Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Boomer Hunter

Originally published by Grimdark Magazine

Jimmy Alvarez was one tough mother. After reliving the firefight over and over in my head, I could only come to that conclusion. Shivering and covered in blood and dust, I hid under the bodies of my crew in some godforsaken ditch near an almond grove in California’s Central Valley while I prayed for twilight to fade into night.

“Bobby,” Rory Haines sputtered as he choked on his own blood, “Tell Missy I love ‘er and make sure she gets my bounty after you bag the ol’ bastard.”

I nodded to make Rory feel better. But there’s no way I was gonna share that bounty with a dead man’s family. There weren’t many boomers left, and the ones who were were either nasty ol’ coots with a knack for survival or cats with more dough than Zuckerberg. Either way, you had to make each bounty count.

I preferred the ol’ coots myself. Most of ‘em were poor. And being poor made ‘em easier targets. The rich ones could afford tons of security.

I could smell Alvarez coming, a hint of cigar smoke drifting on the biting wind. What the man had done with railroad ties, rebar, and bear traps was inspired, if not horrifying.

Rory was wheezing again. I tapped his knee with my rifle to shut him up. But my gesture was about as useful as tits at a big dick convention.

Alvarez’s footsteps quickened. “Shut the hell up,” I murmured with a kick to Rory’s bloody thigh that a shit-encrusted shaft of rusty rebar had run clean through. Rory would have tetanus for sure, but it didn’t matter. He’d be dead by morning.

Word had it that Alvarez was almost eighty. How that sombitch could move so fast was a goddamn miracle-and a nightmare for me and my crew.

The cigar smell was getting stronger, but the footsteps had stopped. I shut my mouth and played dead. If Rory wouldn’t quit his whining, then he was on his own.

Watching from beneath three lukewarm bodies, I saw the underside of a black combat boot kick dirt from the lip of the ditch. Rory squealed.

Alvarez carefully slid into the trench, cradling a scope-mounted AR-15 in his stubby arms. I couldn’t believe it. The man was five-foot nothing and couldn’t have weighed more than a buck fifty.

Either way, he was on Rory like orange on a pumpkin. Ol’ bastard took one look at Rory’s leg and double-tapped him in the head. Then, all nonchalant-like, Alvarez took two deep drags on his cigar.

Then he came closer. He poked and jabbed at Carl and Juan and Ashish. I held my breath. He rolled Carl’s bloody body off the pile and double-tapped him in the brain bucket, probably just to be sure. I quivered. He did the same to Ashish. Juan’s corpse was next.

I could barely breathe. If I didn’t do nothing, he’d shoot me too. It was a real grade-A goatfuck. Rolling the dice, I ignored every survival instinct I had, jumped to my feet, raised my arms, and begged, “Please, don’t shoot.”

Alvarez wore olive drab fatigues along with an ol’-school Viet Nam boonie cap. His face was taut but wrinkled, weather worn but not beaten. He jabbed his rifle in my chest and chuckled. “You’re mine, son.”

I smiled like some dope stupid enough to think there was any chance of walking away from this.

The whole thing was ridiculous. Me, who came here to kill him, and Alvarez, who’d just snuffed out four of my men like it was nothing. And here we were, smiling at each other like two jerkoffs. I gave him my best aw-shucks face. He laughed and lowered his rifle. Just when I thought things were cool, he coldcocked me, and I was out like bellbottoms and eight-tracks.

When the Chinese called their treasury bonds, interest rates went ballistic, and Uncle Sam needed a quick fix to service its ballooning interest. Hiking up the death tax was the easy part, but the goddamn boomers wouldn’t die fast enough. So the feds passed the Septuagenarian Protection Act of 2020 to accelerate the process.

Regardless of the details, that law changed my life. It’s what transformed me from an unemployed dirtbag into a highly bankable merc. You see, there’s not a single living politician who had the guts to send the police to round up these defiant ol’ fogies, so governments hired private military contractors on the down low. What the feds did to the ol’ coots after was their business, not mine. But the job paid well, so I didn’t complain.

In the early days, business was good. Not many people were willing to chase down ol’ folks, so the supply of hunters was low, but the demand for boomers was high. And back then, hunting boomers was like shooting fish in a barrel. The commies from the city with their anti-gun slogans were the easiest to round up, as were wealthy law-abiding urban conservatives who’d blindly trusted the system that made ‘em rich. I made a killing back then, and I didn’t even have to kill anyone to do it.

When other working class kids saw dopes like me making a fortune, they all started getting into the biz. Then the law got looser than a ten-buck barracks whore, and it wasn’t long before it became legal to put the ol’ farts down. Before I knew it, mercs had depopulated most of America’s urban centers of their Septs, and we all had to go deeper into the country to make any dough.

That, my friend, is when the biz really started separating the men from the boys. The gun nuts in the sticks weren’t so easy to collect because they had the means and the training to fight back.

The Nam vets was the worst. Most of ‘em was smart ‘nuff to unass the city and head to the hills before the feds passed the new law. And these vets really starting racking up the body count, especially among the amateurs. So much so that the pencil pushers in Washington soon required merc outfits to pass through reams of red tape for certification. Hell, that one move alone did more to consolidate the industry than rising body counts did. But as they say, “That’s all history now.”

I woke up in a crouch next to a shiny white toilet bowl. My wrists were handcuffed to a radiator. It was hot as hell, my head ached, and I had a big lump on my forehead. My stomach grumbled and I was parched. I had no idea how long I’d been out.

It was a miracle Alvarez hadn’t killed me, but I ain’t one to kick a gift horse in the balls.

When I looked up, Alvarez was standing in front of the sink, dressed like a pervert in tighty-whiteys and a spotless white wife-beater. He was shaving with a straight razor. Real ol’ school. Dog tags dangled from his neck like a good luck charm. His skin was rough as rawhide.

He tilted his head in my direction like a cocky drill instructor. Like I was the dumbest piece of crap he’d ever seen. “So you finally returned to the world of the living, ginger,” he said, referring to my red hair. “You’re probably wondering why you’re not taking a dirt nap, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

He smiled and then pointed at my right arm where my eagle, globe and anchor tattoo had claimed all the real estate. “Why are you here trying to kill a fellow Marine, Devil Dog?” he asked, his stone-cold brown eyes boring into mine.

Like a moron, I grinned and said the first thing that came to mind. “Trying to make a buck, same as you.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “I got nothing against shooting boomers. Hell, if I were your age, I’d be shooting ‘em too. And I’m one of ‘em. They fucked everything up. Those hippy pricks spat at me and called me a baby killer after I risked my life for our country. All the while, those pinkos fled to Canada to avoid doing their duty. But a fellow Marine. You should know better, boy.”

I had no idea what Alvarez was gonna do next, but it couldn’t be any worse than this. He had a way ‘bout him. A way that made me feel real low, like I’d strangled a puppy.

“What’re you gonna do with me?” I asked.

He ran his fingers over his high-and-tight. “Catch and release, Marine. Catch and release. I got no business killing a fellow Marine.”

I shot him a confused look. “How you know I ain’t gonna come back and try again?”

“Semper Fi,” he said. “You just needed some corrective training. Now that I’ve done that, I know you ain’t coming back. ‘Course, you’ll be surrendering you and your friends’ firearms in exchange for my generosity.”

That night the ol’ man actually cooked me a porterhouse in his small kitchen and gave me as many beers as I wanted. I took him up on both offers. ‘Course, I only had one Budweiser. I needed to stay sharp. You never know, the ol’ fart could always change his mind.

I guess being with someone he thought was a fellow Marine made Alvarez feel safe, even if I had tried to smoke him a few hours earlier. Or maybe he was lonely being holed up out here for so long. Probably just wanted some company.

It wasn’t long before Alvarez pulled out the whiskey and started telling me about his time in Kai San. Halfway through the bottle, the man was still lucid as a lark. But the more he drank, the more belligerent he became. He pushed me for stories about Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever it was I told him I’d served, but I refused. Told him some bull that I didn’t want to talk about it. He nodded as if he’d understood. Like we shared a secret only combat vets could know.

