faded away. However the moon had not taken its place. Instead the platform’s immediate area was illuminated by an ethereal light. Shaky, and flickering inconsistently this new luminosity reminded him of a picture show he had taken in during his time in Dodge City. At one point during the film he had looked back at the projector and saw the dancing beam that made the show possible, it dazzled his eyes. Although this light was more yellow than white, it made his stomach sour and he suddenly felt the need to sit down.

“Manchester McCloud,” Stillwater laughed again. “That your given name?”

The lean man looked up, he had nearly forgotten about Stillwater, until he again saw the man’s sallow countenance.  McCloud nodded slowly.

“Would’ve sounded great in the papers.” Stillwater dropped his burlap sack on the platform, the fog lapped at its edges, but ultimately let it alone. He held up his hands as though they were framing a headline; “Manchester McCloud, robs the First National Bank of Broken Arrow.”

McCloud, confused, waited for more, like the man waiting for a punchline to a bad joke.

“Too bad you didn’t get away.” Stillwater gave the sack at his feet a sharp kick, its top slightly peeking open.

McCloud’s face turned down, he attempted to exhale. It might’ve been a gasp but apparently it caught in his throat and died.

“Sheriff Loveland put together a posse...any of this comin’ back to you?” Stillwater paused, “No? Ok, you let me know…Anyway, you lost most of ‘em after your ride to get away. But one of those upstanding citizens who was particularly dedicated to the law, pursued you here.” Stillwater stopped himself, looking around, “Well, not here exactly, but in Temple. You decided to lay low at the inn, Vernon Wellston, that upstanding citizen I mentioned, decided to sneak in and shoot you while you slept.”

McCloud’s eyes glossed over.

“I mean, the wanted bill did say dead or alive. And he gave the innkeeper a dollar.”

“That’s, that’s madness.” McCloud struggled for words, “I’m here, I paid for a train ticket out of town, out west. I’ve got enough money to get to California, and then some!” McCloud indicated the leather bag in front of his boots.

“Do ya?” Stillwater asked.

The dreadful churning of a train could be heard in the distance. The air became thick with the sound of twisted metal screaming against itself, but somehow the sound, and whatever was making it, lurched forward.   

McCloud bent over in a fit, looking as though he was about to dive headfirst into the bag. He clicked apart the thin metal clasp. As McCloud pulled open the satchel and saw its emptiness, only a wail escaped. McCloud thought it sounded alarmingly like him. The sound seemed to travel up and into Stillwater’s now open burlap sack.  

A train blacker than coal then ripped a hole through the fog. McCloud peered at the conductor’s booth, but saw only a dim green light coming from where the train’s operator should have been.  

“Say son, how many people you kill during that hold up anyway?” Stillwater asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer.

“I had to dynamite the safe because the damn attendant said he didn't have the key.” McCloud’s eyes, which had been sharp and hard, softened as he began to cry. Through sobs, “Cut the fuse too short. Had to get to cover.”

“But that attendant didn’t get to cover, aye McCloud?”

McCloud couldn’t speak, he looked catatonic, but managed to slowly shake his head.

The train hissed to a halt in front of them. It’s edges rippled as though you were gazing at it through the heat from the top of a fire. McCloud saw it, traced out of shadow flecked with sickly green and blood red. He gulped, it was all he could do.

“All aboard son.” Stillwater asked. It was the friendliest he had sounded since appearing on the platform.

Dual doors on the train car slid aside, allowing a murky light to spill from its insides. McCloud knelt to retrieve his leather bag.

“Eh, leave it, you don’t need it anymore.”

McCloud, compelled to listen, did as he was told. When he was completely free of the platform the malevolent light seemed to envelope him and the doors closed silently.

The Problem with Purpose

INTRODUCTION   

            Scientists must have a difficult time with reconciliation. I mean, it must plague them. Things yet uncovered, things beyond definition, things outside of statistical explanation. Categorization, methodology, sample size, confidence levels, variable dependency. I imagine, like a Mountain Dew on a Tuesday evening, it keeps them up at night.

