Pennsylvania, 1950

Jack Le Roux, aged 10

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a hero. Like my father in the war against Germany. He died over there and my mother died from grief not long after, but I had two to look after me. My dog, Chester and my grandmother, Alice. She was young for a grandmother and still had a feminine charm and grace, but that didn’t stop her from running a tight schedule. But she wasn’t all strict, she told me stories of raising my father as well as stories of her own childhood in South Africa. You see, she was a Boer, Dutch Afrikaner. A tough farm girl who grew up working the land the same as her dad. When their war with England came, her dad went off to war and never came back. After, her mother and older brother sold the farm and with what little they had, moved to America.

They stood out due to not many Boers choosing America as their new home, but her brother had hopes. He saw America and The Afrikaner Republics as kin. Enemies of England and defenders of the Frontier and Liberty. They mostly kept to themselves, though my grandmother did meet a boy around her age who grew to become a fast friend and her future husband, who she would outlive. She lived a hard life. Losing both her husband and son in the world wars, which she called, “The Brothers’ War.” She harbored no ill will to the English, though she blames their government for destroying her home and taking her father.

Anyways, she would also give me books on history as well as fantasy, my favorite being The Princess and the Goblin. One morning, on a cool autumn day, I entered my father’s old study and library where Alice occasionally finds herself being idle, cherishing memories and I asked her, “Grandma. I want to see South Afrika.” “She looked at me with stern yet caring eyes and sighed with a smile.” “I should’ve known this day would come. Ever since I told you those stories of the Boers and your father, and you took my name as your own. I knew you’d had the same spirit.” She sighed again. Well, it’s about time I showed you something. Come.” She gestured and I followed.

She marched me outside and to the shed in the backyard and inside on display was her father’s Boer Mouser. I thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world, after my grandmother of course. “No touching. This is not for use, but I wanted to show you a real weapon of war. This is real, not pretending to fight dragons and save fainting maidens. However, I do give you my blessing. When you’re older, fifteen should be alright. We’ll pack our things, and we’ll move. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen my home, occupied as it is. Come, I do believe it is time for your lessons.” She said with a wink and a smile.

Peace!

I don’t mean to be one of those old timers, but kids these days sometimes seem oblivious to the dangers of this world. Either they’re too engrossed in their phones, oh look the old man’s anti-tech. I’m actually okay with technology as a useful tool, it’s just sometimes we get lost in it. And then the other reason is that most kids, hell most people these days are pushovers. But not my granddaughter, not my Erica. She’s 21 now, but ever since she was 7, I took her and her dad, my son hunting. She’s no stranger to death, which became a pattern unfortunately. She lost her mother to cancer a little after turning 12 and my son didn’t take it well and got himself placed in a mental hospital. He’s out now and doing better, but and maybe I’m paranoid, but I made sure that Erica lived and grew up with me and my wife until my son could prove he was capable. He did, but by then, Erica turned 18 and was an adult but he’s doing his best to make up for lost time. Anyway, it’s late at night. A little past 11:00 and my wife went to bed a while ago. She’s an early to bed early to rise kind of gal. Me? I don’t sleep much these days. I just say to myself, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” I’m just sitting in my chair with a pipe and a couple of pulps. I’ve always enjoyed tales of heroes in the pulp tales, fantasy, and westerns. When I was 18, I tried to join the Army and Marines to fight in Vietnam, but on account of poor eyesight, I was rejected, so I settled for Sheriff’s deputy and five years later, Sheriff. The next fifty years, the town prospered under my watchful eye and firm yet fair hand. Now, after a lifetime of service, I’m happily retired with a pension and a still gorgeous wife and we’re planning a road trip across the 48 an-

phone ringing

I pick up the phone. “Yes. This is Bill Jameson speaking.” “Grandpa.” “Erica?” I could tell by her voice that she was distressed, which is unusual. “What is it?” “There’s two men following me, right now I’m stuck in a cafe as they sit across the street. I can’t get to my car.” “Say no more, where’s the cafe?” “It’s James’s place.” She exclaims. That’s only short drive away I say to myself. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. Just stay put.” I hang up the phone. Grab my keys, jacket, and brass knuckles and head to my pickup. An old Ford, freshly painted blue. As I drive the short way there. I think of what kind of men that could’ve scared my granddaughter like that. Whoever they are, they fucked with the wrong man and his grandkid. Now, you might be asking: Where’s your gun? Fair question. I do own one, but I prefer to get up close and personal when fighting. As Sheriff, I didn’t just carry a .357 revolver, but brass knuckles as well. I like to at least look the bad guys in the eye as I deal with them.

I pull up in any alley next to the cafe so the assholes don’t see my truck. I enter through a side entrance and rush to Erica. “Grandpa. Thank God, I’m so scared.” “I know sweetie, but we’re gonna get you outta here. Come on, my truck’s in the alley.” “Wait. Where’d they go?” Erica pointed across the street and the men were gone. Did I scare them off and they did see me coming? Or are they just lying in wait to ambush Erica? We decide to book it to my truck. I notice my tires have been slashed. “Sonofabitch!” “Sorry old man, can’t have you taking that sweet thang away. We were just about to have some… Fun.” I ready myself with my brass knuckles and as soon as the first guy takes a swing with a bat, I duck a knock him to the floor out cold. I spot the second asshole going for Erica. I spot something shiny sticking out of his pants and assume the worst. I rush towards him and grab it and I was right, it was a gun. I have a fucker on the ground and give him a good pistol whip, which puts him down and out for the count. I stand up and hug Erica. I’m facing the truck and hands underneath. I raise my pistol and shout, “Hey, come on out now. Your friends are done for. Don’t be an idiot. Come on out slowly.” He does and he’s just a kid, but I get a bad feeling suddenly. He’s antsy, nervous, and downright acting weird. He then goes for his backpocket. I wait probably a second longer than I should’ve as I see a gun, I fire and he drops dead. “Christ! He wa- he was just a kid.” I stammer. “Grandpa. Are you okay?” Erica asks. “I’m fine, but he was just a kid. Why did he do that?” “Some people grandpa. They got a deathwish. Ain’t nothing we can do about it.” “Yeah. You’re right, I’ve just never been rattled like that before, he caught me off guard.”

The cops and towtruck came and fortunately, the police, recognizing as former fellow officer of the law, paid for my repairs. I told the chief, I’d pay the station back, but he wasn’t having it. Apparently, they’d been tracking these three men for weeks. They were smalltime crooks, in and out of jail and they were wanted for rape, murder, and kidnapping. All I can say is, I’m glad I came that night. Thank you God, for giving me such a smart and spirited grandchild.