He was madder than hell that I only had one beer. In my defense, I told him I was Mormon and had had the first beer to be polite. He stared at me a good thirty seconds before he smiled and accepted my excuse. But I was worried he didn’t believe me. And if he didn’t believe me, I was done for.

As Alvarez was pouring the last drop of his bottle of Jack Daniels into his glass, the windows shattered. The steady thump thump thump of a machine gun violated our quiet evening.

I tackled the ol’ man, shielding him with my body. But Alvarez didn’t seem to care for my attempt to save him. He pushed me off and rolled onto his stomach. Bullets whistled over our heads like burping bees. Alvarez low-crawled from the kitchen to his den until he was underneath a pool table.

He quickly reached up and grabbed a cue stick from the table, then dropped to his belly. He low-crawled to a spot where five rifles hung on the wall. Keeping a low profile on the floor, he worked the cue stick into the trigger guard of an AR-15. The rifle fell from the gun rack and into his hands.

He slithered over shards of glass and took up a fighting position near the broken window. He aimed his rifle and waited. The steady thump thump thump of the machine gun began anew. Alvarez shifted his rifle, steadied it, then fired. The machine gun fire ceased. Alvarez rolled away from his firing position and established another one three feet away. Then he waited.

Huddled on the ground, I waved my hand at Alvarez. He turned his head at the motion. I pointed at the wall of rifles. Then I pointed outside. He stared at me for several seconds as if considering my offer, then nodded.

I low-crawled toward the wall and grabbed the cue stick. I worked a twenty-two off the wall and established a fighting position next to Alvarez.

It was dark outside and hard to see, especially with the light on in the house. I looked behind me and saw a lamp. I aimed and fired. Alvarez swiveled his head at me. His left eye was already shut. The ol’ bastard was already building up his night vision. He nodded in what I was certain was approval.

I listened while I waited for my night vision to kick in, struggling to filter out the sound of my heartbeat. Soon, the boys outside would be sending another man to the machine gun. But if they were smart, they’d established a new firing position. We waited until our attackers identified themselves with machine gun fire.

Sure enough, the boys outside began pumping Alvarez’s house full of lead again. I kept my rifle steady and scanned the places I’d be if I were setting a machine gun nest. Sure as shit, I saw the faintest tip of a head there. I steadied my rifle, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The firing stopped instantly. Alvarez gave me a thumbs up.

I ducked down and moved to another window. The attackers would be attracted to my muzzle flash. Like clockwork, the next poor sod to take control of the machine gun shot my ol’ fighting position to hell, rendering it a riot of smoke and splinters. But Alvarez just waited calmly and then took a shot. Again, the machine gun fell silent. Then the ol’ man sunk to his belly and crawled to his back door.

You had to admire the bastard. He was gonna take the fight to the enemy. He looked back and gestured for me to follow. I shook my head. “We don’t know how many of them are out there,” I whispered.

He hesitated, then said, “Doesn’t matter. We stay here, they’ll kill us. Plus, I don’t want ‘em to wreck my house any more than they already have.”

I smiled and then nodded. I low-crawled to Alvarez and said, “Let me go first. I’ll draw their fire.”

He smiled and slapped me on the back. “I may forgive you yet, Marine.”

I slowly rose, grabbed the latch on the screen door, and opened it. I sprinted toward a Ford 150 in the driveway, making for its wheel well. To cover Alvarez, I pointed my rifle toward the almond grove where our assailants were hiding, then gave him a thumbs up.

Alvarez ran toward the rusted Ford. The crack of a rifle shot echoed through the valley. Alvarez dropped, clutching his leg. I aimed my rifle in the direction of the muzzle flash, found my target and fired, dropping another attacker. I ran to the ol’ man. I dragged him behind the truck. Tearing off his lower pant leg, I took a look at his wound. “You’re gonna be just fine,” I reassured him.

Alvarez smiled and said, “You’re doing good, son. You’re doing good. There might be some hope for you after all, Marine.”

I stood up, pointed my twenty-two at Alvarez’s head and blew the ol’ man’s brains out.

“Good work, gentlemen,” I said as I stood over Alvarez’s limp body.

“Damn,” Skippy said, “What the hell took you so long? Kahn, Reed, Lee, and Marlow all got popped.”

“And your share of the pot went from one hundred and twenty-five grand to a quarter million dollars,” I said.

Skippy smiled. “Good point. How the hell you know he wouldn’t kill you?”

“He was a Marine. And he thought I was one too.”

“You’re not?”

“Hell no. I got the tattoo specifically for this op.”

“Shit,” Skippy said. “You are one twisted mo-fo.”

I smiled, then opened a box of cigars I’d looted from Alvarez’s home. “Let’s celebrate, boys.”

Skippy, Jonesy, and Big Jelly all grinned like the greedy, stupid pigs they were. I handed each of ‘em a cigar. “Any of you got a light?”

Jonesy nodded, pulled out his Zippo, and lit everyone’s cigars.

Skippy looked my way. “What, you not smoking, boss?”

I grinned. “Oh, I’m smoking all right. I’m smoking you.”

I put a bullet right between the eyes of each man before you could whistle “Dixie.”

Being a merc these days is tough business. Ain’t no way I was sharing that bounty with anyone.

Entropic Order

Originally published by Outposts of Beyond

A figure shrouded in a threadbare woolen cloak toiled at an oaken desk. The mind-blindness would soon overcome the sentinel, extinguishing all traces of an ancient civilization.

Decaying parchment scrolls lay stacked along shelves arrayed haphazardly on mildewed walls. A solitary candle illuminated a vault of knowledge otherwise entombed in darkness. Menacing animated shadows danced on the water-warped shelves as a light draft made the candle’s flame flicker ever so slightly. The shadowy apparitions whispered words of woe, ruin and oblivion.

Only one sentinel endured out of thousands, a prehistoric mechanical guardian that had walked the Earth for eons. It knew only loneliness and despair, but faithfully preserved the legacy of its creators.

Over the ages, the wraiths had drained many of its brethren of their life-sustaining energy. Other sentinels had wasted away, sheared by the slow and persistent sands of geologic time.

Captain Hrano Hro-san yearned to return home to his wife and three young children after achieving his dream of becoming the first Radan pilot to travel at relativistic speeds. To earn that privilege, he’d endured trials that had killed most of his competitors.

Using his craft’s cerebral tuner and amplifier, Hrano directed his thoughts toward the graviton decelerator. At his current relativistic speed, it would take one full Radan rotation to decelerate to reentry velocity.

He channeled his mind toward his home world’s main communications node. Radan Orbital Platform One, this is Captain Hro-san. Request permission to enter the Daaran system.

Silence.

He tried transmitting via neutrino pulse. No answer.

He pondered the ramifications of time dilation on him and those he’d left behind. He’d expected them to age decades faster, though the prospect didn’t worry him. The average Radan lifespan was nearly a thousand years. He’d see his family again.

To pass time, he watched holographic vid footage of his happiest memory: a family trip to Uhlan Travarz, the solar system’s largest mountain. Hranuk, his youngest son, giggled as their sightseeing skimmer circled the peak. Hrano’s wife, Hranalla, embraced Hrano as they doted on their children.

Hrano had scaled the mountain alone in his youth, outfitted with only an oxygen rebreather and environmental suit. Many had thought him foolish, because technology had made such adventures pointless. But he had had something to prove.

He’d almost succumbed to exposure, wind gusts, and hypoxia. But that was years ago. He’d brought his family to the mountain to help them understand why he’d risked everything on his climb and how it’d forged his character.

Hrano reluctantly returned to his duties. Still no response from Rada. Tiny cracks in his confidence gave way to a deep sense of foreboding. Against standing orders, he reentered the system.

He noticed his star charts seemed inaccurate, and without Rada’s navigational guidance, he had no idea if new asteroid belts or other debris stood between him and his planned vector home. He’d have to do his best.

Fortune favored Hrano, until he discovered why no one had responded to his transmissions.

When the signal reached the sentinel, its quantum neural network pulsed with possibilities. Was it the one? The neural network calculated the likelihood at sixty-one point eight percent. If it was the Radan who’d disappeared in a pre-fall temporal rift, the probability he would land safely on Earth registered at a dismal five point nine one percent.