            That is why I must tell you I do not count myself among their numbers. I am logical, sound and deal with problems utilizing the scientific method, more often than not, anyway. But none of this makes me a scientist in the traditional sense.

            And oh the door knockers, the abortion clinic protestors are just as anxious. How they must squirm at all the facts and figures that defy their beliefs. Post-trib, pre-trib, mid-trib…I mean you’d think religion(s) being based on such ancient texts would have long ago at least settled the differences among those within their own camps. But alas, this isn’t the case. So while the scientists are up at night experimenting for enlightenment, the religious pray for it instead.  

            It is also worth mentioning, before I launch into what will likely be a heady look at science versus faith, that I have never considered myself much of religious fellow either. To me, church also seemed so impersonal and gaudy. Moreover, it seemed to defy the point of fellowship with a Creator. To commune with my God, I must do so in the presence of other people, and pay you for the privilege? I also must confess to you, I am no atheist. I believe in a God, but do not claim to understand, Him, Her, It, Them…but I do believe that we are no accidents.

WHAT EXACTLY IS THIS I’M READING?

            …Or have stopped reading, or told my kids not to read, or scrolled past on Facebook etc…Truthfully, it only (and perhaps sadly) boils down to my thoughts after reading The Problem of the Soul by Owen Flanagan (2002). I suppose it is a book written to examine and reconcile the “manifest and the scientific image” of creation. Further, I imagine the author set out to write a book capable of motivating those who questioned religious ideology (though perhaps not moral value) to side fully with the idea that humans are (to dumb it down for people like me) very special animals.

WHERE I STAND (AND JUST WHAT THE HELL HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO)?

            If you’ve bothered to read this far, I suppose it’s only fair to state that I am not writing this from the perspective of a religious person, or even a scientific one. Beyond that, I hold no qualifications as far as philosophy. I am writing this as someone who thinks (perhaps too much) about things great and small.

            I am not an atheist, but don’t believe I can call myself quite the agnostic anymore either. If I had to give it a name I would say I am some sort of Monotheistic-Gnostic-Skeptic.

            Yes, it’s complicated. For instance, if you accept the fact that God is omnipotent, than you accept the fact He, She, It was intelligent enough to foresee not only that each cultural group would never concede to worship the same God, but also that humans by nature would distort and pervert any God’s teachings for their own gain. Of course, this level of thinking is never addressed by most figures of Western religion.

            As you might’ve guessed, my thinking (and knack for making things complicated) has only been amplified after reading what Professor Flanagan has written in his aforementioned book. This was a surprising after-effect, as when I initially began reading this work, I assumed it would deliver solid answers to ethereal questions. Despite the rave reviews I have read of Flanagan’s work, I felt less open-minded and more unconvinced that anyone on this planet’s has anything bigger than our individual selves figured out (of course most haven’t even gotten that far).  

            So there you have it. What you are about to read, or perhaps (just got tired of reading) isn’t a critique, but rather an expression of thought brought about by something I myself read. I found Professor Flanagan’s explanations intelligent, but also lacking at times. This again, is no review, as I would describe myself and most people in general, in much the same way. Also, as I typed that sentence, I equated to “I ate something foul and the end result was an upset stomach and a night on the can”. At any rate, so it goes…

BURDEN OF PROOF

            Science tests and measures the physical. Faith attempts to test and measure the non-physical (i.e. spiritual). Much of Flanagan’s premise throughout the book (particularly its last chapter) is that those that approach life from the manifest perspective must “give up” some fundamental notions of their manifest image in order to happily co-exist with the scientific image (Flanagan, 2002, p. 267).

            As a mere mortal (I hate to admit that) watching from the sidelines, why would anyone with a faith-based ideology wish to concede to any other world view? This becomes particularly true as Flanagan attempts to resolve conflicts between core ideological values between atheistic and theistic views. Typically, all the reader is offered is the equivalent of “That’s the way it is, trust me.” (Flanagan, 2002, p. xiii,  123, 155, 266…).