The End…

It was the summer of 1941, I would’ve gotten volunteered earlier, but it took a while to become an official citizen of the Empire. I loved reading the tales of kings and warriors of England as a child and I wanted to do my part. I flew a Hawker Hurricane, a beauty of British Aircraft design. I was a Sargent in my squadron and the highest-ranking non-commissioned officer. There were seven planes all together, piloted by even better and patriotic British men. One pilot, a Scotsman named Mac, was a good friend of mine. We enjoyed our off-hours smoking our pipes and reading/discussing books, history, and poetry. Both American and British. He was my wing-man and he spotted the German bombers. “Alex, you see them?” “Yeah, I see them Mac. Ready?” “You bet.”

The Germans came in fast and the whole situation quickly devolved into a chaotic dogfights. I was on one Jerry’s tail, but had trouble lining up my shot. “Come on you Jerry bastard. Stay still.” “He’s not gonna make it easy for you Alex.” Said Mac over the radio. I chuckled and replied back. “If only they did.” Finally, I got a shot and fired, hitting the Jerry’s engine. “Gotcha you slimy bastard!” But my joy was short-lived as I found myself trying to shake another German on my tail. “Hey Mac! Got a second?” “Sure, what you nee- Oh, you got a Jerry on your tail.” “Tell me something I don’t know, I got an idea.” “If I’m right in guessing what you’re thinking, you’re as mad as I thought.” “Maybe, but why not, if anything, it’ll be quite the tale the men will tell whether we live or die.” “Alright mate, I’m in.”

I led my Jerry on a goose chase just barely evading his aim, then I saw Mac’s Spitfire, who picked up his own Jerry. I said a quick prayer and kissed my rosary. We sped up our engines and as we got closer and closer, my palms began sweating, but I remained resolute. “Alright Mac, right or left?” Are you kidding me, you didn’t think of that.” “Right or left?!” “Blast it! Right!” As we approached, we both turned right and it was beautiful as we glided past each other and the Jerries fell for it, for we heard the crash. “Ah Yes! Goddammit! I can’t believe that worked!” Mac exclaimed. “Nice job my friend, now let’s clean up the rest.

It took us ten minutes to shoot down or route the rest of the enemy fighters, their bomber escort never made it as far as they did. We returned to the airfield and were met with cheers. The other pilots approached Mac and I with an almost religious reverence, but we just made our way off the field. When Mac and I were together, we were a private duo. Mac was also a Sargent and we met with our commander. A veteran and former pilot of the Great War. Colonel Sheffield met us and while he was livid that we took such a risk, he congratulated us for our quick-thinking and daring. Once he dismissed us, we returned to our tent and ate some celebratory chocolate.

“Man, I still can’t believe we pulled that off. By all rights, we should be dead.” “We aren’t, we made it through another day, that’s another victory.” “To Britain.” Mac toasted with celebratory whiskey. “To us.” I responded.

Chapter One

By all accounts, the first part of my childhood was a happy one. My family wasn’t apart of the aristocracy, but we were more well off than most. My family consisted of me, my father, my mother, and my sister, Lucy. Looking back now, she and I got into so much mischief. God, did we cause our parents much grief, but they loved us and we were happy. But war came, a civil war, between the Royalists and Parliament. My father was a staunch Royalist and had me and my sister secretly baptized Catholic, though publicly we were loyal members of the Church of England. It was the early 1640s and my father went off to war. He never came back and King Charles I was put on trial and executed. Sometime after, even parliament fell and we entered an era that I can only describe as a military dictatorship. A Caesar in England, this Cromwell was a puritan and abhorred Catholics and any seemingly “papist” influence. Unfortunately, it got out that me and my sister were baptized Catholic. My mother took my me and my sister and fled, but a mob of puritans radicals ambushed us and I was dragged out of the carriage and I never saw my sister or mother for a long time after that.

The mob surrounded me and it looked like I was to meet my father and the Lord, when a older man, who maybe took pity or had some other motive, scooped me up and took me away. He calmed the mob with a simple wave of his hand. The man took me home, but told me I can’t stay here, not in England. He came up with a plan to get me to our American colonies. The next day, we traveled to London and though cruel, he made me an indentured servant to a ship captain. He promised me that he’d get me out once we reached the colonies. So, we set out with only the necessary clothes and the man’s sword and some coin as we walked up the ramp to the ship. The Resolute, it was called and its captain was a cold beardless man who showed little emotion. I never found out the captain’s name, he never said it within my presence. One of the few good things about my predicament however, was that at least the captain allowed me to sleep in his cabin. I guess that was the extent of his kindness, but I didn’t take it for granted. As for the man who saved me, he was given his own bunk as a passenger.

Soon, we were off and I began my first day as a servant. It was routine stuff, bring the captain his meals. Bring him news of the crew and his officers. Help him dress. He wore a white tunic, with tan trousers, a black vest, and a brown overcoat. He wore no hat and carried a flintlock and a rapier. He considered himself a gentleman, though he wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty. In the first week, he threatened to toss a man overboard for simple thievery. He ran a tight ship and everyone understood. When I had the few breaks, I spent them either reading from the captain’s library, or staring out at the wide open sea. Sadly, those calm days didn’t last. We hit a bad storm and everyone, including me, was called on deck to ensure the ship stayed afloat. We managed it, though it was tough and I thought I would fall overboard at times, but we managed it. However, my savior who rescued me from the mob, did fall overboard. We came across his floating body the next day on a clear and sunny morning. I knew then that, I was going to be an Indentured Servant for longer than I thought.

Anyways, that’s enough writing for today. I sit here in my study in the year of Our Lord, 1693 staring out the window to see my son and his children playing with my sister’s grandchildren. She passed not long ago, but she’s survived by me and her children and grandchildren.

Anyways, God Bless.

I was relaxing one evening, very late in the evening. I had put my son to bed hours before, but I couldn’t sleep, so I was relaxing in the living room occasionally picking up a book to skim through. I was quite fond of Edgar Rice Burroughs’s work, specifically his Tarzan series of books. Anyways, I had just finished a chapter when my son came in looking awfully frightened, so I said, “What’s the matter Alex? What happened?” “I had a bad dream.” He replied on the verge of tears. “Come here.” He walked over and I lifted him onto my lap. “Now, what was the dream about?”

“It was about my mother.” He said. “Though, I couldn’t see her face, but she was calling out to me, though I couldn’t run to her, despite my protests. It was like she was calling out to me. I want to cry, but no tears came.” “Oh my boy. I’m sorry, it doesn’t sound like a pleasant dream.” “What was she like? My mother?” “Your mother. Oh, she so desperately looked forward to meeting you. She was kind and gentle when she could be. She had all the nobility and quiet strength of her Spanish mother, but her father, a man of Berber descent, though he had been ‘civilized’, or so he says. He always took your mother out riding or hunting. She inherited his once fiery and fierce spirit. A spirit that was never tamed in her, right up to the end. Had she lived, I don’t think I could’ve tamed her. I still have my adventurers, that’s why I disappear for some time, but uncle George takes good care of you and though his kids are a little older, I’m certain the-” I looked down and noticed my son fast asleep.