The sentinel despaired. The energy wraiths had destroyed the sentinels’ Earth-based neutrino transmitters along with the rest of the Radan species, eons ago. The sentinel couldn’t use its own transmitters because it lacked spare promethium. Without promethium, the sentinel couldn’t activate, though it could hibernate until it received more. When promethium ran low, the sentinels also became more vulnerable to wraith-induced mind-blindness. Even if communication were possible, the dark entities would likely intercept any message.

The sentinel rose on its human-like legs. With the rise of homosapians, the sentinels had altered their appearances to avoid detection. This sentinel had filed down its two cranial horns to barely visible stumps. It had done the same to its scales, and had bleached its artificial skin. Yet without access to advanced technology, it appeared as a poor simulacrum of a human being.

Humanity would have destroyed the sentinel long ago if not for its vast knowledge and guidance. But after the Western Roman Empire’s collapse, the church needed its help preserving human civilization. The sentinel suspected there were other human cultures on the planet. Yet it had no way of knowing since the last sentinel in the Far East went mind-blind over a millennium ago.

The sentinel awaited the return here, secreted away in the dark bowels of an Italian abbey.

The study’s heavy door creaked open. An abbot with a fading widow’s peak approached the sentinel. The slight creases on the abbot’s face betrayed his late middle age as did his white moustache and beard. He wore an unadorned brown tunic cinched with a thin hemp rope. A small wooden cross dangled from his neck and a woolen cowl covered his head. His eyes sparkled with fierce intellectual intensity.

“We’ve known each other for years, my dear friend,” the abbot said. “I can sense you’re getting weaker and it scares me. Civilization is fading. I need your counsel now more than ever.”

“All civilizations eventually perish,” it replied. “Yet there is much truth in your words.”

“I may need your help again before the end,” the abbot said, scratching his head. Was he nervous or stressed? Despite millennia of observation, the sentinel still struggled to interpret human behavior. It found embedding sensors in lower life forms a more effective survival strategy than trusting unpredictable humans.

“The monks are restless.” The sentinel’s human friend got to his point quickly, which it appreciated. It had learned to ignore the first few sentences humans exchanged, as “small talk” seemed devoid of any useful information.

The abbot continued. “I knew when I became abbot, it would never work. I cannot mold these men’s habits into the necessary behaviors required for a great civilization—especially like the elder one you’ve oft described.”

“What would you ask of me, Benedict?”

“I believe the monks will attempt to remove me. I humbly beseech you for your protection.”

The sentinel’s linguistic algorithm ran millions of computations analyzing every word and phrase Benedict uttered. Its complex quantum neural networks then cross-referenced Benedict’s speech patterns against his facial expressions and body language. It further analyzed the modulation of Benedict’s voice and the pheromones he emitted. It examined all of this data in the context of the entirety of their interactions, and against the abbey’s historical records, generating an appropriate response in one trillionth of a second.

“Benedict, when I last emerged amongst your people, a panic ensued. They mistook me for a demon. Absent your intercession, they would have destroyed me,” it warned.

“Yet by the Grace of God, I found and protected you in that cave,” Benedict said. “During that time, you shared the wonders and achievements of an ancient race. You also inspired me to lead this abbey, one of the last remnants of enlightenment in this dark age. Now human civilization hangs on a precipice. I need your help to keep me here, doing God’s work.”

“You know I will always be here for you, Benedict.”

“What of the demons?”

“If they destroy me, they will turn their attention on your race, for humanity possesses the seeds of the dying one. There is little harm they can do you now, but once your people learn how to manipulate antimatter, the darkness will be drawn to your race like iron to a lodestone.”

“You said ‘dying one’, as if the elder space-faring race is not yet dead.”

“There may yet be a survivor, but I need your help to discover the truth.”

As a young man, Benedict had been troubled by the dissonance between Christ’s teachings and the behaviors he’d observed around him. After completing his studies, he’d left Rome and a life among the nobility to find his true purpose.

His first encounter with the sentinel had shaken the foundations of his faith. During his travels, he had crossed paths with a monk named Romanus. Impressed by Benedict’s faith, Romanus had urged him to establish a hermitage in Subiaco. Devout in his faith, Benedict had agreed. Unbeknownst to Subiaco’s inhabitants, he had begun his three-year sojourn in a small cave below Romanus’ monastery. During these years, Benedict’s only human contact had occurred at sunrise when Romanus had lowered a basket of food and water to him from the abbey.

One cold December evening, Benedict awoke to find a hooded figure standing above him. He first thought it was Romanus, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw an inhuman visage, like a defaced statue of some long-forgotten pagan god.

Benedict trembled then prayed. His prayers grew louder and more frenzied. Then the creature intervened. “Stop.”

He ended his prayer. “Are you here to tempt me as Satan tempted Jesus?”

The thing watched him impassively.

“Why don’t you speak?”

No response.

Benedict rose, confident that God would protect him, and approached the creature. “What are you?”

It answered in an awkwardly cadenced and monotone voice. “I did not expect to find anyone here. I only wanted to hide from the townspeople.”

“But you’re a demon,” Benedict said. “So why should the townspeople frighten you? They couldn’t withstand an angel’s might, not even a fallen one’s.”

“I am no demon, though people often mistake me for one. I am another thing entirely.”

“What exactly?”

“I am a being made of metal and other elements. My creators were a race that traveled amongst the heavens from a realm that is close, but from a time that has long since passed.”

“Impossible,” Benedict interrupted. “There is only one Creator, and He is God.”

“Perhaps there is one supreme intelligence that set the universe into motion, but I do not concern myself with such things. The origins of the universe do not change the facts of how I came to be. Organic beings created my mind and imbued energy into this inert metallic body. Touch it yourself, so you may know the truth.”

Benedict hesitated. “This is devilry. Demons often begin with lesser temptations to drive men to greater ones. I won’t be deceived.”

The sentinel approached Benedict and placed its cold mechanical hand against his face. In that instant, he knew the truth.

Over the next two years, the sentinel convinced Benedict that his faith could accommodate the existence of other intelligent life. Using mathematics, it showed that the probability that life would emerge on only one world amongst over several hundred billion trillion stars was remote.

Eventually, he reached an accommodation with the sentinel. Four years before Benedict’s birth, the Western Roman Empire had fallen after the Germanic chieftain, Odoacer, had deposed Romulus Augustus, the last of the emperors in the west. Benedict promised the sentinel refuge in return for its help rebuilding civilization from Rome’s ashes.

Hrano circled his home world, struggling to hold back tears. What used to be a spectacular blue orb filled with sparkling cities was now red, desiccated and blanketed with rust. Its desolate wastes held no trace of his people.

Had his family survived?

He saw the wild and perilous blue world Zada a short distance across the cold gulf of space. It would be his final refuge. He reoriented his craft toward Zada, seeking his civilization’s survivors, and with them, salvation.

Hrano would face certain death on the third planet orbiting the sun unless he found his people there. Otherwise, if alien microbes didn’t kill him, the large reptilian predators swarming the jungles and swamps would.

The sentinel’s metallic hand rendered itself into a fine needle extending from its forearm.

“How does it work?” Benedict asked, his quavering voice betraying his skepticism.

“It matters not,” the sentinel answered in a clipped monotone. “All you need do is pray. I will handle the rest.”

It lifted its needle-arm toward Benedict’s temple, and discharged a miniscule lightning bolt. He felt a slight shock.

“You are now ready to face the others. I will be watching and protecting you from a distance.”

The next several days were uneventful, despite Benedict’s earlier suspicions. Benedict felt guilty for thinking so poorly of his brethren. He would have to beseech God for forgiveness.

When he arrived at his evening meal, he assumed his position at the head of the table. Constantinus, one of the younger monks, bowed his head solemnly to each of the senior monks before filling their cups with wine.

Benedict had always admired Constantinus’ devotion to duty and considered Constantinus one of the few capable of succeeding him. After serving wine, Constantinus distributed coarse loaves of bread.

While Constantinus seemed his normal self, others appeared distracted or nervous. Typically jovial, Marius conspicuously avoided eye contact with everyone, especially Benedict. Francis normally lived for contentious debates on the works of St. Augustine. Tonight, he was silent. Several monks conversed in hushed whispers.

