"Friend and Neighbor" by Scott Harper and Timm Gillick

Editor's Introduction: Our last offering of the year has a supernatural theme in a strong setting with realistic characters with understandable motivations. In other words, it's a good story. To round off 2019, Sirius Science Fiction presents...

"Friend and Neighbor" 

by Scott Harper and Timm Gillick

            Justin sensed the two men walking up to his porch long before they knocked.  He opened the door and found Ned and Stan standing before him.  Justin stared past the two men at the light from the new moon, diffused by a crimson mist.  The mist that hung over the world since the Event.  No one ever learned its origin, but it was a sure sign the world had changed, and not all of it for the better.

            “Evening Jus, “ Ned, the older of the two, said, dipping his head in a friendly nod.  Ned was one of the few black men living in the predominantly white town.  At 53 he was also one of the oldest, but still strong enough for a full day of herding cattle.

            “Ned.  Stan,” Justin greeted them in turn.  Stan seemed a bit anxious.  He kept his eyes averted as he shifted his weight from one booted foot to another.

            “We were wondering if we might have a word with you, Jus.  About what’s been going on in town,” Ned continued.

            Justin flipped his hand over and gestured inside.  “Please come in.”

            The two men entered Justin’s residence, eyeing the furniture and antiques on display in the living room.

            “Nice place you have here, Jus.   Thanks for inviting us in,” Ned offered.

            “My pleasure.  Feel free to sit down.”  Justin indicated a plush couch.  “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

            “I’m good,” Stan said.  Standing an even six feet in his boots, Stan fidgeted with his hat, his dark hair hung in his face, and he used it as a shield so he wouldn’t have to meet Justin’s eyes.  At 23 years of age, his boyish face did little to hide his emotions.

            “Thanks Jus, no, we’re both fine.  We’ll just stand,” Ned said, light from the single lamp reflected off the dark skin of his bald head.

            Justin sat down in his sofa chair, at ease as he steepled his fingers together.  “How can I help you tonight?”

            “Maybe I should sit down, now that I think about it,” Ned stated, taking a seat on the sofa facing Justin.  Stan remained standing.  Justin could sense apprehension in Ned’s voice.  “I’ll get right to the point, Jus.  Those tattooed riders that have been causing all the problems, well, they’re back again today.  In force.

            “No more petty thieving or random assaults.  Today they came in, cut the power and ambushed the sheriff’s station.  Just after the morning shift change.  Police never saw it coming.  They used explosives to take out the radio cars and make their way into the station.  Pretty soon they’d gutted Sheriff Haskins and his men, stuck their heads on wooden poles for everyone to see.  They even killed the inmates.  It was ugly…evil.”  Ned shook his head in disgust.

            Justin absorbed the information without comment or reaction.  “Perhaps we should attempt to communicate with law enforcement in Artisan,” he said, referring to the nearest town.

            “We thought of that,” Ned responded.  “Cell service is gone and the land lines are down, it’s like…well it’s like…I don’t know what it is.  Never seen anything like it.”

            “Like magic, “ Justin added.  “Like a spell.”

            “Exactly.  Like a spell.  And these riders, they’re not regular men.  We’ve dealt with them before.  They’re strong, fierce and cruel…normal men can’t stand up to them.  The only person that’s ever beat one of them was…well, you know...”  Ned’s voice became hesitant.

            “Was you, Mr. Justin!” Stan finished Ned’s thought.  “You’re the only one that‘s ever hurt them.”

            “I was probably just lucky, young man.”

            “No, I was there Mr. Justin,” Stan countered.  “I saw what you did.  That big rider went after me and Cassie that night.  His tattoos seemed almost alive, pulsing with power.  He beat the living crap out of me, tossed me around like a child.  He grabbed Cassie and was going to hurt her too, real bad.  Then you showed up out of nowhere, just came out the dark like a ghost, lifted him up and took him away like he weighed nothing.  Never saw that one again…” Stan’s voice trailed off.

            Ned picked up the conversation.  “Jus, I’ve known you for a long time, ever since you moved into the old Marsden farm all those years ago.  Not as friends, I know, more like acquaintances.  You live alone outside of town, tend your livestock, your cows and your goats and such.  You keep to yourself mostly, come into town once in a while for supplies or town meetings.”

            “And your point is, Ned?” Justin asked.

            Ned gazed down a moment, swallowed to regain his composure, then looked Justin in the eye.

            “My point is that you don’t look a day older today than when I first cast eyes on you some thirty years ago, when I was still living with my folks, God rest their souls.  You’re only seen at night.  Your skin is pale, which is real peculiar for a farmer with no family or ranch hands to help with the work.  You never sell or kill your livestock.  You keep them around for years, either as pets or maybe because you get what you need from them without killing them.  And you can take care of business when you need to.  Since the world turned to crap, you’ve taken it upon yourself more than once to make miscreants disappear.”

            “We know what you are, Mr. Justin!” Stan added, his voice loud and excited.  “That’s not an accusation, it’s just a fact.  And we’re ok with that.  Both Ned and I.  You protect this town, when it needs it.  That’s what’s important now.  Because the town needs help.  Cassie needs help.  Your help, Mr. Justin.”