            Ultimately, in writing this I suppose that’s a main theme; you can neither prove nor disprove what is unseen. Aligned with this concept is the notion that quoting men like Darwin, Skinner and even Socrates will give your scientific argument traction with a theist. To the theist, these men are just that; merely men. To the theist, their musings and findings my have value in the “present” world, but hold little weight when compared against the intellect of a God, or even the perception of a God.

            Many scholars (theist and atheist alike) have sought to harmonize the manifest and scientific views. I myself am not qualified to try, nor do I believe it possible. Therefore, I will not be arguing for or against here.

THE HIGH POINTS

            As I have mentioned, Flanagan’s final chapter in this book (Ethics as Human Ecology) was a pleasant surprise to read. This is due to the fact that it highlights the notion that lack of religion does not equate to lack of morals. While this concept is perhaps more accepted in our modern times, I still believe it worth reiterating, and Flanagan does a fine job of this. Even if it is done at the attempted expense of “God’s moral code” (Flanagan, 2002, p. 317).   

            Further, this chapter gives readers a thorough view into how strict religious code under any cultural context can limit how the human race as a whole progresses and thrives. Flanagan uses the idea that working together for the betterment of all does not need to be an idea handed down from a deity. Instead, he ties this notion of ethics as a mechanism developed for survival and perpetuating the species.

WHERE WE AGREE (AND DISAGREE SLIGHTLY)

            Flanagan is right (at least in this author’s mind) regarding the fact that we all want all lives to have purpose (Flanagan, 2002, p. ix). While the definition of this purpose varies throughout time and across cultures. Still most, if not all, humans like to believe they serve a purpose[1].

            Flanagan also discusses repeatedly that most people are religious in ways they do not realize (Flanagan, 2002, p. xv). This speaks to the fact that much of what we inherently know, or think we know, about religion is handed down to us at an early age based on ecological factors. Essentially, we are Baptist because we were raised as such; we are Buddhist because our families are etc…        

            Flanagan also challenges the idea of free will. He posits that we are wired for certain behavior based on factors that we cannot tame - among them; cognition, causation and statistical predisposition. The author also offers up an experiment in which researchers observed the response of those willing (or unwilling) to help a woman pick up dropped papers on a busy street (Flanagan, 2002, pp. 153-155). The study determined that while most people professed a desire to help those in need, they seldom actually act on it. Bearing to mind that we enjoy seeing ourselves as the hero of the narrative that is our life, even if we are more the villain, or worse, an extra in the background amidst someone else’s starring role.

            And hereby we arrive at the title of this essay, for as I pen this I see little problem with the soul. Instead, I see a distinct and fractured problem with purpose among most that I meet. It seems most people have great difficulty understanding why it is they do what they do, and don’t do that which they are capable. To me this question needs answered ahead of the debate between scientific versus manifest image.   

THE END

            This brings to mind a question I asked of a Sunday school teacher years ago. A young woman who looked like a 70’s librarian had just closed a children’s picture Bible. She looked at the class of 30 or so elementary age children and said, “So it’s our job as Christians to spread the good news, so that everyone can know God and have a relationship with Jesus Christ so they may dwell in Heaven forever.”

            My immediate response was, “What about a kid in the country who can’t get to Sunday School? Or deaf kids that can’t hear me tell them about Jesus?” Keep in mind I was seven, so my concept of Heaven involved all you can eat pizza and unlimited time on my NES. I also knew nothing about sign language. However, my question was begging for answer that was more immense than I imagined at the time.

            I apologize if you came here looking for some type of epiphany on this state of being we refer to as “humanity”. How to live with it, how to control it, maybe even how to cure it?     

            However, I can say with certainty believing that the immaterial can save you is no more dangerous than believing science can.