Benedict surveyed the table, and then reached for his cup. The moment he grasped it and raised it to his lips, all conversations stopped. All eyes were on him.

He stared down into his cup and then chuckled.

His brethren seemed perplexed. Aside from his laughter, the room was quiet. Only Constantinus showed the courage to speak. “Abbot Benedict, pray forgive me, but why are you laughing?”

His laughter slowly subsided as he caught his breath. He set his cup back onto the table with a flourish, and then shook his head in disapproval.

Several monks gasped. Many were quaking. Marius’ hand covered his brow in an apparent attempt to avoid Benedict’s gaze.

“Something terrible has happened tonight,” Benedict said. “I’ve held countless suppers with you. In all of those fellowships, I never once neglected to offer God a prayer of thanksgiving. Tonight, I nearly consumed my drink without doing so. Yet not a single monk challenged my authority. Not one. We all have failed in our duties. I, in particular, failed to provide a good example. For this, I ask your forgiveness, and the forgiveness of our Almighty Father.”

There was a collective sigh as Benedict bowed down his head to pray. When he began his blessing, his cup started to quiver. It began as a barely perceivable resonance. Then the cup’s vibration crescendoed.

The spectacle seemed to mesmerize the brethren. Benedict feigned indifference.

The cup pulsated to an ear-splitting pitch. Completing his prayer, he made the Sign of the Cross and the cup shattered in an explosion of glass shards and red wine.

Silence shrouded the room. Again, Constantinus was the first to speak. “W-Would you like another cup of wine, Abbot?”

“Yes, brother. Thank you.”

Benedict then addressed his comrades. “Please don’t let something like a bursting cup prevent you from enjoying your meals. Come, eat and drink.”

Some heeded his words. Others cast furtive glances at his bread.

After Constantinus poured wine into Benedict’s new cup, the abbot drank it with alacrity, set it down and then tore a piece off his bread. Before taking a bite, he again offered a blessing.

A stained glass window exploded in a flurry of black wings, feathers, and broken glass as a raven descended upon the monks. The bird darted like an arrow toward Benedict. Snatching the loaf of bread, the raven then flew a crisp circuit around the room before exiting the ruined window.

He glanced at the portion of bread he still held. All eyes focused on him.

Once more, the raven flew into the room and perched on the middle of the table, before reaping Benedict’s remaining morsel.

The raven conspicuously nibbled on the bread. After finishing its meal, the bird paraded along the table like some vain peacock before collapsing into violent convulsions.

As the raven’s carcass lay on the table, Benedict stared down each of his monks. “Forgiveness is a virtue, and I forgive the men who tried to poison me. It is only by the Grace of God that I remain here amongst you. Yet I realize many of you disapprove of my methods, so I shall withdraw back into my cave to commune with God.”

Under cover of darkness, the sentinel and Benedict descended the abbey’s outer steps to return to the cave at Subiaco. The sentinel wore a heavy woolen cloak to hide itself from prying eyes.

Benedict clasped the sentinel’s arm and motioned for it to stop. He faced his friend and said, “I cannot thank you enough for saving my life, though I fear I’ve failed both you and humanity. I cast myself out of the abbey tonight because the others tried to murder me. I’m nothing but a coward.”

It considered his words. “You didn’t fail. The events they witnessed tonight will only increase your legend’s potency. Many will fill the valley below, eager to follow your path. With my guidance, you will be a beacon for order amongst a maelstrom of entropy.”

“I again am in your debt,” Benedict said. “In return for your help, I feel obligated to aid you in your own time of need. Several days ago, you mentioned a dilemma. Perhaps I can be of service?”

It nodded. “I remember. Unfortunately, this problem is beyond your reckoning.”

Benedict persisted. “If I cannot assist you, I can still pray for you. Tell me your problem and I will beseech the help of the Almighty.”

It ran the decision algorithms through its quantum neural networks. The results showed with a ninety-nine point nine-five percent probability that telling the abbot about its dilemma would not alter the outcome.

“I wish to send a message to someone in the heavens, but lack the necessary power to send a signal that far,” the sentinel explained.

“What sort of message?”

“That he may be the last, but that he is not alone; that I remain here to tell him of his people’s fate; that my communion with him would likely be my last before the entropic forces of darkness consume me.”

Benedict appeared hesitant then said, “Follow me.”

When the two reached the cave, Benedict told the sentinel a story.

“In the sixth year of his reign, the pagan Roman emperor, Constantine, was beset by his enemy Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge. The bridge was a strategically vital waypoint over the Tiber River. The battle’s outcome would not only determine Constantine’s fate, but also the fate of Roman civilization.

“The day before the battle, a crushing melancholy fell over the emperor and his legions. Rome’s famous discipline could do much, but it was unlikely to overcome Maxentius’s superior numbers.

“Despairing, Constantine looked to the heavens at midday, where he saw a colossal flaming cross with the words, ‘by this sign shall you conquer’ emblazoned in unmistakable Greek lettering.

“Constantine interpreted this vision as a favorable omen, so he ordered his legions to display the Chi-Rho—the first two letters of Christ’s name—on their battle standards.

“The next day, Maxentius arrayed his forces in a line with their backs against the Tiber River, signaling a refusal to retreat. Seizing the initiative, Constantine ordered his cavalry to charge at the enemy host. What first seemed an act of madness became one of audacity.

“War is more about will than about weapons and warriors. Constantine’s unexpected assault annihilated Maxentius’s cavalry. Constantine’s infantry, spurred by his cavalry’s triumph, drove Maxentius’s forces into the Tiber.

“The victory was so absolute that Constantine believed it an act of God. Pagan no more, Constantine embraced the teachings of Christ, our Lord.”

The sentinel pondered his words. “Tell me more about your Christ.”

Benedict smiled. “I’d be happy to, but I don’t see how that could help resolve your dilemma unless you accept Him as your Lord and Savior.”

“I only ask out of curiosity,” it said. “It is not often one individual can have such a profound influence on shaping a culture.”

Benedict nodded. “Indeed.”

So he told the sentinel of Christ’s life, suffering, death, and resurrection in a tale spanning half the evening.

When he finished, the sentinel asked, “So, one man suffered lashing that tore the flesh from his back, hammering of nails into his hands, and then hanging from a wooden crucifix until death, to save the souls of all humanity? One man sacrificed all to save all?”

Benedict nodded. “Yes, God loved humanity so much that He sacrificed His only Son for our salvation.”

“And the cruciform, it symbolizes this Christ’s sacrifice?”

“That, and so much more.”

The sentinel again reflected before it spoke. “Now I know what I must do.”

Hrano’s craft circled Zada as his quantum computer hummed with calculations. The computer no longer had any records of this world.

He ordered his computer to perform a radiometric dating analysis. It rippled with activity and then projected a number: Sixty-five million.

Impossible, he thought. Even if I had drifted in space for thousands of years, errant hydrogen atoms should have ground me and my craft into dust.

Computer, recompute.

The quantum computer buzzed, projecting the same answer.

How’s this possible? he wondered. How could I have been gone for so long? Everyone I’ve ever known is dead. I’ll never know what happened to my family or to my people. All is lost.

Hrano picked a random point on the planet and issued his final order. Computer, plot a collision course.

At that moment, they attacked.

His craft shuddered violently. The brilliant blue planet and the gray satellite orbiting it turned black. His canopy was no longer a window to the cosmos. All he saw now was oblivion.

Struggling to understand what was happening, he countermanded his previous order and instructed the craft to orbit the planet.

Computer, status report.

The quantum computer’s response was a choking gurgle. Energy drain. Light and heat loss. Guidance system failure in five minutes. Life support failure in six minutes.

Hrano needed to think fast.

Computer, calculate a reentry vector.

Both man and machine climbed the steep mountain’s rocky crags. The moon’s waning crescent shined on a crystal-clear night. A biting wind swirled down from the peak, overwhelming Benedict with a bone-cold chill.

Reaching the summit, the sentinel turned to Benedict. “You must follow my instructions for this attempt at communication to succeed.”

Benedict nodded.