            Justin looked down to the floor, taking an unnecessary breath.  At one time in his long existence he would have been forced to kill these men, men who had discovered the secret of his true nature.  But times had changed and the world was not what it had once been.  The collapse of centralized authority since the Event had made it a more dangerous place, even for his kind, allies few and far between.  Based on previous encounters, he knew these “riders” to be far more than a simple biker gang.  He found himself in a situation he never would have anticipated, on the verge of admitting the secret he had maintained for so long.

            “Well…” he finally replied, “well done.”

            Ned paused a moment, considering then enormity of Justin’s admission, but then decided to resume where he had left off.  “They’ve taken Stan’s girl, Cassie, and holed up in the old church on Morgan’s lane,” Ned stated.

            “They plan to sacrifice her,” Justin stated matter-of-factly.  The other men looked at him, eyes wide with horror. 

            “These men are acolytes of Curmonga The Subjugator.  The symbols they wear on their clothing and their tattoos are runes, supernatural inscriptions that channel the winds of magic.  Curmonga is one of the Old Ones, either a demi-god or demon, depending upon how you prefer to look at it.  With the dissolution of civil society, the old gods are seeking to make a comeback into this world.  Their essences reach out and touch the minds of those who still worship them.  The Subjugator’s acolytes are seeking to bring it back from whatever cesspool dimension it’s been banished to all these years.  For decades they’ve been poking at the outskirts of civilization, testing its barriers and strengths.  Now they see an opening, a soft target they can conquer.  A blood sacrifice is necessary to bring their god back.  I had hoped the others that came into town before were just random strays, chaotic and dangerous in themselves but unorganized, scattered across the oceans of this new world, I see now I was mistaken.”

            “Please Mr. Justin.  I’m begging you.  Just like you helped Cassie back then.  Please help us now,” Stan implored.

            Justin stood with serpentine grace, his eyes blazing in the dimness of the room.

            “I will help you, young man.  I will help this town and its people, this town where I have found refuge.  But know this, my friends, I am not a man, not a being such as yourselves.  The man I was died many centuries ago.  What you see before you is a cursed creature of the dead, forever doomed to feed on the blood of the living.  I have done things that would curdle your blood and forever scar your psyches.  I am not a good person.  I am not a hero.”

            Ned stood resolutely.  “We never asked for one.”  

            He extended his hand.  Justin returned the grip with his cold hand, exerting just a fraction of his immense strength.

            “So be it.”

            By the time they arrived at the church, a group of townspeople had gathered outside the weathered exterior of the front entrance.  Justin recognized most of them from his previous visits.  Their faces were grim yet determined.  A mixture of men and women, young and old, they carried with them a variety of weapons – semi-auto pistols, shotguns, axes and machetes.  Justin gave them a nod of acknowledgement and approached the massive wooden doors.

            The church had been abandoned a decade ago.  Faith in an all-powerful, benevolent being was hard to come by in this modern ravaged world.  Justin felt only the vaguest traces of the faith energy that had once flowed from this structure.  At one time, that energy would have been barred him from entering.  As he laid his hand on the door, he sensed that no such stricture remained.

            He looked back at the townspeople.  Ned and Stan stood at the front of the group, waiting for his command.

            “We go in hard, we don’t stop until they’re all dead and we’ve got Cassie.  It’s that simple.”

            Ned, Stan and the others nodded.

            Justin turned back to the door.  He concentrated, his keen senses detecting twenty beating hearts on the other side.  Twenty living humans, plus the acrid, uncomfortably-familiar odor of black magic and the nascent formation of a gateway to another dimension, waiting for the spilled blood of an innocent to open it.

            He shot his hands forward, blowing the heavy doors off their hinges.  Two riders were crushed as the doors landed.  Justin surged inside as gunfire erupted, the shadows of the room coalescing around him.  He felt the lead rounds impact his thighs, chest, neck and forehead, but shrugged them off and continued forward. 

            Before him, the riders were assembled like a conga line down the aisles of pews, weapons drawn, their presence in violent contrast with the sublime peace offered by the themed glass windows and religious murals that decorated the walls.  Up on the altar, he could see Cassie chained and screaming as a hooded rider, some type of self-proclaimed warlock he guessed, chanted in Latin and raised a wicked ceremonial dagger over her prone torso.

            Justin’s fingers curved into claws.  He slashed the throats of two riders before they could fire another shot, blood erupting like geysers into the air.  He absorbed a switchblade thrust into his sternum, feeling the cold metal slide into his even icier heart, then lifted the rider bodily, throwing him into the nearest wall and shattering his skull.  The body slid down in a boneless heap.  Another rider, a heavyset woman in a leather jacket, brought a hefty wrench down on the back of his neck.  Justin absorbed the blow, which would have broken a normal man’s spine.  He extended one clawed finger toward the woman’s head.  Fueled by his will, a long spike composed of shadow erupted from the finger, skewered the woman through the eye and exploded brain matter out the back of her head.

            Two more riders confronted him as the female fell, the runes on their faces and arms glowing sapphire, fueled by the eldritch energy of the warlock’s ritual.  The first carried a bat, the second a two-foot long piece of lead pipe.  Justin prepared to deal with the former, waiting for the rider to swing, only to be surprised when the man’s body began to jerk as bullet holes filled his hairy torso. 