“That’s alright.” I whispered. “I’ll tell you some other time.” I leaned my head back and closed my eyes and let sleep take me. That night was a good night.

Back again and this time in Africa, specifically the French Colonial Africa. I arrived in Algiers from France in late 1921 as an archeologist and what would be called a mercenary. You see, to fund my adventurers, I needed a continuous flow of money, so I sold my skills in fighting to the french government. Apparently, there were some bandits in the wilderness causing havoc for trade and people, both natives and French alike. I was hitching for a fight and it paid well, so I was off. I bought a camel because they were better for transport in the desert than horses and I was relying on stealth and precision, as opposed to speed. I trekked across the desert, passing oases after oases, occasionally resting at some and refilling my water and taking stock of supplies. I had a Colt M1911 and a Lee En-field. It belonged to my friend George, who received it from his father. I was given it as a gift from one friend to another, but that’s another story. I continued on my journey, until coming across a camp. I didn’t know if they were friendly or not, so I checked my map and marked on the map was the same location where the camp would be. I had found the bandits.

I took stock of the situation. With my scope on my rifle, I was able to see the whole camp from the ridge I was camped out on. I counted five and twenty men and I spotted something that sickened me. They held prisoners, this complicated things. Now, stealth was absolutely the only option. I walked over to my camel and searched through my belongings. “Alright girl, you stay here and watch my rifle, I’ll take my bow, pistol, and knife and make my way through the camp. You stay here and be good. I’ll be back by morning.” I said kissing the camel on its nose. Once you get past the smell, they really are wonderful creatures.

I entered the camp from the side and past tent after tent. I could hear the men snoring as I tried not to make too much noise. I spotted movement, so I ducked behind a tent and waited. It was two guards, one passed, but the other stopped and lit a cigar. I got out my knife and sneaked up behind him and covered his mouth whilst stabbing him in the neck. I dragged the body behind the tent and moved on. This art of stealth, kill, hid repeated for hours. I counted twelve dead. I came across where the prisoners were being kept and killed the two guards guarding them. I freed them and two of the former prisoners grabbed the rifles. Most fled however. I then spotted a young lady, a couple years my junior, but still old enough to be called a woman. She spoke to me in near perfect English, but with a slight accent that marked her a Spaniard, but her complexion marked her of the desert. She introduced herself as Elia and I fell for her, I’m afraid to say. But I didn’t let it distract me. I still had to strike down the butcher who lead these degenerates. Elia said she would accompany me, as she had her own score to settle.

We made our way, scouring the camp for the butcher. All the while, gunshots could ring out. The prisoners have risen up and soon the camp was engulfed in chaos. When we finally spotted the butcher, we could tell it was him because he was barking orders. He was so distracted that we approached him with ease. “Abd al-Aziz!” I said out loud. “In the name of Christ and France, I sentence you to die. I loosed my arrow and it hit him square in the chest, but he didn’t go down. He was a tough bastard, probably going off of pure adrenaline and perhaps some strong alcoholic beverage. I dropped my bow and opened fired with my pistol, hitting him square in the head. Unfortunately, his men and me and Elia pinned. Before we took cover, I grabbed my bow. When we were in cover, I asked, “Do you know how to use a bow?” She smiled. “Of course I do, my father raised me hunting with them.” She grabbed my bow and in intervals in the shooting she fired, whilst I moved from cover to cover. Taking out enemies when I could. Just as when we thought we were lost, the ex-prisoners arrived with guns. Apparently, most of them were former colonial militia. The rest were women and children. It was bloody, but we won.

Before heading back to Paris for a job well done, I meandered a bit. Nothing outrageous, just oh, nine months. Yes, I fell deeply in love with Elia. We married in a Catholic Church in Spanish Morocco and I gave her a child. I knew my life was about to change one way or another. I say that because my life did change, but not in the way I expected. I expected to grow old with Elia and raise our child. A son by the way, named Alexander Mills II. Or Alex or Junior. But sadly, I lost Elia during childbirth and I was left alone with my baby boy. I hadn’t the first clue on how to be a father or papa and I was terrified, but I was resolute. I was going to do this right, even if it killed me.

The Beginning:

I was a traditional stay-at-home mom. Raising my son, Thomas, as well as cleaning our apartment and cooking. We lived in Queens, and my husband was a police officer. When the dead started rising, he was called in and stood beside the national guard to push back against the dead, along with rioters and looters. I was terrified. I’m not the strongest person and some might call me cowardly, but I love my family, and I’d do anything for them. I sat watching the news in the livingroom, whilst my son was in his room reading his comics.

One day, the lights went out, and they never came back on. I didn’t want to think about it, but I knew we couldn’t stay in the city. But I didn’t want to leave my husband, also named Thomas. I’m Ruth by the way. I tried to keep my son calm, but he could see through my attempts, he was surprisingly calm though. Saying, “There wasn’t anything good on TV anyway.” I laughed at that, my boy could always do that, make me laugh. Just then, I got a call on my phone, which still had juice. It was probably the last call I received, and it was from my husband. He said he was at the hospital, and a sea of dead was between him and our apartment. He said he was bitten and at that, I nearly fainted, but I held it together, holding back tears. He said, “I love you and our boy, don’t come looking for me. Get out, the city has fallen. The bridge isn’t far from where we live. Get to it and get our boy out. I love you and always will.” The call ended and I couldn’t hold back the tears. My son and I held each other close and then we went to bed.

We ate a light breakfast the next morning, packed what clothes, food, water, supplies, and my son packed his favorite comic, Kick-Ass, and anything else we could carry. We packed it all into my station wagon, yes, I like old cars, still do and we sped off. Fortunately, I hadn’t driven it in a while and it was mostly full, so it should get us out of the city and a good distance out of the state. My son looked at me and asked, “Mom, where are we going?” I hadn’t thought about that. My husband would’ve known what to do, but then I thought of something. “We’re going to meet my cousins in Pennsylvania. Kenny and Cletus. I just hope they’re still alive.”