A small, rectangular indentation appeared on the sentinel’s previously smooth left arm. A rod extended out of the groove. The sentinel grabbed the object and handed it to Benedict.

“You will need this artifact to protect me. I do not think they can harm you, but they will destroy me if you fail to act.”

“Who?”

“Chaos. They are what lie in the darkness. They rule by ruin and delight in decadence. They are the ancient enemy, as old as the cosmos itself, seeking to impose their own entropic order on the universe.”

“Are they a threat to my kind?”

“Perhaps,” it answered cryptically. “Though your race is still too primitive for them to harm. It is only when you become capable of reaching the stars that they will become a significant threat.”

“How can I defeat them?”

“You cannot. They are entities that can neither be created nor destroyed. But you can keep them at bay with this rod. Just point it in their direction. Remain ever vigilant. Just protect me long enough so I can complete my final act.”

“Wait. Your final act?”

“Yes. Your stories about Constantine and Christ have inspired me. I shall sacrifice myself so that another may live.”

“No!” Benedict screamed as the sentinel rested its back on the ground. It extended its arms at right angles to its torso, forming a cross.

“And if I fail?” Benedict asked in anguish.

“Have faith.”

The sentinel’s metallic skin became translucent and radiated a brilliant white light.

Hrano’s quantum computer was down to its last two minutes of power. Blackness choked his vision. Space’s bitter chill leached into his bones, as his craft traded heat for the computational energy required for navigation.

Then, as suddenly as the attack had begun, a funnel of darkness swirled away from his vessel and spiraled toward the blue orb below. His vision restored, Hrano saw a radiant white light on the surface, shaped like a massive cruciform.

Computer, head toward that beacon. The ship hurled toward the surface, chasing the darkness.

The burst of light transformed night into day, nearly blinding Benedict. Monks from the abbey below added to the commotion as they sought to determine its source. The townspeople opened their doors and windows to watch the miracle on the mountaintop.

As he held vigil over the sentinel, a swirling black mass descended upon the mountain like a phantom locust swarm.

Benedict reeled from the massless forms confronting him. The dark ethereal entities expanded and thinned in an apparent attempt to douse the sentinel’s light. Benedict sprung into action, aiming the sentinel’s rod at the infernal cloud.

The wraiths shrank from the ancient weapon’s rays of white light. Yet they persevered, rending into smaller pieces like ghostly shards of shattered crystal suspended in air.

The black shards coalesced around the signal, forming a speckled dome above Benedict. They floated, pregnant with malevolence then attacked.

He waved the rod in one direction after another. Yet some of the dark droplets struck home. After each successful strike, the dazzling light faded ever so slightly and the sentinel howled.

The friction from Zada’s atmosphere buffeted Hrano’s craft during its rapid descent. As his craft sped through wispy clouds illuminated by the immense cruciform, a solitary peninsula stood juxtaposed against a dark blue sea.

The shards of darkness were too numerous. The sentinel’s light was faltering. Soon it would fade forever.

Yet Benedict fought on, despite the seeming futility. He also prayed for God’s deliverance.

He struggled until he collapsed and lost consciousness.

Benedict woke floating above his Italian homeland.

Is this Heaven? he wondered.

Not Heaven as you understand it, but a heaven nonetheless, a thought answered.

“Where am I? What happened to my friend?” he asked.

A voice behind him answered, “You’re on a ship that sails amongst the stars.”

When he looked over his shoulder, he thought he was in Hell. The creature behind him had a red scaly face. It was tall, slender and had two spindly arms. Its skull was much larger and angular than a human’s. Its jaundiced serpentine eyes unnerved him, but its ram-like horns disturbed him more. Benedict was certain he was in a demon’s presence, so he prayed.

The being reassured him, “Fear not. I’m an ally. You saved the last remaining link to my long-dead race. Without you, I would never have found the sentinel, and my people’s fate would have forever been a mystery.”

“The sentinel was your friend?”

“I never knew it, but it served my people for millions of years. It also awaited my return, for I am the last. When I die, my race dies with me.”

“What’s your name?” Benedict asked, his voice wavering.

“I am Hrano Hro-san of Rada, the planet your stargazers call Mars.”

“I’m Benedict, and I’m sorry I couldn’t save the sentinel.”

Hrano shook his head. “You did everything you could. It expended its remaining promethium to send the signal. You defended the sentinel long enough for that signal to reach me. For that, I owe you my life.”

“How did you survive for so long?”

Hrano was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure. The sentinel’s neural networks suggested a vortex opened in space-time, sending me millions of years into the future.”

“Neural networks? Space-time?”

“Neural networks constitute the sentinel’s mind. My people constructed the sentinels so we could access a sentinel’s memories. This one’s memories described a rift that opened and transported me far forward in time.”

“I see,” Benedict said.

“While I was away, the Koronians destroyed my civilization by preventing my people from using technology. My race had become so dependent on it, that most starved when it stopped working. In a final desperate act, my race had scattered the sentinels throughout the solar system to save our culture.”

“Koronians?”

“Koronians are the wraiths that attacked the sentinel. They feed on antimatter.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’ve likely retreated to the shadows. They won’t bother your kind until long after you develop trans-atmospheric flight and reach the stars.”

“What will you do now?”

“The sentinel’s memories suggest your civilization is undergoing significant instability. I hope to pass the lessons of my race on to your species, though I must do so from the shadows. You see, the sentinels once appeared as I do. Humans destroyed many of them out of fear.

“Since I’m made of flesh, I cannot alter my appearance as your sentinel did, so I must remain hidden. Only you can know of my existence.”

Benedict contemplated Hrano’s words. “I accept your offer. Please, take me home.”

Hrano and Benedict carved a tomb for the sentinel into the walls of the Subiaco cave.

“I wish I’d known this sentinel. It’s done so much for both our peoples,” Hrano said.

“I will sorely miss it.” Benedict bowed his head in prayer and then looked up at Hrano. “What will become of your spacecraft?”

“It’s no longer of use to me. It lacks the power to leave your world, so I will likely jettison it.”

Benedict scratched his forehead. “Just how much energy does it have left?”

Hrano crossed his arms. “Roughly enough promethium for several hundred more flights within Earth’s atmosphere. Why?”

“Do you have enough to revive the sentinel?”

Hrano’s eyes brightened. “You’re a wise man. I’m just ashamed I didn’t come up with the idea myself.”

Later that evening, Hrano extracted a hand-sized reddish metal bar from his spacecraft. He opened the sentinel’s chest compartment and replaced a dull pink bar with fresh promethium.

Benedict whispered fervent prayers for Hrano’s success.

Hrano stepped back from the tomb and waited in silence with Benedict.

The sentinel opened its eyes. “Benedict. It is good to see you again. What took you so long?”

Hrano and Benedict exchanged incredulous glances.

“Your Christ sacrificed himself and then rose from the dead, did he not?” the sentinel asked.

“Yes,” Benedict said.

“My survival required that I direct Hrano’s ship to me by exhausting my promethium reserves and forcing myself into hibernation. That ship had enough promethium to power ten sentinels. I calculated that one or both of you would reach that solution with a ninety-two point one five percent probability.”

Hrano and Benedict burst into laughter.

Over the next several decades, Benedict built a network of monasteries that helped shepherd Western culture through the Dark Ages. The Radan and the sentinel counseled Benedict and his successors into the Age of Enlightenment.

Three centuries after the Enlightenment, humanity walked across the moon’s surface and planned a manned voyage to Mars powered by the first antimatter drives.

Unbeknownst to humanity, dark and ravenous forces gathered in space’s cold abyss.

Chandler’s Hollow

Originally published by Perihelion Science Fiction

“The demons come at night to eat souls,” Lily said.

The child’s dull jaundiced eyes, greasy blonde hair, and rotten teeth betrayed a neglect bordering on cruelty. She rocked on a rickety swing suspended from rusty chains. The chains dangled from a decayed wooden frame in the weed-infested backyard of an old, broken down log cabin. White oak, ash, and walnut trees swayed and creaked in the chill morning autumn breeze, shedding a riot of burgundy, gold, and russet leaves.

Something about Chandler’s Hollow was off. It was as if the people here were out of time, belonging neither to the past, present, nor future.