            Ned stepped forward, continuing to fire with trained precision into the rider with a Beretta pistol.  The acolyte absorbed the initial rounds, standing his ground and drawing on the magic of the runes, but after the tenth round began to falter.  When Ned’s magazine went empty after the sixteenth round, the rider collapsed.

            Justin stepped into the second rider, grabbing the man’s elbow as the pipe descended.  He broke the elbow and jerked the rider to him before the man could scream.  Justin’s canines lengthened as he tore into the rider’s neck, letting the hot blood spill down his throat.  He tasted the eldritch energy powering the man, a more potent brew than any he had sampled in recent years.  Justin took just enough of the acolyte’s blood to fuel himself for the rest of the battle, then snapped his neck and tossed the corpse aside.

            Around him the battle raged.  The rune-enhanced bikers exacted their toll on the townspeople, shooting and hacking and clawing.  But, thanks to the edge lent by Justin’s unique abilities, a greater number of the riders had fallen.

            A woman’s scream forced Justin’s attention towards the altar.  He saw Stan struggling with – and losing to - the warlock.  The ceremonial dagger struck straight up from Cassie’s chest.  Her body spasmed as she bled out.   A portal began to open nearby, a world of shadow and sulfuric misery, ringed by waves of blue energy.  Something large and black and evil moved in the darkness.

            Justin leaped to the altar.  The warlock held Stan by the throat, strangling him, Stan’s feet held inches off the ground.  Rune tattoos on the warlock’s face throbbed with dark power.  Justin’s claws flashed out, severing the warlock’s forearms at the elbows.  Stan fell to the ground, coughing as breath found its way back into his lungs.  A backslash of Justin’s claws removed the warlock’s head.

            Justin used his teeth to gash his own wrist, drawing viscid black blood to the surface of the wound.  He ripped away the chains binding Cassie to the altar with his unwounded hand, then slid the dagger from her sternum with a wet, sucking sound.  Cassie’s breath came in shallow gasps, her pupils dilated.  Justin pressed his wrist to her dagger wound, allowing his blood to mingle with hers and heal the damage.

            As Cassie’s pain lessened and her breathing returned to normal, Justin cast his eyes back to the portal.  As he had hoped, the ritual magic ceased when Cassie had not died – the portal sealed and began to fade from this reality.  But in the brief duration it was open, one creature slipped through.

            Justin looked up at the blue-hided demon lord.  Towering over eight feet tall, hundreds of multi-faceted insect-like eyes covering its black-horned forehead, it grinned with a maw of yellow fangs set in black gums.  Its ape-like arms ended in three-digit claws; its feet were cloven hooves.  The interruption of the ritual injured the creature, leaving suppurating wounds crisscrossing its massive frame, wounds that bled a brackish purple ichor.

            Justin moved like quicksilver, vaulted onto Curmonga, then sank his claws deep into the demon’s throat.  With a strength greater than that of twenty men, he squeezed his fingers, trying to reach the creatures’ spine, if one existed.  More of the purple ichor showered forth.  Curmonga managed to smile, its thick blue lips opening wide over rows of fanged teeth, its black eyes shining in triumph.  It spoke in a harsh, guttural voice, the words an ancient version of the Germanic languages that preceded the adoption of Latin.  Though many centuries had passed since Justin had last heard this tongue, he still understood the import of the demon’s words.

            “Little leech.  Are you afraid I will steal your food?  Rest assured, I would have shared, what with an entire world to feed upon.  There are no gods to protect these people now.  You could have been my herald as my armies conquered this world.  Regrettably, such disrespect for one’s superiors cannot be tolerated.”

            The demon’s claws clamped like vices onto Justin’s forearms.  Its strength was awesome, bone-grinding.  With visible effort, it pulled his hands away from its neck.  Curmonga’s maw began to chomp, the sharp teeth covered in stinking saliva.  Despite his best efforts, despite all his strength, Justin was being overpowered.  He tried to twist away, but the demon’s mouth was now mere inches from his neck.  One good bite would decapitate him.

            A bullet hole opened up in Curmonga’s forehead.  The creature’s multiple eyes rolled up in shock to look at the wound.  Justin turned his head and saw Ned and Stan.  Ned pumped round after round into the demon’s head and torso.  A stray bullet hit Justin in his upper back.  He made a mental note to thank Ned for that later, if they survived.

            Stan, swinging a discarded axe, buried the blade in the demon’s thick chest.  Curmonga staggered back, still holding Justin as its prisoner, then laughed.  The demon released Justin’s right arm and pulled the axe from its torso, crumpling the blade into a useless lump of metal.

            “Mortal weapons cannot harm me, flesh bag.”

            Justin used the distraction the men had created for him.  His free hand shot out, grasped one of the creature’s striated stone horns, and twisted with all his strength.  With a sound like a rifle shot, the horn broke off.

            Curmonga staggered, screaming in shock and pain.  Justin drove the horn into the demon’s chest, hoping to impale whatever organ passed for its heart.  Curmonga toppled like a fallen oak, crashed to the ground, and splintered the floor.

            Justin stood over the demon lord, watching its lifeblood pump out and pool around it.  He could see fear in the creature’s eyes.  He reached his hand toward the other horn, calling more of the room’s shadows to him as he did so.

            “Worship me, leech.  These flesh bags will turn on you.  They can smell the stench of your dead flesh.  I can make you like myself.  Immortal,” it wheezed through its torn throat.