The son Thomas is in his mid-teens but you get the picture

For as long as I can remember it was just me and Kenny. My big brother and I did everything together. We played together. Fought together. Annoyed our dad together. Courted women together. I just never expected we’d be fighting and running from the dead together. Six months. That’s how long it’s been since it started. We lost everything and everyone. Our mom and dad were old and weren’t in a state to travel and soon they passed. Our uncle was bitten and concealed it and as a result, he tore Kenny’s wife and son apart. We buried all of them that day. But Kenny shoulders on. He said to me, “Cletus. Listen up, ‘No matter what any coward says, you find something to fight for.” My brother never gave up, and he looks down upon cowardice and sees suicide as its ultimate form. However, despite my brother’s tough exterior, we couldn’t stay in our home. So, we gathered up all the water, food, weapons, books, and family photos we could carry, and we headed out on foot. Our car had stopped working a long time ago.

“Hey. Hey Cletus. Hey brother!” I felt something thrown at me as I came to. “What? What’d you do that for?” “It’s your turn to keep watch.” “Oh, my bad. Alright, goodnight.” “Goodnight little brother.” And with that, Kenny lowered his cap and shut his eyes… I know I’m supposed to be on watch, but this is one of the few times I get to read. After a while of reading, I put the book away and continue my watch. It was an uneventful night, and morning came quickly and we continued walking again. We honestly had no idea where we were going, just anywhere but our old house. Anywhere without ghosts, although, in this world, I reckon ghosts are about all there are.

“You see them?” “Yeah Kenny, I see them. Looks to be about fifteen… twenty. I say we sneak around.” “No, that’d take too long and it’s almost sunset, I want to be in a safe area with a fire going before dark.” We sat there thinking. “I’ve got it.” I said, “we find one of the dead, kill it, and spread its guts on out clothes and hopefully there’s a body of water nearby to wash them later.” “You know little brother, that might just be the craziest plan I’ve heard in my life, but it might be a decent shot at passing through them undetected. Let’s get one of these bastards.”

It didn’t take long to find one dead bastard and kill it. We slathered its guts on parts of our cloths and soon we were off. To say it was nerve-wracking would be an understatement. There were moments when I thought we’d be food, but by the grace of God we made it. We continued walking and our luck held, for there was a stream. We set up camp there and washed our clothes and we even fished a little. “Man, I haven’t fished in years.” “Yeah Clet, not since we were kids wi-” “With dad.” “Yeah.” He sighed. “I miss him. He wasn’t the friendliest, but he never beat us and was stern, yet fair. I don- I don’t think I can remember the last time I thanked him.” The slightest of tears ran down his face. “He knows Kenny, he loved us. And we loved him.” We ate good that night and before we went to bed, we hugged it out like brothers. The strongest hug I felt from Kenny in a long time. Because we both know, we’re all we got left.

Enjoy:

I made my way through the woods across the field from our house. This is where I tracked my daughter’s kidnappers, oh I don’t believe I gave my name; it’s Jake. Jake Evans. A pleasure to whoever reads this, anyway, they had a little over a day’s head start, but I didn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep, and they did. I came across their camps, and I knew I was closing in on them. If they laid a finger on her, I’ll tear them apart.

Whilst I was tracking, I came across a dog, just a youngster, little over a year old, he had no collar, but he could’ve just lost it. I didn’t want to get attached, but it followed me until I gave in and welcomed it. “Hey there boy.” I said, as I knelt to face him. “We got to go save my daughter; she’s been taken by some nasty men. What do you say?” He barked. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

We finally found them at their camp, and I came upon them slowly, the dog knew to be quiet too, as he didn’t bark or anything. I observed around ten men, mostly armed with bats, crowbars, and knives. But one man, I assumed the leader, had a pistol, looked like a Beretta M9. “Alright boy.” I whispered. “You stay here and keep an eye on things. If I whistle, well, I hope you come.” I gave the dog a pat, readied myself and made my way down the hill.

I could hear their leader speaking, “Now, my boys. We’ve brought back a great prize. A young beautiful female. Don’t worry, every man will have a turn with her.” He said, caressing my daughter, when she… “Back off! My dad’s going to kill all you sick fucks.” “That’s good, I like them fierce. Makes their breaking so much more… Worth it.” She spat in his face and before anything else could happen, I realized I still had a smoke grenade and tossed it where the leader and my daughter were. “What the hell?! What’s going on? I can’t see!” My daughter hit ground, and I opened fire on the men. I was firing on single shot and managed to take them all out in one mag. I rushed over to my daughter and got her up, when I was tackled.

“You think you can come in here. Kill my men and steal my prize. Who the hell do you think you are?” “I’m just a dad, and I’m taking my daughter and leaving.” “No, you’re dead and then your daughter is all mine.” We squared up. I had my knife and he had his. We tussled and fell to the ground. I was able to knock his knife from his hand, and we wrestled over mine. Sadly, he overpowered me, but my daughter picked up his gun and aimed it at him. “Let my dad go, now!” “Girlie. You don’t want to do that.” “Name one good reason.” She said with confidence. Meanwhile, I whistled. “What are you whistling for?” “Oh, no reason.” Three seconds later, we heard barking and at of the bushes leaped my friend. The bastard didn’t know what it him. I stood up and retrieved my knife as my friend mauled the sonofabitch. I called the dog off and finished off the bastard with a knife to the skull. I stood up and Julia rushed to me, dropping the Beretta. “Oh dad, I was so scared.” “I know. I know.”

We stood there for a bit until I introduced her to my buddy. I knelt down to him… “Hey, I can’t thank you enough. You really busted him up. Thank you.” He barked. “Busted? Hmm. Buster. How’d you like that?” He barked and jumped all over me. I found my daughter and made a new friend.

Another day. Another win, at least that’s how I see it. So long as we’re living that’s a victory, even on bad days, especially then, is when we must remind ourselves of this, and oh boy did I have a bad day, but I’m getting ahead of myself, let me back up a minute. The world has ended, and the dead have risen and it’s just me, Mike and my daughter Julia. I had a cousin, Mark, but he didn’t make it. But we’ve been surviving better than most, we have a garden where we grow our own food. There’s a small stream nearby where we collect water to boil and occasionally lay traps for fish and we even have a generator, so we have power. When we’re not working, we’re doing normal father-daughter things. Playing catch outside, playing RISK or BATTLESHIP, and reading and discussing our favorite books from our home library.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Where’s the bad day? He’s pulling our tail.” Well, I’m getting to that. One day, a week after my daughter’s seventeenth birthday, we had a run in with some bandits. Nasty bunch and they smelled rotten. They “asked” for some supplies, but I had my old M16 and drove them off. But they came back in the night: Beat me, knocked out Julia, and carried her off. When I came to, I was furious. So, I gathered my gear, which consisted of my earlier mentioned M16. My Colt 45 sidearm. My Delta Force survival knife. My lighter, I don’t smoke, but a lighter is always useful. Some basic medical supplies. Water and food. And my backpack and binoculars.