            Truthfully, I can’t help you. I suppose therein is the rub. I don’t believe anyone on Earth has that ability. Though a lot of people think they can, or at least will try to convince you they do.  

            The best advice I can give you regarding the human condition is as follows: Be open to new ideas, do not seek to reinforce your own timeless beliefs, no matter how well they shine, or how well they’ve served you in the past. When someone talks (or writes for that matter) listen (or read) with a skeptic’s eyes and ears, but never a dismissive hand.

            And of course, thank you to Professor Flanagan for getting me thinking.

---

[1] Personally, I might venture beyond Flanagan’s words by saying this is a falsehood greater than religion, or unquestioning love of science. The fact is most are born only to die and will never achieve some definition of “a life worth living, or well-lived”.  If you need proof, look no further than the person that popped into your mind as you read that statement. You know that one guy…we all do…

Last Trip to Mary's

It was late October in Tennessee. Abnormally warm for the time of year, as evidenced by the abundance of ladybugs that flittered everywhere throughout the backyard.  

My girlfriend and I stood talking across the fence that separated the neighbor's yard from Mary's. And yes, although the funeral was the next day, it was still Mary's yard. Everything still reflected her name, her presence, her life.  

As we spoke to the neighbor about when and where the ceremony was to be held, the ladybugs seemed to swarm us in the most innocent and inquiring of ways. Landing lightly here and there; on the nearby trees, the fence railing, even on the three of us as we talked.  

*          *          *

            December had come; it was now cold enough that you could see your breath in the air.      My girlfriend and her brother had decided it would be good for all involved that one last Christmas be spent at Mary’s. No it wasn’t an effort to reach backward for nostalgia, but rather an effort to extend her memory forward. So we went, my girlfriend and I from Arizona, loaded up our three dogs, and spent 22 hours traversing the country to return to Tennessee.

            I found myself on more than one occasion walking through a near-empty house and noticing how empty it felt without her there. I can only imagine what her own children thought, or how deeply this notion might’ve affected them.

             I will remember many things about this trip: the frigid temperatures that 12 year residents of central Arizona have long forgotten, the great times spent with a marvelous family I am lucky to be a part of, one of our dogs eating 31 (of a 32 pack) of Crayola crayons, the generous friends and acquaintances that have helped so much throughout this grim process, the copious amounts of food and drink that was consumed, the way frost-covered grass crunches under footfalls, and the laughter. Moreover, I will remember this as a trip that encompassed all good things; honor, memory and love.

            However, one memory stands out to me the most on the night before our departure. The day had been spent loading furniture, cleaning, and the demands of other backbreaking work.  We had nearly collapsed in what was left of the living room; two recliners that had belonged to her parents. My girlfriend and I were beyond weary when she called out, “Hey look!”

            My view tilted downward towards the arm of my chair where I spied a lone ladybug. The tiny insect was marching forward despite that fact it was late December and 15 degrees outside. We continued to watch the creature until it maneuvered out of sight. 

To George

          By the time this post is actually published a little over a week will have passed since Mr. Romero has left this mortal coil. I imagine that in that time, the internet and its fickle nature will have moved on with their lives.

          However, I still feel it necessary to pen something about just how deeply, and in how many ways George Romero’s work has impacted my memories and the way I have chosen to entertain myself over the years.

          As such, I guess it makes the most sense to start at the beginning. I watched the original black and white version of Night of the Living Dead with my father when I was about twelve years old. It was strange to me, not because he was letting me watch a fairly violent, gory movie at such a young age, but because it was a horror movie. And let’s just say my dad was more a Clint Eastwood than Clive Barker fan. I remember asking, “Is it in color?” in the way a whiny preteen might pose the question.

          I recall sitting in our living room in the house I grew up. Quickly, I was transported to a graveyard in Pennsylvania and within seconds I had forgotten that I might’ve had an issue with black and white films. Immersion was cemented when I heard those words, “They’re coming to get you Barbara…”

          Much like zombie-based pop culture, that was not the last I had heard of George Romero, nor was it the last time he would have an influence on what I was doing with my free time, or my then burgeoning interest in the living dead.