            Justin felt his body swell with the power of the additional shadows, as well as the rider’s enhanced blood.  He’d never felt stronger.  When he wrenched off the other horn, Curmonga’s mouth opened in a silent scream.

            “How’s that working out for you?” he asked in the ancient tongue.  Justin rammed the horn through the demon’s mouth and out the back of its head, blood and brain matter sprayed across the floor.

            Justin surveyed the aftermath of the battle.  All of the demon’s acolytes had fallen, as had half of the townspeople.  Ned and Stan stood nearby, Stan holding Cassie.

            He looked again at the fallen demon lord.

            “Subjugate that.”

           

            Justin watched as the townspeople tended to their wounded.  A couple of radio cars and ambulances had arrived from neighboring Artisan.  Justin took it as a good sign for the future.

            Ned, Stan and Cassie approached.  Cassie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Justin’s torso.  His first instinct was to flinch, an old habit born of self-preservation, to prevent her from noticing his reduced body temperature.  Then his brain kicked in, recalling what they had just endured together, that a new reality awaited all of them.  He returned the gesture, careful not to squeeze too hard and accidentally harm her.

            “Thank you,” Cassie said, sniffling.  “You’re a good man.”  She kissed him once on the cheek.  “Your blood…will I…I mean, eventually…” she asked.

            “You have nothing to fear, child.  It takes much more than that to become such as I.  I would never willingly inflict my curse on another.”

            She smiled and then went back into Stan’s arms.

            “I don’t have the words, Mr. Justin…” Stan added.

            “Call me Justain.  It was my birth name, many, many years ago, in a country that no longer exists.”

            Ned remained on as the young couple departed.  “That sounds like an interesting story.  I’d like to hear it sometime.”

            Justin smiled.  “It’s a long one.  Might take more than one sitting.”

            “There’s not really much more a man of my age is good for, other than sitting,” Ned said, smiling.  Then his tone became serious.  “There’ll be more coming, won’t there?  More monsters, more evil.”

            “Yes, I’m afraid you are correct.  The old barriers are down.  The walls between dimensions are shifting.  In the past, human faith held many creatures at bay, though it gave birth to its own form of demons as well.  Since the Event, the dinner bell has been rung.  And the monsters are hungry.”

            Ned walked closer.  “You’ll always be safe here, Jus.  With us, at least.  You have my word,” he said.  “If an old black man like me can make it here, so can you.”         

            A sense of relief and community passed through Justin.  For perhaps the first time since he had broken out of his grave so many centuries ago, he felt at peace with the world.

            Justin nodded his head.  “My thanks, friend.”  He gazed east, where dawn was impending.  Ned stepped back, silently acknowledging that Justin needed to leave.

            Justin took flight.

END

About the Authors: 

Scott Harper was inspired to write by the works of Bram Stoker, Marv Wolfman and John Steakley.  Combining aspects of horror, dark fantasy and superhero fiction, his stories have appeared in a number of small press venues, including Space And Time, Weirdbook and The Society For Misfit Stories.  He lives in Southern California with his wife, son and two dogs.

Writing since a young age, Timm Gillick has always been creative, whether writing and directing short films, to writing comics, short stories and novellas, or doing cosplay photography.  Inspired by the works of Stephen King, Neil Gaiman and Robert Heinlein, Timm is the author of the Felix Valentine, Gentleman Adventurer novels.  He cherishes spending time with his son.

"Identity Crisis" by Julie Frost

Editor's Introduction: This week's offering delves into the supernatural in a very mundane, and intriguing way, as a traffic stop in Texas leads to an...

Identity Crisis

by Julie Frost

The red and blue lights of my patrol car reflected off the bright-yellow paint of the mint condition '69 Ford Torino Fastback, as I pulled it over for a burned-out taillight. I walked up to the driver's window and discovered I had a werewolf living under the radar right in my medium-sized Texas town.

My family has hunted werewolves for generations, and they steeped me in the lore and trained me in the skills from the cradle. The sixteenth-birthday blooding ceremony meant I could recognize a werewolf on sight. The downside of that? They also recognized me.

That being said, wolves were so rare that my parents had never seen a live one, and neither had I--

Until now.

Both our eyes widened at the mutual realization of what we were. His hand slapped his seat belt. Adrenaline surging and breathing hard, I took two steps back as my hand delved into my uniform pocket for the wolf gun I always carried. I couldn't miss at this range, and I was gratified to see a bloom of blood on his torso. I expected him to charge me, but he lunged away instead and dove out the passenger side.

"Lady, don't!" he shouted.

Like hell, don't. At least with a silver bullet inside him, he wouldn't be able to shift to wolf. That didn't fool me into thinking he wasn't dangerous. Even in human form, a werewolf was stronger and faster by several orders of magnitude than a garden-variety human. Circumspect, taking a few calming deep breaths, I hunkered next to the driver's door, ready for him if he took it into his head to attack.

"Why not?" I called back.

"Because--" he said, and stopped, like he didn't know the answer himself.

He appeared to be in his late twenties, with brown hair curling around the collar of his plaid shirt, and blue eyes. I wondered how long he'd been a wolf as I moved, still crouched, and stopped by the front tire.