It took me a full day to go through my gear and rest up and recharge from my beating, but when I awoke the next morning and packed up. I headed out with one goal in mind. To get my daughter back and ensure this doesn’t happen to anyone else, permanently.

We live in the middle of nowhere, so it should be relatively untouched, but who knows. Every night, I fall asleep praying that she’s safe. The further away from the city I got, the fewer dead there were, but I had to call upon my training in evasion to avoid what were the beginnings of bandit gangs. After sneaking past them, to my relief, I finally ended up on the road we lived on, it was just a few more days, when I found our house. I walked up to the front step, knocked on the door and my daughter opened it. She’s old enough to open doors and I’m just too glad to be home to be mad about that. “D-D-Daddy?” “Yeah Julia, it’s me.” She hugged me right then and there. “I was so worried. Your cousin Mark, he went out to look for you, he came back concealing a bite. I only found out when I opened his bedroom door to find an undead monster on his bed. I shot him. He was too heavy to move, so I just shut the door, the whole house probably smells. I’m so sorry daddy. The smell nearly made me pass out.” She explained through tears. “Oh, sweet pea. You did your best. You shouldn’t have had to do that. I’m so sorry. Come on, let’s go inside.

We clean up Mark’s room and bury him in the backyard, just out of reach of our garden.

It was the Summer of 1918, just a few short months before the armistice was to be signed, but at the time, the war still dragged. Germany had just launched their last major offensive before we Americans arrived in an effort to salvage this war, but well, that obviously failed. It should be said, I greatly respected the Germans and as a Catholic, I admired Kaiser Karl of Austria-Hungary, but I was loyal to my country. I was a lieutenant in the early air service flying those old rust buckets that passed for planes then. If someone was to tell me that they would be making jet planes in the future with no propellers, well, I would’ve called them crazy. I flew many missions in those last few months, but my last time, I was shot down and my plane nearly killed me. You see the fuel tanks were hit and as soon as I got out and away, the plane exploded. I came away with only a minor concussion. I made my way to our lines, sneaking past German patrols. I respected the Germans, but I was not going to be captured. I eventually made it to the British lines and met and made small talk with a now good friend of mine. Sargent George Houston of Kent. He was assigned to take me back to the airfield where I was based and we talked about lots of things. Mainly the war and what we’d do when it was over.

“All I care about mate is getting home and holding my baby girl in my arms. Clara, her name is. Do you have kids mate?” “No. No kids and no wife, just a mother and father at home. They want me to come home and settle down and marry, but I can’t settle, not just yet.” “You’re wanderlust, I’ve met plenty men in this war with no intention of settling down either, but then again, I’ve met even more men who do intend to settle. Me included. So, what is it do you intend to do?” “Travel, I think I’ll explore your homeland George, I’ve always wanted to see Britain.” “You’ll love it mate, and there’s plenty of secrets she holds. Who knows, maybe you’ll discover some. Oh, here we are.”

He dropped me off at the airfield and said our goodbyes. However, after my visit to the medic, I realized I was being grounded due to my minor concussion. That was a blow, I had grown to love flying, it was where I was truly free, but they let me stay on training new recruits, but soon enough the war came to an end and when my time came to leave, I chose to leave. I traveled to England looking and for the new few months looked for my friend Mr. Houston, but I had no idea where he lived aside from the general location of Kent. Eventually, I gave up and traveled around the Isles and rediscovered my second love, boxing. It wasn’t a big set-up, but that suited me just fine. I wasn’t looking for fame, just to box. So, for the next year I did that and boxed many opponents, from Englishmen to Scotsmen to Welshmen to Cornish-men and Irishmen. I lost only five times and won twelve. Soon, after making some decent money and gaining moderate fame, I left and went to London. I rented an apartment and studied up the myths and legends of the British Isles and came across the legend of Arthur and Merlin and Excalibur. The legendary sword forged by Julius Caesar and wielded by the semi-mythical king. I thought to myself, if this sword is truly out there, this could be my shot at adventure. So, I studied up on the sword and it’s last known location and quickly realized that it could be anywhere in Britain or Western Europe. But little did I know an old friend had been watching me:

“Hey, Alex mate.” He said as I looked up and saw George Houston right across from me. “What are you doing mate, I stood here for five minutes and yet you were so engrossed in your book.” “Sorry, I’m just on sort of a treasure hunt I guess you could say.” “Really, what you looking for?” “I showed him the book page. “Well I’ll be, Excalibur. That’s some artifact you got there.” “Yeah, but when dealing with semi-mythical swords wielded by semi-mythical kings, it gets a little complicated on where to start looking.” “Well, I could help you mate.” “No, I don’t want impose.” “Nonsense. I know I’m not the adventuring type, but this is the Opportunity of a lifetime.”

So, there it was, my first real adventure with and the start of a lifelong friendship. Oh, but that’s a story for another time.

Anyways, as I sit here writing and thinking. I’m going to share my adventures with the world. I only hope it’s not too late and I die tomorrow. Oh, that would be terrible. My love’s nephew is a private investigator and owns his own publishing company and has been urging me for years through our correspondence and finally, I’ve given in. So, here I am, Alexander Mills. Pilot, Treasure Hunter, and Adventurer Extraordinaire. I hope whoever reads these in the years and decades to come, finds something useful and inspiring or at the very least entertaining from these stories. And if anything else, that they learn not to do what I did. Which was not settle down and start a family.

Alexander Mills,
April 20, 1967

This war. I honestly never expected to survive. Sometimes I think I must be one of the most lucky bastards in the universe. But then I think, no the lucky ones are the poor bastards who died along the way. The war ended for them the day they died, but for me and millions of others, the war continued, a fifteen-long year war with this damned bug race. They would never surrender, which meant we had to route them out on every world, every tunnel, and every cave. Is what we did genocide? I know plenty back home who call us monsters, but… They don’t know shit, they weren’t there. This was an existential war where only one race was going to make it through the fight and even then that race would have scars forever after. But honestly, I’m glad we won and I’m glad that my family back home won’t understand. Because they shouldn’t have to, that’s what men like us are for… To do the hard and dirty work so the rest of the species can live in peace. As for me, I can’t wait to get home to my wife and daughter who will be ten. I’ve only seen her once ten years ago when she was born, damn bugs interupting our lives and making me miss the first decade of my daughter’s life. Well, I’m going to make up for lost time. Got to go soon, Captain’s calling us as we prepare to head home. If you’re reading this honey, well, I may be home or close by. See you soon and kiss our baby girl goodnight for me.

Sincerly,

Lieutenent James Eisen

Hope you enjoyed this short. I started rereading Starship Troopers and got inspired to write this. Take care and have a blessed week!