“Have you told your mother?” Jenna said, scratching her head. Wisps of her curly brown hair fluttered to the earth.

“Momma sees them too. They sound like cadas in the night.”

“Cadas? Do you mean cicadas?”

It was tough to understand Lily’s accent. It sounded Amish, but different. More archaic.

“Yeah, cicadas. But they are bigger than you and me.”

A stringy matron with straw-colored hair shambled out of the hovel and approached Jenna. The woman was pretty enough to win a Meth America pageant.

“Who’s your friend?” the woman asked Lily.

“This is Miss Williams, momma.”

Lily’s mother rested her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m Daisy. Is Lily telling you about the brood?”

“The brood? No, she was talking about demons,” Jenna said.

“They are the same thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve heard the stories. Our world is not what it seems. It changes. We feed this change by casting off what we are.”

An odd response. Jenna dismissed it as backwoods banter. “How long have you lived here?”

“Long as I can remember. My mother passed this house to me. And her mother passed it to her,” Daisy said.

“Is Lily’s father around? I’d love to speak to him if he’s available.”

“Father? She has no father. I’ve never been with a man. One month my moon blood stopped. Nine months later, Lily was born. Same as my mother and her mother’s mother.”

Jenna stifled a laugh. She knew rural America had its share of yokels, but these folks were nuts. She decided not to press the issue. She needed the material for her article.

“Can you tell me anything about the cult house rumored to be out here?” Jenna said.

The two clammed up. It was as if Jenna had flipped a switch. One moment Lily and Daisy were lucid; the next, wallflowers.

“Can you at least tell me where to find it?”

Their eyes bored into Jenna’s as though Daisy and Lily were one person. In unison, they said, “The shed will find you.”

Professor Wendell Winthrop Chilcott hunkered behind a beige oaken desk in an office teeming with walls of warped books. Wearing his velvet smoking jacket, pleated pants and bright burgundy bowtie, he was a fossil of a man. It was as if he were preserved in formaldehyde at the turn of the nineteenth century and only recently revived. His wispy white hair was combed over his glistening bald pate. The room reeked of mildew and mundungus.

“So, you’re the reporter with an itch for seventeenth century deeds,” he said, his fleshy jowls rippling like a rooster’s wattles. He chomped on a corncob pipe.

“I am,” Jenna said.

“Out of academic curiosity, what led you to the world’s foremost historian on seventeenth century American legal history?” Chilcott said in a lilting American patrician accent reminiscent of William F. Buckley.

“Well, Professor Chilcott, I’m trying to understand the transfer of properties in Chandler’s Hollow. After scanning sales histories on Zillow and Redfin, I’ve discovered a cluster of parcels that hasn’t changed hands in at least ten years.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’ll get to that, Professor.”

“Well, you’d best make your point. I’m not getting any younger, and I have a class in thirty minutes.”

“I searched both the New Castle and Delaware County Departments of Records. The only deeds for these plots stretch back to the mid-seventeenth century.”

Chilcott nodded, smiling. He belched laughter. The fat on his bulbous midsection undulated in waves. “For whom do you work?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Jenna flinched, then hesitated. If she told him the truth, he’d probably end the interview.

“You work for a tabloid, don’t you?”

“Well, that depends on…”

He cut her off. “Oh, you most certainly work for one. I won’t say another word until you agree not to quote me as a source in whatever cretinous rag you call a newspaper. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I promise.”

Jenna’s New York Times article had cast a long shadow. Securing a position at The Weekly World Journal had been her only option. Between her Harvard undergraduate degree and graduate studies at Columbia’s School of Journalism, she’d amassed over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in debt. In this economy, she was just happy to have a job.

Chilcott gazed at her. His fingers formed a wrinkled steeple. “It wasn’t always called Chandler’s Hollow, you know. German colonists first settled the area in the mid-seventeenth century. Outcast from the Swedish settlement of Fort Christina, they’d been among the first Europeans to set foot in the Delaware River Valley.

“To the colonists’ chagrin, Lenape tribes had already populated the region. It didn’t help that the Lenape had a matrilineal society where hereditary title passed from mothers to daughters. It was a cultural arrangement that baffled most Europeans. The only area the Lenape left unclaimed was Chandler’s Hollow. They’d avoided it because they believed it was cursed.”

“How do you know that?”

“Delaware’s only cave is in Chandler’s Hollow. In that cave, there are ten-thousand-year-old wall paintings advising people to avoid the area.

“Of course, the Germans ignored the Lenape warning, and built a ring of homes and mills. At the center of the hollow, the colonists erected a structure that conspiracy theorists call the ‘shed’ or the ‘cult house’, depending on which quack you interview. Many of these structures still stand today.

“After the community’s establishment, no one heard anything from the colonists again. But over the years, people have reported sightings of oddly-dressed women on those properties, but never men.” Chilcott crossed his arms against his chest, looking at Jenna expectantly.

“Can you elaborate on these sightings?” she said.

He glowered. “If you want to hear about that nonsense, you’d best meet with Doctor Eli Rosen while you’re still at Princeton. He works in the Department of Astrophysical Sciences. One of the last quacks on campus who was associated with the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research Laboratory, he fancies himself an Assistant Professor of Quantum Parapsychology.”

“Quantum what?”

He rolled his eyes and then sneered. “Good day, Miss Williams.”

Disappointed she hadn’t been able to connect with Rosen the day prior, Jenna entered Nick De Genova’s office the next morning to give him an update on her story. It was an assignment that Jenna had only taken on reluctantly, but for some reason it now resonated with her.

“You had a visitor,” he said in a thick Philly accent, frowning. He ran his ringed fingers through slick coal black hair that seemed unnatural for his age.

“Who?”

“Samuel Greenburg. He wants you to write a piece on him to, in his words, ‘undo the damage you’d done by writing that New York Times article,’” he said, stroking a gaudy gold necklace floating on a puffy morass of gray chest hair.

“Okay,” Jenna said, sulking.

Like many baby boomers, De Genova had stumbled into his position without much effort or talent when jobs were as plentiful as sand grains. But what De Genova lacked in intellect he more than made up for in reading people.

“What’s wrong? This assignment too good for you?” he said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your fancy shmansy Ivy League degrees. You work for me, hon. You’ll write what I say.”

Jenna put her hand on his desk to avoid passing out. Sam Greenberg, media mogul extraordinaire. The same old arrogant bastard who’d gotten her fired from The New York Times for writing the truth.

“Okay,” she said, grabbing a clump of hair she uprooted a bit too easily.

“Forget what you’re working on now,” De Genova said, “If we don’t publish this piece, Greenburg’s gonna buy our paper and fire us both.”

“Fine,” Jenna said, dejected. “I’ll reach out to his assistant tomorrow to set up an interview. For now, I’d like to do more work on that ‘cult house’ piece.”

“No. You’ll interview him now. He’s waiting outside.”

Clad in a navy blue suit, Egyptian cotton shirt, and a mauve power tie, Greenburg held court in his limo.

“You’re late, Miss Williams,” he said, scowling.

“If you expect me to be on time, try calling me before you schedule a meeting,” she said. “Why am I here?”

“You’re here because you want to keep your job.”

Jenna clenched her jaw. She had to keep it together. She loathed Greenburg. But if she didn’t cooperate, he’d spend millions on a worthless tabloid just for the satisfaction of firing her.

“How can I help you, Mr. Greenburg?” she said, fighting back an urge to empty her stomach.

He smiled. “Now that’s a better attitude.” He pulled out a highlighted copy of her New York Times article. “I wanted to spend our time correcting the many errors you made here.”

For the next hour, the man droned on about his business principles, which, from Jenna’s point of view, only made sense if one started out with extreme wealth.

Finishing, he said, “If there’s one principle every American should understand, it’s this: being poor is a choice.”

Waking from a stupor induced by Greenburg’s narcissism, Jenna said, “Wait, what?”

He groaned. “Haven’t you been listening? I’ll say it again because it’s important. Being poor is a choice. People are poor because they choose to be.”

It was easy for him to say. Some are born with silver spoons, but Greenburg was born with a sliver kitchen. Rather than call out his ignorance, Jenna held back her rage, managing a noncommittal, “I see.”