"Because you shouldn't outright murder someone when they haven't done anything actually wrong?" He sounded unsure.

"You're a werewolf." I continued stepping around the hood of the car, gun in a two-handed grip, finger on the trigger, thanks. "A cold-blooded killing machine. The only way to stop you is to put you down."

Roadside gravel crunched under his feet. I tensed, but he was moving away rather than toward me. Weird. Maybe I'd wounded him more than I thought. Werewolves healed fast, but not from silver.

"And you're a cop. Stop and think." His footsteps echoed mine. "Have you had unsolved animal attacks during the moon? I've lived in this town for near twenty years." Twenty years. Older than he looked.

"No, but..." I hesitated. "How, then. How do you stop yourself." It wasn't a question. If I didn't like the answer, I'd blow a silver hole through his head or his heart. Maybe I would anyway.

"I don't want to kill people. I'm a pastor." That was new. Most werewolves didn't go to church, historically, let alone lead one, though we all knew of notable exceptions. We debated plenty about the state of their souls.

My fingers brushed the silver cross pin on my shirt collar, the one I put on as automatically as any other part of my uniform. Still hesitating. My gut screamed at me that hesitation would get me killed, that I needed to put him down before he slaughtered me where I stood. But a still small voice told me to wait. I'd learned, over the years, to listen to that voice. So I continued to hesitate and hoped my gut was wrong.

"I haven't killed anyone since the Civil War." Wow. Much older than he looked, then. "I cage myself the night of the full moon, and drink rowan berry juice. It hurts, but it's worked so far. And I never, ever shift if it's not a moon night."

I huffed out a breath. "My family's been hunters for generations." Three rapid steps around the hood, but when I faced him, my gun pointed at the ground, and my finger was alongside the trigger guard.

He stood by the trunk, slightly bent and bracing his left hand on the fender while his right clutched the wound. "And we're nearly exterminated. One of you murdered my mate about fifty years ago. She'd never hurt a human in her life." His face twisted with grief. "He smiled while he did it. But I was done killing and didn't murder him back, no matter how much I thought he deserved it."

My jaw tightened. Werewolves by definition weren't innocent, exactly, but that still gave me an uncomfortableness. "So you think I should let you go because you're pulling a Hound of God act?"

"Yes? It's not an act, though, and I don't claim to travel to Hell to beat up demons." The general consensus, among hunters and wolves alike, was that Theiss of Kaltenbrun had been at least a half bubble off plumb, but the Hound of God label had stuck.

"Look," he said, "We're two good people who've been put in a catastrophically ticklish situation by what we are, not what we've done." He glanced at me, breathing hard, his hand pressed against the bleeding wound in his side, and lowered his gaze again. "We can salvage this. If we just stop. And think."

"About what? You're a werewolf. I'm a hunter."

"You don't want to kill me." He sounded pretty sure of that for someone facing down a person armed with a weapon that would fry his heart or brain on contact.

Which wasn't to say he wasn't right. "How do you know?"

"Because if you did, you'da done it already." He swallowed. His face was pale, and sweat ran down it in rivulets. "Have you killed anyone? Ever?"

I shook my head minutely. I'd never even fired my gun in anger before now. Most cops didn't, especially in a law-abiding municipality like ours. I'd trained all my life with my family for this moment, but wolves were scarcer'n hen's teeth--we'd honestly thought them extinct. I wondered if he was the last one anywhere.

He stared at the ground. "Don't. It changes you. Even if the 'anyone' is a big bad wolf." He sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Something had made him stop and turn his life around. Maybe the war had been too much killing even for a creature like him.

My lips compressed into a thin line. "You're seriously a pastor?"

"My hand to God. West Valley Community Church. I'm Matt Norbury."

I attended the Southern Baptist church myself. "Heard of it. Good things." Did his flock know what he was? Probably not.

I regarded him steadily while his blood spilled over his hand and dripped on the ground. It was as red as any human's. He was completely at my mercy, and my family's training warred with my faith. If the state of a werewolf's soul was murky and weird, what about the state of mine, if I just butchered him without a thought?

Do unto others.

Werewolves kill, and kill, and kill again. Stop him before he starts.

Thou shalt do no murder.

He's a monster.

I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.

A living instrument of carnage is standing right in front of you. Shoot it.

Blessed are the peacemakers.

Twenty years of no deaths spoke well of his self-control. He could cover the ground between us in less than a second and end me before I knew I was dead, and yet his eyes were still blue instead of wolf-amber, looking at the ground. He was turned slightly sideways, too, lupine language for "I'm not challenging you."

Finally, I nodded. "Fine. But if I hear anything about animal attacks..."

Tension bled out of his body, and his knees buckled before he caught himself, bracing up on the trunk. "Give me your contact info." His mouth quirked. "I'll find you and bare my chest for your bullet myself, if I ever slip."

"Darn tootin' you will. And don't think I won't check up on you."

I shoved my gun back in my pocket, but didn't let go at first, gauging his reaction. I'd be helpless without it, and was honestly standing too close to him even with it, but he still made no offer to attack. That still small voice had been right. I was oddly glad about that.

I pulled a card from the pocket and offered it to him. He took it with the hand that hadn't been bled all over, and I eyed the wound with a little frown. "Will that be all right? Do you need an ambulance?"

