Okay, this is just something I wrote when I was bored. I may continue it, as I have an idea of where I want the story to go, or I might not. I'm not sure. Opinions are appreciated!
*******
I was wondering when you’d show up. Surprised? I figured you would be.
Not all victims sit in a chair waiting for their killer, I’d imagine.
I’m sorry, is my calm bothering you? You’re supposed to be the calm one in this little drama of ours, aren’t you? Cold and methodical, exterminating those that your superiors deem threats to the Order of things.
Pun intended. What, you’ve never heard of gallows humor? Yes, I know you have a gun pointed at my head. This wouldn’t be the first time, if I remember correctly. The first time… Now that takes me back. I was barely more than a kid then, and you…
Well, you were the same cold bastard you are now. But that’s okay. It’s just who you are. I understand. They don’t let you develop emotional awareness in your breeding camps, do they? Of course not. Emotional awareness leads to the risk of a conscience developing, and what good is a sociopathic killer if he has a conscience?
No, I don’t think I’ll find your weak spot. As I said, you weren’t allowed emotional awareness. There are no buttons for me to push.
Or are there?
Do you know what? Despite what you think, there is something I know that you don’t. Knowledge so inarguable that God himself would be swayed. Do you know what it is? Would you like to hear it?
You’re not going to shoot me yet. Not in the head, at least. Probably not at all, but I’m allowing for a slight margin of error. Maybe I’ll lose a toe or a finger. I doubt it, though. How do I know?
Well, do you know the funny thing about computers? People think they’re better than humans. Mentally, I mean. And why not? They can effortlessly solve equations that would take human mathematicians days or more to suss out. The same is true for any machine, really; it is better, at the task it was designed for at least, than humans are at the same task. Do you know what the inherent flaw in that logic is? Take computers for example. When a computer encounters data that it cannot compute, it attempts to ignore the data. While this can work in some cases, in others the data is more persistent. When the computer realizes the data cannot merely be ignored, it attempts to isolate it. Many virulent strings of code can be handled in this way. Isolate the virus from its source of reproduction and it will eventually die out. However, not all viruses can be handled in that manner. They mutate. They reproduce too rapidly for the computer’s defenses to isolate. In this case, the computer must initiate a plan of termination to remove the virulent, corrupted data from its systems. Do you know what happens if the computer can’t terminate the corrupted data?
It crashes.
The difference here is that when a computer crashes, it ceases to function. It can no longer process data because it just no longer functions. The human mind, however, cannot merely crash like this. So you’re left with your preconceived notions shattered, unable to make the correct decision because you have no way of processing the data in any way other than how it is.
So. You’re not going to kill me. Oh, you’re not going to walk away, but you might as well holster that impressive gun you’ve got there. Yes, that’s it. Take a seat. Help yourself to some of the food I put out. Have a drink. And now, before I forget, let me tell you who I am.
I’m Nicolas, and I know the truth hidden behind the Order.
The Truth Is Stranger Than You Think...
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Short, but everything needs the proper build-up.
*******************
September 13th, three years ago.
Location unknown.
11:56 PM
Wind and rain tore at the small, inconspicuous little boat. Men rushed too and fro on the deck, maintaining the ship’s course as best they could. The temperatures were mercilessly low and many men were swathed in heaping piles of clothes just to keep from shivering. The gray, cloudy sky above blocked all but the sickliest of lights to shine down upon the ship. It was as if the world itself waged a terrible assault on the ship.
Or what it carried.
Below deck, unperturbed by the choppy waters and unpleasant weather, two men sat in cushioned booths, both heavily cloaked in shadow. It was doubtful that either man could see the face of the other, and judging from the body language of these two figures, that was precisely the way they wanted it. From what little could be seen of the two figures, both were well dressed, though one wore a professional suit while the other wore more casual clothes.
“So the information was correct?” The man in casual clothes steepled his fingers in front of his shadowed face as he continued to speak. “Or is it yet another hoax?”
“No, it was quite correct, I assure you,” the suited man replied, straightening his tie before placing his hands flat on the table. “We’ve found it.”
“Who was it?”
“Abraham. He was the actual discoverer, though the entire team was involved.”
“Abraham, eh? Where is he? He should be commended.”
“His left arm and a portion of his left leg remain at the site. As for the rest of him…” The suited man merely shrugged. “It’s better for all our sakes that we don’t know.”
“Ah, good. I won’t have to kill him myself, then.”
“Quite.”
“And we’re sure that the object-”
“Oh yes. Very sure.” After a moment of pause, the suit added, "Just ask Abraham."
The casually dressed man’s ominous smile could be felt radiating out from the shadows. “Good. Then everything is ready. Soon the stars shall not matter, and our master will again walk this world!”
“Shall I call the Handlers?”
“Not yet. Let us celebrate this momentous event first. We can begin preparations for the Ceremony once we reach port.”
*******************
September 13th, three years ago.
Location unknown.