          If I fast forward through time, I can recall countless examples of his influence in media. Everything from video games (Resident Evil) to more movies, Shaun of the Dead, not to mention the countless comics, and books I consumed during my late teens and early twenties. And course, World War Z and The Walking Dead would've never come to pass without Romero! The man even starred in his own game, Call of the Dead as part of the Black Ops zombie franchise!

 

          Honestly, some of what Romero fathered was truly groundbreaking, adding their own mark to zombie lore, others were not much more than a gore fest. But they all had one thing in common; Romero had inspired them all.

         As I grew older, I began to realize that not only did the man invent an entire subgenre based on his work, he also had quite a bit of meaty commentary behind his work, to back up the flesh-eating ghouls that we were seeing on screen. As evidenced by this and other quotable items he's uttered in regard to his filmmaking over the years; "My zombies will never take over the world, because I need the humans. The humans are the ones I dislike the most, and they're where the trouble really lies."

        In conclusion, I think it'd be really easy to say something droll about Mr. Romero such as; "He will rise from the grave and live in infamy." However, I believe the man deserves better than that, and as such, I will simply say: Thanks for the memories. Your legacy has had, and will continue to have, an everlasting reach.

 

Closer to the End

This one is bound to be another melancholy endeavor, I imagine...but much like anything, its one of those damnable thoughts that has wormed its way into my brain, and I can’t get rid of it. The only way to let it go, is to write it away, so here I am. Or rather, if you’re reading this, here we are.

Without going into too many details death has been on my mind as of late. Although, with that being said, maybe it was there all along, I just didn’t see it clearly. I’ll take a second to reassure anyone reading this, it is not a welcome thought. I have not reverted to shopping at Hot Topic and wearing black nail polish. I view death with a stoic mysticism I reserve for little else. It does not frighten me, but neither is it welcomed.

But recently, as I saw yet another life pass from this world to the next, I thought after, about the hereafter. My mind cycled through the all the times I’ve been on hand, witnessing someone close, or even not so close, slip from this realm. I thought about how, in the end, for all our technology, for all our advances, all we can do is buy time. All the medical bills, all the procedures, all the money spent, only really amount to a few precious increments of time. Ultimately immeasurable, as even the experts seem to be unable to guarantee just how much time we get per dollar. When it comes down to it, this creates in me a sense of helplessness, tinged with anger. I despise not being able to act in a manner that assists those close to me.

Sitting in an office, I have been next to the person getting the news of a horrendous diagnosis many times. I look at them, I comfort them. I cry as they cry. Saying the lie we’ve all told at some point in our lives, “It’s all going to be okay.”

Outside of the hospital room, I have sulked gloomily, waiting for the final update. Knowing that sooner, rather than later, some person in a white coat will come by, and solemnly state, “They’ve passed.” This is usually done in an efficient manner so the person occupying that bed can be extradited, all so someone else may take their place.

I’ve been there I have been at the deathbed of a few special relatives. I have held their clammy hands in a mockery of solidarity, stared down nothing while they’ve stared down death.

My eyes have seen the shovelfuls of dirt fall, explode into tiny granules as they collide with the top of a casket from above. I have heard the prayers uttered by clergy, often evoking sobs from the crowd, no matter how small or large.

These images are universal of course. While we may not all fear death, most of us avoid thinking about it, letting alone talking about it. Afterall, why focus on death when there’s so much living to do?

However, this time that little thought I referenced earlier slipped into my head, nesting there. Perhaps it snuck in past an inflamed tear duct, and fast tracked its way to my brain, where it made itself quite comfortable.

That thought was the realization that one day...I wouldn’t  merely be the one sitting next to the person getting the bad news, nor would I be the one waiting outside the hospital room, or even holding the hand of the person that was facing death. I would be the one the bad news would be about, the one in the hospital bed, the one in the ground, rather than observing from above it.