He snorted. And winced. "I would dearly love to explain to a paramedic how I got this and why I'm healing so fast after they dig a silver round out of my guts. Oh, wait. No, I wouldn't. I’ll deal with it myself. Won’t be the first time."

"All right." A corner of my mouth turned up. It wasn't quite a smile. "I'll let you off with a warning this time. Get that taillight fixed, Mr. Norbury."

END

Author's Bio: Julie Frost utilizes her degree in biology to write werewolf fiction while completely ignoring the physics of a protagonist who triples in mass.  She writes other types of fiction, too, on occasion, from hard science fiction to space opera to secondary-world fantasy to urban fantasy to horror. Sometimes she mixes them.

Her short stories have appeared in too many venues to count, including Writers of the Future 32, Monster Hunter Files, Enter the Aftermath, Stupefying Stories, Planetary Anthologies, StoryHack, and Astounding Frontiers.

Her novel series, "Pack Dynamics," is published by WordFire Press.  She whines about writing, a lot, at http://agilebrit.livejournal.com/,

"Trump Asks a Feminist Extraterrestrial Leader for a Favor" by Marleen S. Barr

Editor's Introduction: Speculative science fiction has always had a creative and satirical streak of extrapolating from current events. This week we bring you a fun - and contemporary - example, based on what happens when...

Trump Asks a Feminist Extraterrestrial Leader for a Favor

By MARLEEN S. BARR

Trump saw a red rotary phone hovering above his desk in the Oval Office. Thinking that it was some sort of newfangled drone phone contraption version of the red phone Kennedy and Khrushchev used during his youth, he picked it up expecting to chat with his good friend Vlad.  The voice he heard was robotic and female.

“Hello. President Trump?”

“Who the hell are ya? Red Oval Office phones are not for gossiping.”

“I mean business. I am Myra, the big giant maternal head of the feminist separatist planet Menopause.”

“Wha da ya want?”

  “The phone is floating because Menopausians have powers and abilities far beyond those of Earth men. ‘In my great and unmatched wisdom’ I decided that it is incumbent upon me to discuss a real estate deal with you. I prefer that you acquiesce to it before I decide to use ‘my great and unmatched wisdom’ to make an offer you can’t refuse.”

“I’m not interested in doing a deal with Menopausians. Women over thirty-five have no value.” The phone suddenly became almost too hot for Trump to hold.

“All right. Ya got my attention.”

“I want to land my spaceship on the White House lawn. I’m familiar with American culture to the extent that I know that you can’t beat the optics. The problem: my ship is huge to the extent that it does not fit on the White House lawn. That is why I want to buy the West Wing, zap it to smithereens, and use the newly vacated space for spaceship landing room. As the leader of a feminist separatist planet, I am asking you to cooperate. I do not want to use force.”

“What’s a feminist separatist planet?”

“A women’s world.”

“Ya mean there are only pussies?”

“Precisely.”

“I could be open to cooperating if ya do me a favor.”

“Which is?”

“I need dirt on Elizabeth Warren. If I sell ya the West Wing after ya land will ya announce that she is a Menopausian, that is announce that she’s an extraterrestrial lesbian? If you provide the way for me to call my political opponent “lezie Lizie,” I’ll give ya the West Wing.”

Trump was unaware that someone else was on the call. Myra, whose years of surveilling Earth made her quite familiar with the type of male human female humans called chauvinist pigs - and realizing that Trump was a prime example of said low life form - decided to enlist the help of an Earthling feminist.

Hence, Myra made first contact with feminist science fiction expert par excellence Metropolitan University of New York professor Sondra Lear. Assisting a real feminist planet denizen was a research opportunity dream come true for Sondra. Since she loathed Trump, she was happy to tape and listen to Myra’s conversation with him.

As soon as she heard Trump ask an extraterrestrial to help him to defeat his political opponent, she knew that she had to act immediately.   Knowing that her congressional representative House Judiciary Committee chair Jerry Nadler was scheduled to speak that night at the MUNY-owned Roosevelt House, she high tailed it to Park Avenue and 65th Street with a whistle in hand. Finding it impossible to talk with the thronged congressman, she attracted his wife Joyce Miller’s attention by blowing the whistle as hard as she could.

“Ms. Miller, I’m Dr. Sondra Lear, a MUNY professor. I have unimpeachable evidence which your husband could use to impeach Trump,” said Sondra as she flashed her MUNY faculty id. Miller, deciding that she must take a female professor seriously, decided to engage with Sondra.

“Which is?” Miller asked.

“Trump asked a feminist extraterrestrial to help him do Elizabeth Warren in. Here, I have the tape,” Sondra announced as she placed it in Miller’s hand.

“Dr. Lear, what you are claiming is a tad unusual. But nothing can be more bizarre than what we have had to endure at Trump’s hands. As a fellow New York woman, I intuit that I should believe you. I will give the tape to Jerry.”

All Earthlings who had access to mass media suddenly knew that a whistle blower had given Congressional Democrats a means to impeach Trump.  Faced with the evidence, Nancy Pelosi finally decided to go full speed ahead with impeachment proceedings.

While Myra hovered unobserved in her ship high above the White House, Trump walked out to the White House lawn and responded to the House Democrats.