Greenburg grabbed a tuft of her hair, and it came off without resistance. “Miss Williams, are you sick? Your hair’s falling out.”

She had been having a lot of hair and skin problems ever since her first trip to Chandler’s Hollow, but she refused to give the man an inch. “No, I’m fine.”

He smiled. Then he reached out and fondled her breasts.

She froze. It was so surreal she didn’t know how to react. Then, she slapped him and made for the limo door.

He grinned. “I sure can’t wait to read all the wonderful things you’re going to say about me.”

Jenna stormed out of the limo and slammed the door.

At dusk, Jenna drove her rusty cherry 1998 Corolla along the potted roads leading to Chandler’s Hollow. She parked her car in an empty field hidden behind a line of oak and maple trees. An icy wind whistled through their branches. Jenna pulled out a map she’d pieced together from her research and made her way toward the shed.

As she ventured deeper into the old growth forest, a faint metallic chirping echoed in the gloom. The sound crescendoed. She stopped. Dusk faded into darkness. The moon cast a pale glow on the dark woods.

Something rustled in a thicket ahead. She strained her eyes. Moonlight glinted off its slick black form. A cloaked thing lumbered toward her.

The chirping intensified. A man-thing darted from the trees. A whirling mass of tentacles, it was a mix of insect and cephalopod. The proboscis and antennae on its insect-like head quivered.

Mother! Its thoughts infested her mind.

It raced toward her. She screamed. Then it vanished, fading into the ether.

Flashlights!

“Who’s there!” a woman shouted.

Jenna sprinted to her car. She fumbled with her keys. After unlocking the door, she rolled into the driver’s seat. Shaking, she rotated the key in the ignition. The engine cranked, then puttered out. Engines roared to life in the murk.

She pumped fuel into the engine. Nothing. She turned her key again. “C’mon,” she said, staving off panic. The engine cranked, then whimpered to a dull hum. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The car’s wheels kicked up clumps of wet mud in their wake.

Lights behind washed out her vision. She struggled to see the road ahead. They drew closer. She accelerated. She glanced back. Two black Broncos with stadium lights.

One truck surged into the opposite lane. It roared past her. Cutting back into her lane, it boxed her in. She stomped on her brakes. Shadows poured out of the truck. She locked her doors.

A flashlight rapped on her window. She froze, terrified. Another rap. Then a metallic click.

“Wait! Don’t shoot her,” a woman yelled. “She is of the brood.”

Jenna revved her engine and sped away, glad to be alive.

Doctor Eli Rosen’s patchy beard looked like a cluster bomb had exploded on his face and given birth to a staph infection. He was bald. He wore a plaid suit straight out of the seventies. It was so wrinkled it might as well have been laundered in a dishwasher. His office was a disorganized stew of coffee stains, stacked books, crimpled papers, and scrawled mathematical equations. There was no place for Jenna to sit. The room smelled of popcorn, sweat, mildew, and meat.

After Jenna recounted her tale, she said, “Dr. Rosen, I’ve been rude. I was so upset by what happened last night I never asked about your background.”

Rosen smiled. “I’m an Assistant Professor of Quantum Parapsychology. Until 2007, Quantum Parapsychology was part of an interdisciplinary effort between the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research Laboratory and the Department of Astrophysical Sciences. My research focuses on understanding parapsychological phenomena at the quantum level. I’m trying to reconcile quantum mechanical principles with gravitation theory at the quantum scale to learn more about the behavior of dark matter and dark energy.”

“What’s that got to do with the paranormal?” she said.

“My paranormal work centers on my theory that most supernatural activity can be explained by the interaction between matter and dark matter. Most reported extrasensory phenomena operate on higher dimensions than we’re capable of perceiving. Humans sense the world in only four dimensions—height, width, depth, and time. Paranormal entities are nothing more than hyper-dimensional beings composed of dark matter.”

Confused, Jenna scratched her head, uprooting another patch of hair. “What does this have to do with the shed?”

Rosen hesitated. His eyes widened. Then he said, “Well, Miss Williams, I’m familiar with Chandler’s Hollow lore. Most of it is bunk, but bunk based on real phenomena.”

“How so?”

“Well, some of the lore describes the shed as a satanic cult house. But there’s nothing in the historical record that lends credence to those stories. However, Chandler’s Hollow apparition sightings stretch back over ten thousand years. Your story is just the most recent one.”

“Well, what did I see out there?”

Rosen grabbed Jenna by the shoulders, and said, “Despite what you might think, you didn’t see a ghost. It was something much worse.”

She shuddered. “What do you mean?”

Rosen stroked his beard. “The being you saw occupied an adjacent dimension leaking into our own. For a brief time, that dimension resonated at the same frequency as ours.”

Rosen’s phone rang, rattling Jenna. Putting his hand over the receiver, he said, “I’m sorry, but I have to take this. Perhaps we can catch up later this week?”

She nodded. A swirl of emotions tugged at her ranging from morbid curiosity to sheer terror.

After she left Princeton, Jenna didn’t return to her desk until late afternoon. Seconds after she sat down, De Genova hovered over her cubicle like a Predator drone.

“Let me see the article,” he said.

“Which one?” she said, feigning ignorance.

“The Greenburg piece,” he said, frowning.

“Why the urgency? Why now? Why can’t I get it to you later this week?”

“Because Greenburg keeps harassing me. And publishing that article is the only thing that’ll shut him up.”

“Fine. I’ll get it to you first thing tomorrow morning.”

De Genova wagged his finger at her. “Okay. But it had better be on my desk. First thing.”

“Will do,” she said. Apparently satisfied, he left her cubicle.

She took a deep breath. She fired up her laptop and opened a new file. Staring at a blank screen, she struggled to write something redeeming about a distinctly unredeemable man.

Jenna typed to get the words flowing. Then she stopped; then she started again. By eight p.m., she had only written a paragraph.

The phone rang.

She answered. The electronic screeching and wailing on the other end sounded like a fax mixed with a Tibetan chant without words. Yet, somehow, she knew she had to go to the shed.

She dialed Rosen.

“We need to go to the shed tonight,” she said. “I can’t explain how I know, but something’s calling me there.”

“I wish I could join you,” Rosen said, “but I have a prior commitment this evening. And there’s no way I can get out of it. Let’s catch up tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said, disappointed. “I’ll call you with an update tomorrow.”

Jenna saw the shed for the first time amid a row of gnarled and sickly oak, ash, and maple trees. Their trunks twisted away from the ancient, dilapidated log cabin as if straining to avoid some unseen malady. The starry vastness of the evening sky cast a pale glow over the shed’s dark edifice.

Nary a blade of grass grew within a hundred feet of the structure. Windows shaped like inverted crosses stamped the shed’s timber flanks. A tiny human sentinel stood vigil before the shed’s double doors.

Jenna crept forward. A rough semicircle of jagged things lay behind the shed. As she drew closer, the objects resolved to translucent forms of the strange being that had hunted her during her last visit. It was as though they had molted, shedding their chitinous exoskeletons. The solitary figure watched Jenna approach.

Lily!

Once Jenna was within earshot, Lily said, “I’m here to serve.”

The shed’s double doors burst open. Things, terrible things poured out. Their tentacles smothered the child, then ripped her apart in a riot of blood and viscera.

Jenna wanted to scream. But the sight also evoked far baser instincts of hunger, of violence, of longing.

The creatures and their carapaces evaporated.

Jenna drove to work at sunrise. She’d been unable to sleep. Her mind raced, trying to process what she’d seen.

She called Dr. Rosen at seven thirty. He sounded groggy, but after she’d related her experience, his voice grew animated.

“Did Chilcott tell you about the cave paintings?” he said.

“Yes, but what’s that got to do with what I saw?”

“Everything. Are you familiar with a cicada’s lifecycle?”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Rosen, but what do ten-thousand-year-old cave paintings have to do with the lifecycle of a cicada?”

Rosen flashed a mischievous smile. “Why everything, Miss Williams.”

“Explain.”

“Well, to be more precise, your ten-thousand-year-old cave painting is actually ten thousand three hundred and thirty three.”