With that my friends it seems appropriate to say what many have said before me; do not wait. Do not hesitate. If you want something, go after it, if you love someone let them know. If you hate your job, find another, if you hate where you live, find somewhere else.

Life is too short to regret, the closer to the end I get, the more I see that.

Good luck and Godspeed,

- David

Goodbye to An Old Friend

            I’m sitting here in front of this page feeling two things I haven’t felt in a long time. The first is true sadness. The second is intimidation.

            The sadness is easy to understand. I can be at times an emotional guy. I cry during sad scenes in movies- hell I cry during those medication commercials when they list all the side effects.

            The intimidation is harder to define, but understandable. I want to write something to honor you, to do you justice. To get right down to it, I want to make people that never got the opportunity to meet you, to know you, understand why I’m so sad.

*

            One of my earliest memories of you is opening the door for you to come in the house. You trotted down the hall, head cocked sideways, doing your little shuffle/dance on almost comically short legs. You looked at me as if to say; Hey newb, this is the part where you get me a treat. Who was I to argue?

            I can also remember when you knocked Gretchen down a peg or two, deservedly so. A dog 3 times your size, and 4 times your weight, no less. You didn’t take shit from nobody. I had no choice but to respect that.

            After that day, I realized there was more to you than I initially recognized. At first glance you were a curmudgeonous, food glutton who’s main accomplishments were sleeping 18 hours a day and having an on again-off again affair with the pet bed. But you were also ferociously loyal to those close to you, a fun-loving goofball, who at times reminded me of a dog much younger than he.

            Over time began to see you as ageless. In fact, that’s why all of this is so shocking. Deiter never gets sick, never takes ill. He has an iron stomach, and a secret stash of youthfulness for which people would kill. Deiter is there- Every. Damn. Morning. - to get his breakfast, doing that ridiculous little shuffle/dance, with his head cocked sideways, still looking at me, reminding me; Hey nothing has changed, this is the routine and you and I are going to do this dance til the end of time- Now feed me newb.

            But then this morning…you weren’t there. I didn’t wake up to the sound of your persistent whine, or your paws-out-stretched-in-a-double-high-five-Dachshund-meerkat stance. I woke up to the realization that we had lost you...

            You were your own individual, with your own loving personality. You may have been an old man, but you weren’t the mean elderly dog that I had assumed you to be. You may have started out as my “step-dog”, but you became my “Deiter-boy”, Deiter McDeiter”, “Deiter Burriter”… Although, it took us awhile to really get know and trust each other, I think our bond was stronger because it wasn’t an easy camaraderie at first. I am proud to have known you. Even more proud to have earned the right to call you my friend.

            R.I.P. buddy you will be missed. 

Window Shopping: Kingdom Without a King- Part 5

So a warrior, a traveler and a zombie walk into a courtyard...

Well we ran actually. Praesus charged forward first clobbering an archer with that brutal club of his. This man had the misfortune to be strolling by in close proximity when the prison doors swung open. A small squeal escaped him before he dropped to the ground. Praesus was then on his way to his next foe, targeting two other archers closest to him in the yard.

I sent the zombie guard shambling towards the dickhead throwing rocks at Old Rufus. I saw the look of confusion on the rock throwers face, “Harold? Harold??” His expression then gave way to terror, “Harold! HAROLD! NO!!” I saw the guard tear into the man's neck, his arm went immediately limp and the remaining stones in his hand clomped to the ground. I had no idea blood could be so dark as it spurted from the wound, and then flowed down the man’s shirt.  

I darted for Rufus himself, to see how I might get him free. He was only chained up with a clasp, thankfully. I undid the simple mechanism. “Rufus old boy! Good to see you!.” The dog bypassed me, and then lunged beyond me, knocking another guard to the ground. This guard dropped a horned instrument to the hard packed dirt. One of the guards Praesus was pursuing peeled off made a run for the horn. “Don't let them call reinforcements!”