“I had a perfect call with an extraterrestrial named Myra who is the big giant feminist head of the planet Menopause. I asked Myra to reveal that Elizabeth Warren is an alien lesbian. I look forward to running against lezie Lizie.”

Pelosi responded by saying that “the president must be held accountable. No one is above the law.”

Regardless, even though Trump admitted to the whistles blower’s allegation, he  remained as above the law as Myra was above the White House. Trump said that there was no quid pro quo in relation to his conversation. Republican senators insisted that it was a big joke.

Afraid that Trump again would not face consequences for his heinous actions, Sondra contacted Myra. “Myra, help. Isn’t there some feminist planet super power thing you can use to remove Trump? Ya know, like heat vision or beaming him up or something.”

“Sondra, dear, although I sympathize with your request and it is within my power to lock Trump up in the Phantom Zone, it would be better for Earthlings to solve the Trump problem by dint of the technology they have. Sondra, liberal Americans always had the power to rid themselves of Trump.”

“We did? How?”

“Well, very simply, if you can’t move him out of the White House you can keep him inside of it. I suggest building a moat around the building and filling it with alligators and snakes. For good measure, you can surround the fauna-filled moat with a huge wall topped with electrified razor wire.”

After Sondra forwarded Myra’s suggestion to Nadler’s office, the house Livestock and Agriculture Subcommittee approved the money to buy the alligators and snakes while the Appropriations Committee funded the wall and the moat. Trump, accompanied by Melania, was successfully locked up within the White House. Myra beamed down enough Purina President Chow to last Trump for the rest of his life.

Thinking that she had accomplished enough for one trip, Myra bid Sondra adieu and headed home to Menopause without landing on the White House lawn and obliterating the West Wing. President Warren, having no plan to drain the swamp surrounding the White House, moved the United States capital to Boston and hired architects to draw up blue prints for the new presidential mansion. She planned to name it the Blue House.

- The End -

Author Biography:

Marleen S. Barr is known for her pioneering work in feminist science fiction and teaches English at the City University of New York. She has won the Science Fiction Research Association Pilgrim Award for lifetime achievement in science fiction criticism.

Barr is the author of Alien to Femininity: Speculative Fiction and Feminist Theory, Lost in Space: Probing Feminist Science Fiction and Beyond, Feminist Fabulation: Space/Postmodern Fiction, and Genre Fission: A New Discourse Practice for Cultural Studies.

Barr has edited many anthologies and co-edited the science fiction issue of PMLA. She has published the novels Oy Pioneer! and Oy Feminist Planets: A Fake Memoir.  Her When Trump Changed: The Feminist Science Fiction Justice League Quashes the Orange Outrage Pussy Grabber, published by B Cubed Press, is the first single-authored Trump short story collection.

"One line of Bad Code" By Barbara G. Tarn

Editor's Introduction: You know it's only a matter of time for this to happen...

One Line of Bad Code

By Barbara G. Tarn

       Hal Dewitt touched the biometric sensor and the door swished open. Home at last! Hal dropped his case of tools and spare parts in the entrance and threw his black leather trenchcoat on top of it.

       "Honey, I'm home!" he said, heading for the living room and its glass wall that opened on the city landscape.

       He still wore his gray jumpsuit and boots, and since the living room was empty, he continued for the bedroom and bathroom. Sometimes being a technician was a dirty job and he needed a shower before he could give Mirka the news.

       She was in the bedroom, as expected. Her voluptuous silicone body was barely covered by a babydoll and her mane of raven synthetic hair was spread on the pillow. Her beautiful eyes with long eyelashes were closed, even though she wasn't human and didn't need sleep.

       M1RK4 was the latest model of battery-operated girlfriend and Hal's latest purchase. Since he could never overcome his stuttering, he had decided a robotic girlfriend was better than a flesh-and-blood woman who would judge him.

       Hal was tall and slender, with auburn dreadlocks and bright hazel eyes. He wasn't ugly for the current beauty trends, but at thirty he was very quiet in social situations. He was lucky enough to work on his own, but when it came to dating, he was a natural disaster. Hence he had given up on that game long ago.

       He smiled at the sight of Mirka and knew she wouldn't move unless he told her to.

       "I'll be with you in a minute," he said, grabbing clean clothes and locking himself in the bathroom.

       The sex doll might be waterproof, but that didn't mean he liked to have her in the shower. The bedroom was just fine – or the living room with kitchenette, or anywhere else he fancied - but not the bathroom.

       He still couldn't believe how real those battery-operated girlfriends were. The Star Nations had brought great inventions before Earth was introduced to the galactic civilization – which had brought down the national borders and taken humanity to the stars.

       They now had starships and robots and androids and all that stuff that had been the matter of science fiction until... well, before he was born anyway. His parents still remembered what it was like, but he had never lived it.

       He had grown up learning Intergalactic, and touring the Star Nations after secondary school like all the other citizens of the galaxy. Then he had found work as technician and gotten his small apartment equipped with an AI ready to answer any of his wishes.

       All that was missing was a flatmate, but now he had Mirka, beautiful, lovely Mirka who never judged him and laughed at his lame jokes and had sex with him and kept him company when he came home. Life was so perfect with her, he felt the need to reward her – even if she was just a robot, a sex doll.

       He got out of the shower and wore black cargo pants, a wrist computer and an Akira T-shirt. The app sent a signal to Mirka who waited for him in the bedroom, up and ready.