Prologue

“Dad. Are we almost there?” “Yes sweetie, just a little further. Come on, you got to keep up.” Father and daughter continued on their annual hike in the Oregon mountains. For thirty-five-year-old Elliot Smith, these hikes every year were something he looked forward to. They were one of the only times he got to see his daughter, Violet, due to a recent nasty divorce and being shipped overseas. You see, Elliot is a proud army officer serving thirteen years, since he graduated from West Point, but he’s close to retirement. He’s been meaning to get out to spend more time with his daughter and more time at his grandpa’s old cabin writing, reading, and hunting. He’s well-respected in the army with the honorable rank of captain.

“Alright Violet, here we are. God, I love this spot.” “Wow. You were right dad, it is beautiful.” They stood there looking at the sunset for the next few minutes until they realized they needed to set up camp. So, after gathering some firewood and starting a fire and setting up sleeping bags, they sat down for a nice meal.

“Hmm. This is so good dad, best rice I’ve ever had.” “MREs, they never let us down in the army. Listen Vi.” “Yeah dad.” “How are things? Between you and your mother?” That took her back, he had never asked about this before. “Things are okay, she still blames you for what happened. I try to tell her it’s been two years, can we get the court ruling changed, but she’s stubborn. You know it’s not your fault about what happened to Justin, right dad? It was an accident.” “I know. Your older brother, h- He always took after me. With wanting to be a soldier and do the right thing. God, I miss him.” “Dad. What if I ran away and joined you in your cabin? Just the two of us, it would b-” “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Your mother would have me arrested.” “Why does she have to be such a bitch?” “Hey, watch the language. Don’t talk about your mother like that.” “Sorry dad, it’s just so frustrating. I wish I could live with you. I know we exchange letters, and I can visit you and you can visit me, but it’s not the same. Why can’t we be a family again?” “Because your mother is one helluva stubborn woman. But know this Vi, if you ever need me for anything I’m there. I will always have your back and best interests at heart. Because I love you. Violet couldn’t hold back anymore, and she rushed around the fire and jumped in her father’s arms crying. “Oh dad, I love you and I always will.”

Chapter One

15 Years Later:

Summer, 2010

“Hmm. Another sunny day here in Oregon. God, I love this country.” Elliot says to himself as he steps out of his door onto his front porch. He begins to contemplate his plan for the day, from cleaning up his cabin to going hunting and cooking and eating dinner, but just as he readies himself for a long and productive day, clouds roll in and soon enough it’s raining. “Welp, looks like another day of reading and writing it is.” He heads back inside and heads to his desk and bookshelf to peruse his collection. Alright, what to read today. Lewis? No. Tolkien? No. Ah! Here it is, Some good ole Louis L’Amour. He pulls the book from his shelf and heads to his reading chair with his book and coffee and begins to read.

A while later, he’s finished reading and he’s at his desk continuing to write his memoir, but he’s frustrated due to hitting a lull in his life. He’s covered his early life, military career, and his family. But he can’t find a good place to go next or end it, it just kind of ends. “Dammit! This is getting me nowhere.” He exclaims loudly to himself. He stands up and looks out the window and ponders his life at present. He was in a rut, and he knew it. His ex-wife had finally passed five years ago, she never had the court ruling on his access to his daughter changed, much to his and his daughter’s frustration and by the time of his wife’s death, Elliot’s daughter Violet was a mother herself living in Northern California. They did end up spending time together, but Elliot and Violet’s husband never saw eye-to-eye and after two years of peace came three long brutal years of no contact between Elliot, his daughter and her family. This had the unfortunate consequence of forcing an older man to start thinking about life and where he’s heading. “Nowhere! That’s where I’m heading, it seems everything good in my life gets taken from me. Goddammit!” He shouts and heads upstairs to an early night sleep. Praying tomorrow will bring something better.

The next morning, he gets up, does his usual yawn, and heads downstairs to make some breakfast. “Man. I could use some good pancakes and bacon.” He says to himself and checks the kitchen for the ingredients to make pancakes and bacon, and he does. However, as he’s about to sit down, he hears a knock at the door. “I’m coming.” He heads over to the door and opens it to find his daughter. “Vi?” “Hey dad. I need your help.” He welcomes her in and invites her to breakfast, but she rushes in to hug him and begins to cry. “Oh daddy. They took him, my boy. They took my son.” “Calm down Vi, who took him?” “The Yakuza.” And that was that breakfast was cancelled; they’ll get something on their journey. Because now, a dad must help his baby girl save her son and set things right. Because that’s just the kind of man Elliot Smith is.

Enjoy!

It was Christmas Day and yet it didn’t feel like Christmas, despite the army providing us with Christmas trees and there being some carols sung by the men. It was still a war and we had the enemy to think about. But something changed that Christmas Eve night.

Hans Lecht was a mild man. Kind, honest, and can have a righteous anger when his family and home are threatened. That’s what caused him to volunteer, that and not wanting to wait around to be conscripted. His father, a Polish nationalist was not pleased. He tried desparately all his life to raise his son to his standards and to fight for Poland, but Hans had too much of his mother’s Prussian Spirit in him. His mother really didn’t have to do anything, he was just more interested in Prussian and wider German history. From the Arminius. To Otto and Frederick the Great. And finally to the Kaiserreich. Little Hans loved his homeland, even if he was only half German and he didn’t dislike his Polish half, he had great respect for his father, but he wouldn’t let himself be molded by his father. So, he volunteered and was soon sent to the front, where we find ourselves on Dec. 24th, 1914, Christmas Eve and Hans got the short end of the stick and is on a scouting and reconnaisance mission, while his compatriots are celebrating Christmas. He couldn’t help himself, he was angry, but he swallowed his pride and did his duty. He was nearing the end of the line, when he spotted a British Patrol. “Shit.” Hans exclaimed as he dove into a nearby crater. He waited patiently for what felt like hours until all but one moved back towards the British line. Rolling over on his back, exhausted and relieved that most of the soldiers left. He let himself drift off for a minute.

He awoke around 20 minutes later with a rifle in his face. “Mate? Yeah you.” Said a moderately tall Englishman holding a Lee Enfield. Hans froze, he was disapointed. Mostly in himself. He dozed off on a mission and got himself captured. But what happened next would change his life forever.