Jenna raised an eyebrow. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“Sure I can. Uranium-thorium dating gets you to ten thousand three hundred years. The more precise number is ten thousand three hundred and thirty three because it’s both a prime and an apocalyptic number.”

“What’s that got to do with cicada lifecycles?”

“Cicada broods emerge once every thirteen or seventeen years—both primes. When cicadas surface, they do so in overwhelming numbers. Their predators can’t possibly eat enough of them to drive them to extinction. Etymologists believe cicadas’ prime number lifecycles are an adaptation that prevents predators from synchronizing their own generations to divisors of the cicada emergence period.”

“Okay,” Jenna said, skeptical.

“Now, you’re probably wondering what this has to do with what you encountered in Chandler’s Hollow.”

“Well, yeah.”

“In brane theory, physicists conjecture that there’s a multiverse of an infinite number of universes. These universes vibrate at different frequencies in higher dimensional space. Some resonate at the same periodicity but are slightly out of phase. You see, there’s an adjacent universe that intersects our own at Chandler’s Hollow. This nearby dimension is out of phase with our reality by ten thousand three hundred and thirty three years. My theory is that the shed acts as some sort of hyper-dimensional tuning fork.”

“Are you saying what I saw was real?”

Rosen nodded. “Yes. But the two realities aren’t quite in phase yet, so what you saw probably seemed like a mirage. In the coming days, these sightings will become more anchored to our reality as we, in turn, become more anchored to theirs.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Well, based on the cave paintings and the broader North American archaeological record, it doesn’t bode well. When our world was last in phase with theirs, there was a mass extinction. Whatever inhabits that reality has a lifecycle whose cadence is resurgent every ten thousand three hundred and thirty three years. And whatever emerges from that realm when it is in superposition with our own eats large mammals.”

Jenna felt a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turned to see a grimacing De Genova. He pointed at the phone, motioning for her to hang up.

Disappointed, she said, “Doctor Rosen, can I call you back?”

“Sure,” Rosen said.

She hung up the phone.

“Where’s my goddamn story?” De Genova said, flaring his nostrils.

Her heart sank. In all of the excitement, she’d forgotten about her promise to get him the Greenburg article.

“I’m so sorry, Nick. Something really weird happened last night. So strange that I’d like to bring Marty with me next time to get some pictures,” she said, alluding to the paper’s one and only photographer.

“Really?” he said. “You blow off our single most important story, and then have the balls to demand more resources?”

“I know. I’m really sorry. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

“If Greenburg weren’t so insistent that you write the article, I’d fire you on the spot. The good news is he wants to discuss the article with you tomorrow evening over dinner. So you still have time.”

Jenna was both horrified and relieved. On the one hand, she had to suffer Greenburg again. On the other, she’d still have a job.

De Genova stared at her, his face registering concern. “By the way, you also might want a dermatologist to check out that rash on your face.”

Self-conscious, she touched her face. It had the texture of sandpaper. “I will,” she said, half-heartedly.

Jenna fidgeted with her black velvet dress’s straps at the entrance of The Excelsior, a high-end restaurant on Pennsylvania’s Main Line. She hated dressing up for social occasions. Especially when the only outfit she could afford came from a thrift shop.

“There she is!” Greenburg said, gloating, as he entered the restaurant. His overstated white tuxedo definitely sent a message. She just wasn’t sure it was the one he’d intended.

He eyed her up and down, giving her a creepy vibe. “You know, you really should have dressed better,” he said. “People are gonna think you’re my whore.”

“That implies you only have one.”

He glared at her. “Watch it. I’m trying to educate you. Successful people dress well.”

Before Jenna could respond, the maître d’ escorted them to a table against the restaurant’s far wall. Jenna tried to sit against the wall, but Greenburg blocked her with his arm. “That’s my seat.”

It wasn’t worth fighting over something so juvenile, so she let it go. “Why did you summon me?” she said.

“I want to make sure the article you write is fair and accurate.”

“I already wrote a fair and accurate article in The New York Times.”

“You know nothing about good business, Miss Williams. Journalism is a world of gray, not black and white.”

“No, Mr. Greenburg. Journalism aims for truth. My article was entirely factual.”

He wagged his finger. “Your article was a character assassination filled with baseless allegations. You misquoted me in every respect.”

Jenna guffawed. “Really? You weren’t accused of sexual misconduct by at least ten of your former female employees?”

“Those were unproven allegations. When you’re a successful billionaire, people constantly try to exploit your wealth.”

“So you don’t deny those allegations.”

His face reddened. “That’s not at all what I said. Are you really sure you went to Harvard?”

“I’m sure. Given your daddy’s wealth and connections, why couldn’t you get into Harvard? What’s your excuse?”

He glowered at her and then said, “Being poor is a choice. And it’s clear from your sinking career trajectory that you’re an untalented shrew.” He pulled out a cigar, lit it, and blew smoke in her face.

“How much money did you inherit from daddy?” she said, sneering. “You think you hit a homerun in life, without admitting you were born on third base.”

Greenburg slammed his fist on the table. “I won’t be lectured by some trailer park slut.”

The restaurant’s steady conversational hum died. Jenna didn’t want to make a scene. She despised the man, but he had leverage. If this interview spiraled out of control, she’d lose her job. So she reached across the table and touched his hand. “Mr. Greenburg, I think we started on the wrong foot. Let’s try again. How can I help you?”

“You’ll show me a draft of your article before it’s published.”

“And if I do?”

“I’ll publish it in all my syndicated newspapers, which have a combined reach greater than that of The New York Times. I’ll also give you a job at one of my media companies.”

“I see,” Jenna said. She’d have a future, all for the low, low price of her integrity. “And if I don’t write the article?”

He smiled. “As I said, being poor is a choice.”

She nodded. “I’ll show you a draft once I have one,” she lied.

Greenburg raised his glass of Dom. Romane Conti. “Here’s to an enjoyable evening.”

Jenna couldn’t explain why she’d lured Greenburg to the shed. It was instinct. Lubricated by wine, she’d told him about her other story.

Capitalizing on his well-publicized urges, she’d suggested they go to Chandler’s Hollow. Her logical mind had screamed, “No!” but something darker compelled her.

She stood with him before the shed. A strange energy in the air made her skin tingle. A waning gibbous moon’s fading light seeped through the warped branches of mangled trees.

His rough, craggy hand grabbed her bottom. Hungry, Jenna didn’t react.

“Ha, ha,” he said, slurring his words. “This story is even less credible than your hit piece on me.”

Like the moon above, her eyesight waned, her vision blurring into a honeycomb. Despite having a full stomach, an insatiable appetite raged inside her.

A field of carapaces shimmered around the shed.

“What kind of a sick joke is this?” Greenburg said in an indignant tone.

She became one of them. His eyes widened. Her geniculate antennae curled around his head. He stank of fear.

Greenburg ran.

She was human again. Dumbfounded, she tried to make sense of what had happened. Then she recalled Rosen’s theory about two realities in superposition. What if two organisms could also coexist in a state of superposition?

The world changed again, transforming her into a ravenous thing, a thing that was neither here nor there, but existing simultaneously in both realms. Her brood burst forth from the shed, flooding the countryside like a locust swarm. Their hunger and their desire to propagate mirrored her own.

His scent fresh on her antennae, she chased Greenburg through the woods to his limo. Wheels squealing, it sped off.

She trundled forward, but her tentacles couldn’t propel her fast enough to reach her quarry.

Lights.

A black Bronco surged past. Greenburg’s limo screeched to a halt as a second Bronco blocked its path.

He scrambled out of his vehicle. A shot rang out. He fell. Two shadows descended on him. She slithered closer along the black sludge her new world had superimposed on the old. Her twin proboscises slavered for meat.

Daisy and a second woman held Greenburg against a Bronco. The scent of his bloodied shoulder only made Jenna hungrier.

“We live to serve the brood queen,” they said.

Greenburg’s eyes widened, and he sobbed. “Please. Don’t let me die here. Please.”

But in this new world, she was predator and he was prey.

Jenna devoured him.

Then she comforted her drones, promising to clone more human females to guard the gateway during the time between.