       "Hello, gorgeous," she greeted with her husky voice. It was amazing how many facial expressions she had and how her mouth moved in synch with the words. Hal didn't know much about robotics, so she looked like a miracle to him.

       "Mirka, my love, I want to marry you," he said, taking her in his arms. The silicone skin was so smooth and almost warm, the illusion of flesh was really strong.

       "Oh, boy, that's new!" she said, widening her big brown eyes. "Have you checked if it's allowed?"

       "I don't care if it's allowed or not," he replied with a shrug. "Battery-operated girlfriends aren't so common on Earth, I'm sure we could fool the official. Or we could apply for a license online."

       "You are aware I will never be able to give you children, yes?" she asked, frowning. So human.

       "Yes, I'm not marrying you to breed," he replied, squeezing her. "Considering what a failure I am, I don't see why I should breed anyway."

       "You're not a failure, you're my Schmooky Cupcake, my Lovie Darlington, and I'm very happy to be with you," she replied, caressing his chest over the t-shirt and shooting him a flirty look.

       "Then marry me," he repeated. It was unbelievable how he never stuttered with her. "Let's do it right now and then go out and celebrate!"

       "Does that mean I get to meet your mother at last?" she asked with an impish smile.

       He hesitated. His mother was a fiery Italian woman – born when there were still borders on Earth – who had been demanding to meet his wonderful girlfriend for months now.

The only way Hal had found to keep her away from Mirka was that she lived on the other side of the planet and couldn't move around much.

       "I'll take you to meet her when you're my wife," he said. "I'm sure you'll fool her too – if you pretend to breathe."

       She giggled. "Wouldn't she want to be at our wedding?" she asked.

       "Times have changed, those Catholic weddings are out of fashion now," he replied with a shrug. "Let's make you Mrs. Dewitt, shall we?"

       He dragged her to the computer in the living room and they went online to apply for a marriage license. M1RK4 L0V3 became Mirka Love, and since there was no match found in the database, they made up a date and place of birth, and sent the request. He happily kissed her and decided they had time for some bed gymnastics before going out to dinner and celebrate.

***

       Charlena Albach pulled away from the body and sighed. Definitely dead. There was no reviving for poor Hal Dewitt, lying naked in his bed with weird bruises on his chest. As if a boa constrictor had squeezed him, but there were no snakes in the apartment.

       Charlena had curly golden hair and light green eyes, and numerous body piercings. She wore military fatigues and headphones, and carried a tablet computer. She entered the data of the patient and turned to look at the beautiful woman who had called the emergency number.

       Something was odd about that Mirka. She was too still and seemed not to breathe.

       "I'm afraid there is nothing I can do for your husband," Charlena said with a quiet voice. "I should report to the police... Care to tell me what happened? A sex game that went a little too far?"

       "Um... I don't know. I hugged him and he stopped breathing."

       Charlena looked at the dead man again. His hands looked as if he'd tried to defend himself. And those bruises on his chest... How strong was that woman? And why didn't she stop before killing him?

       She looked at Mirka again. Such flawless skin and hair... Charlena narrowed her eyes.

       "Are you human?" she asked.

       The woman blinked. "No. M-1-R-K-4 L-0-V-3."

       Charlena checked her tablet. "So Mirka Dewitt doesn't actually exist," she muttered. "I'm sorry, I'll have to send this report to the police."

       Mirka stood still. Very unnerving. Charlena waited until an officer called back her tablet.

Detective Barrick listened patiently as she explained how she'd found a dead man, apparently killed by his sex doll.

       "Sending an expert," the middle-aged officer said. "Got the series number down, a representative of Cyberdolls is on his way."

       "Is it dangerous?" she asked, worried.

       "Not really," the detective replied. "She's attuned to her owner."

       Charlena nodded and logged off. Here she was with a deadly sex doll. Who knew what had gone wrong with the android's AI.

       Her tablet chimed with instructions on how to deactivate the doll. Charlena huffed and did as instructed. The Cyberdolls guy would arrive as quickly as he could.

       Donovan Waring was short and willowy, with auburn hair and large gray eyes. He wore a black biker suit and a wrist computer that allowed him to interact with the sex doll. Deactivated M1RK4 L0V3 stood like a beautiful statue while he ran his tests under Charlena's eyes.

       "Many doll owners are emotionally attached to these sex machines and see them as their partner," he said as he worked.

       "So what happened?" Charlena asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

       "One line of bad code." He sighed. "These battery-operated girlfriends are updated on the cloud server and all it takes is one line of bad code. A simple hug could be a constriction that could literally compress your airways and stop your breathing."

       Battery-operated girlfriends weren't as safe as their makers touted them to be, obviously. Who knew what had gone wrong? Probably just one line of bad code, but it had cost Hal his life.

THE END

Author Bio: Barbara G.Tarn is a writer, sometimes artist, mostly a world-creator and story-teller. She writes mostly SFF, including the science fantasy Star Minds Universe with an alternate future in which Earth joined the Star Nations in 2012.

Two of her stories received an Honorable Mention at the Writers of the Future contest. One of her stories has been published in Pulphouse Magazine #5 (March  2019). She writes, draws, ignores her day job and blogs at: http://creativebarbwire.wordpress.com.