Praesus said nothing in reply. Instead he stopped, lining up a shot with his club. He aimed perfectly at the guard nearest the horn, and then let the club fly. It went wide arcing just past the guard’s left hand side. I was frantic, knowing that we were barely scraping by with these odds, it would be impossible if more troops arrived. Who knew how many armed individuals were at the ready to attack us in this place. Looking over at the zombie guard, he was still rending flesh from the stone throwing man’s body. Despite pausing his chase, Praesus had actually caught up with the other guard. He grabbed the man, and let their momentum carry the two of them into the stone wall of the courtyard. The two men collided with a muffled ummph, the guard absorbing the brunt of the impact. I turned my attention elsewhere as Praesus proceeded to repeatedly shove the man’s face against the hard stone. All the while, Rufus was struggling with the guard he had knocked over. The dog was trying to clamp his muzzle over the guard’s entire neckline. Dust from his fall mixed with the blood on his body created an unusual clotting effect. Everyone was occupied it seemed.

I had no choice, it was going to have to be me. As the final guard closed in on the horn, I closed in on him as well. I did my best imitation wrestling takedown; scooping the guard’s left leg, and lifting it, and his ass outward, throwing him off balance, then forcing him down with my own weight. A cloud of dirt surrounded us as we scrambled on the ground. I had landed on top of him, just shy of his knees. I only had a moment to swell with pride at my single leg before the guard kicked me in the face. I reeled backwards, my head and neck snapping backwards as he sounded the horn. That was until Praesus crept from behind him and broke his neck violently and quickly.

Praesus and even Old Rufus looked to me, and even the dog seemed to be casting judgement from his aged eyes. “Shit. I’m sorry.” It was all I could manage as from each section of the courtyard, the buildings, and domiciles themselves poured more guards answering the horn’s call.

At least a dozen guards enveloped our position. I saw archers leveling bows at the three of us, swordspeople with shields at the ready. Spears and scythes poked and prodded Praesus, Rufus and myself, maneuvering us to the center of the courtyard. Some of those that had arrived began to survey their fallen friends, the alarm in their eyes turning to anger.

A voice shouted to the group, “Should we string them up?”

A booming voice cut the air, “No,” a man pushed past the crowd. I recognized him, he was the first archer I encountered when Rufus and I had arrived here. “They are dangerous, too dangerous to set up gallows and the like. We kill them here, on my word.”

Old Rufus gave an ill-timed bark for punctuation as he paced between Praesus and myself. “You’re not helping,” I whispered.

The man knelt before me, “You’ve caused  lot of carnage since your arrival here,” his eyes flew to Praesus, “both of you.” His gaze went back to me, “Strangely convenient for a man you claim is your enemy, no?”

“You locked us up together, you gave us no choice but to conspire!” I realized during the course of my shouting that he was not at all paying attention to my words. He was surveying the courtyard meticulously.

When he finished he turned back to me.“Harold Rambly. Garreth Lee. Jonathan Tomy.” The man paused, getting in closer to me, looking down at the body nearest to me, he all but whispered, “Miguel Cervantes.”

“You took us prisoner! Gave us no-” I was kicked again, this time in the mouth.

As the man continued with his diatribe, I could see the mob behind him eager to exact revenge. The man, clad in a smoky grey leather armor, drew his sword and placed it at at my throat, applying just the slightest pressure to my Adam’s apple. The sensation made me gulp in revulsion.  He spoke once more, cocking his head back in a manner that made his dark hair flip upwards momentarily, “You took the lives of these men. And I, Anton Allaine will be the one that takes your life in reckoning.”

Window Shopping: Kingdom Without a King- Part 4

I knew our alliance would be a temporary one, even as we had shook hands only mere minutes prior. Even still, I hoped I could trust him to help get us free of this place before that alliance dissolved. Praesus towered over me, looking even larger than he had the first time we had a fought. He would most certainly bludgeon me. The possibility existed I might be killed. As I contemplated this, I was not afraid. I would not be backing down.