“Happy Christmas Mate.” The Englishman said lowering his rifle and extending a hand. Hans was confused and at first hesitated, but then took the hand, but the Englishman didn’t account for Hans’s strength and was pulled down in the crater with him. “Sorry about that, sometimes I forget my strength.” “That’s alright, it’s quite cozy down here anyway. So, to what do I owe the pleasure to find a German so close to our lines?” Hans hesitated again. This was fraternization with the enemy. He could be stripped of his rank, put on trial and jailed, so he kept it vague. “Just out for a walk, Europe is lovely around Christmas time.” “To that I quite agree, my family traveled to Berlin when I was young and we traversed every inch of your country. My goodness, you don’t even know me, terribly sorry. George Houston, at your service.” “Hans Lecht, a pleasure. Sadly, I’ve never been to your country, though as you can tell I know your language well.” “You speak well for a German, are you a Junker? Is that it?” “A Junker. No, I’m not an aristocrat, my mother was just well off, she could send me to a good school. Here’s a photo.” Hans grabbed a photo from his bag and handed it to George who took it. “She’s beautiful and looks very refined for not being an aristocrat.” “She wanted us looking our best and I guess it stuck. I take pride in it.” “Good thing to take pride in. I don’t come from wealth either, my father married into the a good family and left his workingman roots behind, though he never spoiled me and would take me through his old neighborhood to see how “real people” live. He was a good man, he passed last year, just before this war started. He would be ashamed to see our countries at war. He always loved Germany and believed it was meant to be England and Germany against the world.” “That sounds like a fine dream, too bad it didn’t come true. Hey, I have some wine here. Shall we toast?” Hans asked. “Sure, I’d like that.”

Hans and George toasted to the birth of our Lord and to an end to this war and to their nations. That they may find peace. They stayed in that crater the whole night until the next morning when they woke up and noticed something miraculous. The Germans and British men mingling with one another. For just one moment, George’s father’s dream was reality.

But my small pickup crashed and he was badly hurt. I cared for him as best I could, but this was during the early days of the outbreak and there was no one coming, so I took my gun an- No, you don’t need to hear the next part. I buried him and packed my things and here I am. Been walking ever since.

Where am I walking, you may ask? To see my dad and little sister. It started as a simple family vacation, but now it’s one last chance to see my family before the world ends. I’ve driven across multiple states from Pennsylvania to Illinois. I grew up in Pennsylvania, but my father and sister, wanting a more rural experience than even PA headed for the Midwest. Last letter I got from them said they were on a farm in Southern Illinois, so I’ve been on the road since, but I’m not alone. Every once in a while I come across refugees from cities fleeing to safety or family homes and other times I encounter the new threat in this plague-ridden world, ravenous rabies-like creatures that will feast on you and what’s left if the brain’s still intact comes back as an infected zombie-like creature.

You think the military would’ve learned from all the times they’ve been portrayed as incompetent in zombie media, but no one told them and besides, most of the grunts left to prepare for the coming apocalypse or protect their families, then the rest of the world blockaded and closed off all borders with the U.S. Some infected still got through, but the last we heard the rest of the world was doing fine. Anyways, my life for the last month has been wandering through the woods: hunting, camping, avoiding the infected and most people, and reading. I have three books with me, my bible, a collection of Tolkien’s letters, and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why on God’s green Earth would I want to read a bleak book like The Road? Well, good question. It gives me motivation to keep moving because if a father and son can survive in that bleak as shit world, then I can survive a glorified rabies outbreak.

So, I keep moving until I come across a decent-sized cabin. Desperate for food and human contact, I silently and peacefully approach. I approach the cabin, when I hear a click from behind. shit

“Now hold on their tiger, just what do you think you’re doing?” It’s a woman’s voice, and wait, I know that voice. “I’m turning around, easy.” I turn around and her eyes go wide. “Br-Br-Brother.”

The End.

Sorry no Desert Odyssey, but I wanted to take a break and give it room to breathe. But, I didn’t want to leave you all hanging, so here’s a one shot that may or may not turn into a larger story. Take care and God Bless!

A New Arrival

Joseph made his way to the Northern part of the Dakota Territory. On his way he would track, hunt, and skin various critters and sell the furs and meat in exchange for ammo and food. He would purify water from rivers and over the course of the two months it took him to arrive at the MacFinnigan Ranch. Macfinnigan being the family name of Charlotte and her family. Joseph rode in on one crisp clear Friday morning in April of 1866 at the age of twenty-five. There were few ranch hands out this early, so Joseph rode straight up to the house and introduced himself to the patriarch of the family and owner of these lands, Jack Macfinnigan. “Well now, a newcomer. What can I do you for son?” Jack Macfinnigan was a tall, slim, yet elegant gentleman with a strength and toughness that he hid well. His now greying hair was neatly trimmed to show his aristocratic heritage, but his neck length beard showed his hunter and mountain man side that he had once been in his youth before retiring to raise cattle. He sat on his rocking chair holding a breech loader across his lap. “You must be Mr. Macfinnigan, I’m Joseph Jackson and I’m a friend of your daughter, Charlotte and she said you might have some work available.” “So, a friend? What kind of friend?” Nothing like that sir, she was simply a grieving mother who had lost her son, and I helped save him.” At that, all sense of decorum went out the window and Mr. Macfinnigan jumped out of his chair and shouted for joy. Alerting the rest of his family and just in case they didn’t hear he called for them. “Get off that horse my good man and come accept a hero’s welcome.

Joseph did as was told and was whisked inside the house where he met Mrs. Macfinnigan or Eliza as she’s known as by the ranch hands. Jack and Eliza’s son James. And their youngest daughter, Sarah. And upon looking at each other, Joseph and Sarah were instantly smitten with each other. “It’s a pleasure Ms. Macfinnigan.” “Please, it’s Sarah Mr. Jackson.” “Well, now that we all know each other, let me show you around the farm Joseph and please it’s Jack around here.” Jack showed Joseph the stables where they keep, clean, and feed the horses. He showed him where they keep the cattle, a large, enclosed area surrounded by fencing with a gate on either end. “Well, that’s everything. Come on let’s get back to the house. Eliza should be finished making breakfast, don’t worry, you’ll come to know the ranch hands as you work with them. They are good folk, well most of them.

The two men returned to the house and headed inside and sat down for bacon, eggs, and some bread and milk. After breakfast Jack’s eldest, James, took Joseph to the stables to see if he was any good at breaking horses. “So, you grew up with horses in Missouri?” “Yup, been around them my whole life.” “Hmm, I just have one more question, who did you fight for?” That took Joseph aback. He actually hadn’t had to deal with any consequences of fighting for the south. When he heard the war was over, he just packed up and went home. “The South. Is that a problem?” “Not from me, we aren’t the radical republicans who are bent on vengeance, still I’d keep that to myself, there are some folks amongst us who aren’t keen on the South.” “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” After ensuring Joseph was set up, James took his leave, though he kept watch from afar just in case. Joseph, however, got the hang of getting back in the saddle of breaking horses. For the next two hours he broke five horses with breaks in between.