11:56 PM
Wind and rain tore at the small, inconspicuous little boat. Men rushed too and fro on the deck, maintaining the ship’s course as best they could. The temperatures were mercilessly low and many men were swathed in heaping piles of clothes just to keep from shivering. The gray, cloudy sky above blocked all but the sickliest of lights to shine down upon the ship. It was as if the world itself waged a terrible assault on the ship.
Or what it carried.
Below deck, unperturbed by the choppy waters and unpleasant weather, two men sat in cushioned booths, both heavily cloaked in shadow. It was doubtful that either man could see the face of the other, and judging from the body language of these two figures, that was precisely the way they wanted it. From what little could be seen of the two figures, both were well dressed, though one wore a professional suit while the other wore more casual clothes.
“So the information was correct?” The man in casual clothes steepled his fingers in front of his shadowed face as he continued to speak. “Or is it yet another hoax?”
“No, it was quite correct, I assure you,” the suited man replied, straightening his tie before placing his hands flat on the table. “We’ve found it.”
“Who was it?”
“Abraham. He was the actual discoverer, though the entire team was involved.”
“Abraham, eh? Where is he? He should be commended.”
“His left arm and a portion of his left leg remain at the site. As for the rest of him…” The suited man merely shrugged. “It’s better for all our sakes that we don’t know.”
“Ah, good. I won’t have to kill him myself, then.”
“Quite.”
“And we’re sure that the object-”
“Oh yes. Very sure.” After a moment of pause, the suit added, "Just ask Abraham."
The casually dressed man’s ominous smile could be felt radiating out from the shadows. “Good. Then everything is ready. Soon the stars shall not matter, and our master will again walk this world!”
“Shall I call the Handlers?”
“Not yet. Let us celebrate this momentous event first. We can begin preparations for the Ceremony once we reach port.”
Fans of other works of strange fiction may recognize where this is going...
********************
September 13th, 2004
A dorm room at a prestigious school in Massachusetts.
2:39 AM.
He was an artist. That’s what he did.
Or rather, it’s what he was studying to do. A painter, actually. He had the dedication, he had the knowledge, he had the creativity and all other things necessary to achieve what he wanted. There was only one small problem.
He sucked.
Not a single painting ever sold. Not one. He occasionally made commission, but that was nowhere near enough to even pay for a trip to the grocery store, let alone be enough for him to live on. That’s why he was in college, to learn how to not suck. His parents didn’t support him and he’d had to save up for years to make tuition, but now he was here and he hoped things would improve.
Pity that tonight would be his last night…
An hour ago, he awoke from a nightmare. While most would shrug off the horrifying visions as mere fantastic delusions, he no longer had that ability. Moving as if in a trance, he stumbled from his bed and sloppily pulled down paint cans off the shelves of his small room. Paint splattered everywhere, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He needed an easel. A bigger easel than he’d ever used before.
With a yell he swept the paint cans from the shelves. That still wasn’t enough space, apparently. He ripped the shelves from the right wall near his bed, slipping more than once in the spilled paint seeping on the floor. Preparing the easel took the better part of an hour. Finally the wall was empty and ready to become a surface for creation.
No brushes. No tools. Merely his hands, dipped in the necessary cans of paint. They danced along the wall with a fluid grace our poor, unknown painter had never known before. He painted frenetically; sweat building on his brow and his cheeks reddening. A sickly film gleamed in his eyes and his skin seemed ready to fall off. Still he painted, the fire in his eyes burning away the film as his hands traced strange angles on his chosen canvas.
He didn’t know how long it took. Time no longer had meaning for him. Not because he knew what was coming, but because it had already happened. He took no breath as he painted. He did not blink.
He was already dead.
It seemed the entire night wore away as he painted. Blood oozed from his nose and ears, first in droplets and then in continuous streams. His eyes began to fill with blood, almost as if he were going to cry blood. The stench of death was beginning to settle in his room.
He had to hurry. Someone would notice the smell soon.
He had to hurry. He had to get this message out.
He had to hurry.
His frenzy growing ever more intense as the minutes ticked by, his body pouring out of him in streams, he was a ghastly sight. Yet as the vision he painted took shape, it became clear that he was not the most ghastly sight in this room on this night.
Finally, hours after he began, he stumbled back, flinging his hands out to his sides and sending droplets of paint splattering everywhere. His legs wobbled and his eyes blinked furiously, but he held on. He had to be sure his work was truly finished. He couldn’t go until it was.
Oh god. He’d forgotten the most important part. And his time was almost up! Even now he could hear the clock chiming in his soul. His time was nearly up.
He had to hurry.
Stumbling forward, using blood instead of paint, he collapsed in front of the wall. Unable to even sit on his knees, he had to brace himself with his other hand while he traced the final lines of the nightmare vision, this time in careful, precise strokes.
As he finished the last letter, the fire left his eyes. His body shuddered, and his bowels emptied. He stiffened abruptly and then went utterly limp, his face connecting with the wall just below the final words he’d traced in his own blood.