That’s when Praesus charged. The man flew at me, teeth grimaced, a unfamiliar battle cry escaping them. I readied my fists, and prepared myself for the losing end of combat. Then something unexpected happened.

Footsteps echoed towards us from downstairs. Without looking I thought it to be the excrement-covered guard, finally recovered from his ordeal. But the truth was more incredible. Motionless, with an ash-gray tone about his skin, the portly guard peered up from the last step. His posture was slouched, his arms hung at his sides. However, all those things were overshadowed by the dull green glow that emanated from his eyes.

Praesus, in the midst of his charge, did not seem to notice when the guard shambled forward, effectively cutting Praesus off from reaching me.

When this happened I could see two things; one Praesus couldn’t fathom what he himself was seeing, and two; the back of the guard’s head was completely caved in. It was like an eggshell, dented heavily in the center, the trauma spidering outwards. Only the guard’s head was uneven flesh, littered with clumps of brain matter and sections of blood-soaked hair. And yet he was standing between me and Praesus.  

How was the guard standing exactly?

Praesus halted mid-stride to take in what was before him. His mouth fell open, and when this happened, he dropped the club. It clunked to the stone floor, echoing slightly in the chamber. Praesus was now unarmed and transfixed. It seemed he was caught by the eyes of the portly guard. They glowed like embers in a dying fire, the only difference was their shade of emerald green as opposed to deep orange.

“What sorcery is this?” he mumbled.

I began laughing uncontrollably, to the point where I could barely catch my breath. “Even given the seriousness of this situation, it's a shame no one else heard that. I mean could you have used a more cliché line?”

Praesus was most certainly distracted as he stared into the eyes of a man he had murdered moments ago. I knelt to pick up the club. As I did this the portly guard mimicked my actions exactly.

I looked at the guard, Praesus looked at me, and I back at him. We both held the expressions of shock. I waved the club back and forth, the guard’s right arm did the same.

“What the-” Praesus began.

“You were going to say ‘fuck’ right? Eh, probably not, more my kinda word than yours. I dunno, but this is definitely an interesting development.”

Then it dawned on me.

“You are going to help me.” Even as I began to speak, I could see the resistance in Praesus’ eyes. “Now listen, I have the only weapon between us, and I have…” I looked to the guard, “whatever this is.”

The confidence in his own size and strength left Praesus. It seemed he was not inclined to tangle with forces he did not understand. Fleetingly, I wondered the prudence of doing so myself. In spite of this, I was seized by a strange optimism,

“Crack open that door, make sure that’s Old Rufus they have in the courtyard.” Praesus didn’t need to know it, but even if it wasn’t Rufus yelping, whatever was going on out there we were about to put a stop to it, regardless. “Well?”

“They have him, chained to a pole in the courtyard. They appear to be throwing stones at him.”

“We’ve wasted so much time already,” I walked to Praesus and began to hand over the club. “Look, I am giving this back to you because I know those people out there are armed.”

Praesus reached for the club. I drew it from his reach.

“But, if you try anything- anything- I will make sure this guard gets his vengeance upon you.” Saying this statement had a sense of righteousness to it, I felt justified in threatening Praesus with it, though I had no idea why. To accentuate this the guard let out a moan, and extended his hands towards Praesus’ throat.

“Down boy.” I grinned. “Can we work together to escape from here and get Rufus back?”

Praesus nodded, I gave him the club. “What’s the strategy squire?”

“You go out there and clobber as many as you can with this blunt object. And me and,” I cocked my thumb at the guard whose eyes still held that eerie green glow. The guard also cocked the same thumb to nobody in particular, “this guy will...do stuff.”

If Praesus had any doubts (which he should’ve) he did not voice them.

I flung open the doors that led to the courtyard.