When the police broke down the door of the room hours later, they were met with a horrible sight. Many, hardened veterans all, fainted dead away or retched on the porch. Those with enough control and daring entered the room, though very few stayed there for long.
What they found was a body, or what had once been a body. Covered in some kind of green slime, much of the body had been melted away. It was almost as if the body was being digested. The look of horror on the stiff face was truly terrifying, reaching down into the souls of even these hardened officers and tearing at something primal.
And for some reason, the whole room smelled strangely of seawater…
Just above the slowly melting body was a painting. It wasn’t complex.
The night sky, with the stars all in a row. Underneath that, the ocean. Floating above it was a strange city, full of strange angles that no human eye had ever beheld. And underneath that…
Underneath that…
Underneath that, creeping up from the bottom center of the painting, were thick, twisting tentacles…
The message in blood sent shivers down the spines of all those brave enough to enter that room.
That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons, even death may die…
********************
September 13th, 2004
A dorm room at a prestigious school in Massachusetts.
2:39 AM.
He was an artist. That’s what he did.
Or rather, it’s what he was studying to do. A painter, actually. He had the dedication, he had the knowledge, he had the creativity and all other things necessary to achieve what he wanted. There was only one small problem.
He sucked.
Not a single painting ever sold. Not one. He occasionally made commission, but that was nowhere near enough to even pay for a trip to the grocery store, let alone be enough for him to live on. That’s why he was in college, to learn how to not suck. His parents didn’t support him and he’d had to save up for years to make tuition, but now he was here and he hoped things would improve.
Pity that tonight would be his last night…
An hour ago, he awoke from a nightmare. While most would shrug off the horrifying visions as mere fantastic delusions, he no longer had that ability. Moving as if in a trance, he stumbled from his bed and sloppily pulled down paint cans off the shelves of his small room. Paint splattered everywhere, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He needed an easel. A bigger easel than he’d ever used before.
With a yell he swept the paint cans from the shelves. That still wasn’t enough space, apparently. He ripped the shelves from the right wall near his bed, slipping more than once in the spilled paint seeping on the floor. Preparing the easel took the better part of an hour. Finally the wall was empty and ready to become a surface for creation.
No brushes. No tools. Merely his hands, dipped in the necessary cans of paint. They danced along the wall with a fluid grace our poor, unknown painter had never known before. He painted frenetically; sweat building on his brow and his cheeks reddening. A sickly film gleamed in his eyes and his skin seemed ready to fall off. Still he painted, the fire in his eyes burning away the film as his hands traced strange angles on his chosen canvas.
He didn’t know how long it took. Time no longer had meaning for him. Not because he knew what was coming, but because it had already happened. He took no breath as he painted. He did not blink.
He was already dead.
It seemed the entire night wore away as he painted. Blood oozed from his nose and ears, first in droplets and then in continuous streams. His eyes began to fill with blood, almost as if he were going to cry blood. The stench of death was beginning to settle in his room.
He had to hurry. Someone would notice the smell soon.
He had to hurry. He had to get this message out.
He had to hurry.
His frenzy growing ever more intense as the minutes ticked by, his body pouring out of him in streams, he was a ghastly sight. Yet as the vision he painted took shape, it became clear that he was not the most ghastly sight in this room on this night.
Finally, hours after he began, he stumbled back, flinging his hands out to his sides and sending droplets of paint splattering everywhere. His legs wobbled and his eyes blinked furiously, but he held on. He had to be sure his work was truly finished. He couldn’t go until it was.
Oh god. He’d forgotten the most important part. And his time was almost up! Even now he could hear the clock chiming in his soul. His time was nearly up.
He had to hurry.
Stumbling forward, using blood instead of paint, he collapsed in front of the wall. Unable to even sit on his knees, he had to brace himself with his other hand while he traced the final lines of the nightmare vision, this time in careful, precise strokes.
As he finished the last letter, the fire left his eyes. His body shuddered, and his bowels emptied. He stiffened abruptly and then went utterly limp, his face connecting with the wall just below the final words he’d traced in his own blood.
When the police broke down the door of the room hours later, they were met with a horrible sight. Many, hardened veterans all, fainted dead away or retched on the porch. Those with enough control and daring entered the room, though very few stayed there for long.
What they found was a body, or what had once been a body. Covered in some kind of green slime, much of the body had been melted away. It was almost as if the body was being digested. The look of horror on the stiff face was truly terrifying, reaching down into the souls of even these hardened officers and tearing at something primal.
And for some reason, the whole room smelled strangely of seawater…
Just above the slowly melting body was a painting. It wasn’t complex.
The night sky, with the stars all in a row. Underneath that, the ocean. Floating above it was a strange city, full of strange angles that no human eye had ever beheld. And underneath that…
Underneath that…
Underneath that, creeping up from the bottom center of the painting, were thick, twisting tentacles…
The message in blood sent shivers down the spines of all those brave enough to enter that room.
That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons, even death may die…
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VeiwerZane
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