“Not bad Mr. Jackson.” Sarah said walking over, her long shoulder length blonde hair flowing in the wind. “Sarah. How are you? Need any help?” “No none at the moment, but I was wondering if for lunch would you like to join me f-” “You there! Jackson, is it?” “Yeah, it is. How can I help you?” “You can start by getting out of here. I overheard what you and Jack’s boy were talking about. I know who you fought for, Confederate scum.” And with that, the secret was out. Well, that didn’t take long, Joseph thought to himself. “The Macfinnigans may not have a problem with confederate scum but I sure as hell do. Ms. Macfinnigan get away from that traitor.” “The war is over Cletus; now’s the time for reconciliation. We’re all Americans, we can’t keep being at each other’s throats.” “Whatever. You! Jackson! Draw your weapon, this here’s a dual.” All eyes went to Joseph. “Joseph please, Cletus is a good man, don’t kill him.” “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” He whispered into her ear.

So, the two men stood roughly ten feet apart from each other eyeing each other up with a crowd gathering. Sarah stood to the side fearful yet curious as to the outcome. The two continued to eye each other when Bam! “Ah Shit! My finger. I swear you better not have blown it off.” Cletus said falling to his knees. Everyone looked towards Joseph who stood unharmed with one of his brother’s trusty guns in his right hand. Thank you, brother. Thank you.

He holstered his weapon and walked over and extended his hand to Cletus. “I could’ve killed you, but instead you live. We square.” “Yeah.” Cletus said grabbing Joseph’s hand, all fingers intact. “We’re square.” Joseph walked over to Sarah and said: “So, you were inviting me somewhere?”

Prologue

“I still don’t want you to go. You could be killed.” “I know ma, but I have to go. We need the money and there’s plenty of work out west. There will be risks yes, but nothing worth doing is without risk. I promise any money I make I’ll send back home.” “Thank you, my son. How’d I get so lucky to have a son like you?” “I’m no one special ma, I just love my family.” “You’re special to me, and I love you.” “I love you too ma. And you Ameilia.” After saying goodbye to his mother and sister, Joseph gathers his things, which consist of his Henry Repeater, his Pa’s Buffalo Rifle, Clyde’s two Remington revolvers, and his pa’s old hat and hatchet. “Well, ready to go.” He said to himself as he readied his things and walked to his horse, “Bull’s head”, named because he’s as tough and stubborn as a bull. “Alright Bully boy you ready?” The horse neighs in response. “I know I know, you don’t like being called that, sorry. Anyhow, let’s get going.” Getting on his horse he rode past his mother and sister one more time and said his final farewell and just like that Joseph Jackson set off west to help his family and leave his mark on the world.

The Old West: The Travels and Adventures of Joseph Jackson

A Grieving Mother

As Joseph rode into Kansas City, Missouri he noticed that despite the war being barely over and there still being stragglers, the growing settlement was booming. People coming and going, looking for work, buying and selling things, going about their business. Joseph had little reason to stop here, save to rest and eat some decent food. But one day when walking out of the saloon he was staying in he came across a lady sobbing. He approached her. “Ma’am. Are you alright? What’s wrong?” “Why do you care? No one cares, I’m just the eternally crying woman. A mother who’s lost her son.” “I’m sorry to hear that, how did h-” “He’s not dead, he was taken last week and no one’s done a damn thing. I tried to get the sheriff’s attention, but his hands are full with “other problems” whatever that means. I’m sorry mister, this isn’t probably very interesting to you.” “Actually, I’m a pretty good tracker if I say so myself and I could probably find you boy.” That seemed to spark something in her, something she hadn’t felt since. Hope. “You mean it mister?” “I do, now where were they last headed and what’s your boy’s name?”

After the mother explained her plight to Joseph, he went to his room, gathered his things, and got on his horse and rode off heading Southeast following the last known location of a group of men and a small boy. He knew it’d be like finding a needle in a haystack, but he had to try. He knew all too well what it was like to lose family, and he wasn’t even there when it happened, twice. He rode down the road with trees lining both sides occasionally passing by fellow travelers on foot, horseback, and wagon. He would only sleep for a couple hours before continuing on again, wanting to catch up as quickly as he could. And just his luck, he came across a camp secluded off in the trees and he noticed a small boy no older than seven or eight by the looks of it. Either way, he wasn’t going to let this boy suffer no more. He waited until sundown and sneaked into camp with his Henry, or Ole Reliable as he calls her. He counted eight men five asleep and two on guard and a third unaccounted for. He aimed at one of the guards and fired.

The guard went down, and, in a flash, he took out the other and three more men who fumbled out of their beds. Then a tense stand-off ensued. The other two men thinking there was a bunch of men were scared shitless to move or think about their hostage, who remained fast asleep through all of this. Then the final unaccounted-for man walked back into camp and went: “What in the hell happened here?” Joseph poked out and open fired wounding the man and drawing out the other two, which he cut down easily. Then the final injured man spoke: “What the hell is the meaning of this, you folks coming in slaughtering me and my men, what have we done to you?” Joseph stood up, repeater trained on the lone figure and said: “The boy, you kidnapped a boy and left her mother frightened and alone.” “The boy, you did all this for a boy and his mother, why mister did she tell you who I am? I’m the boy’s father.” “Liar. Why would a father kidnap his son?” “I didn’t kidnap him, he came willingly, sure the mother was hysterical, nearly fainted too, but the boy chose to come with me.” Joseph had to think quick, was this man telling the truth, had he been played like a fiddle by the mother or maybe… “What’s the boy’s name?” “What?” “I said, what’s the boy’s name?” That seemed to trip the man who fumbled through his mind trying to recollect what the boy said his name was, if he said it. “I got it, it’s James.” “Close. It's Jack.” The man’s eyes went and was blown off his feet by Joseph’s Henry landing on the ground lifeless.

The journey back was pretty uneventful, but he always looked back in case there were more men of that group, but there were none and soon he was back in Kansas City and made it to his saloon and the boy’s mother, Charlotte, was waiting with bated breath and her prayers were answered. Joseph got himself and Jack off the horse. “Mama!” The boy said, running into his mother’s arms. “Oh Jack, my boy. My boy, oh Thank God you’re alright. Are you hurt?” “No mama, the nice man saved me and made the bad men go away.” She put her son down but still held his hand. “Thank you, mister.” She said through tears of joy. “I don’t know how to thank you. I- I don’t even know your name.” “The name’s Joseph and the only thanks I need is that you raise the boy right, teach him to be a good man. Better than most in this world.” “Still, I feel like I could help you. You need a job. My father-in-law, bless him is a cattle and horse farmer who’s also in the meat and furs business. He has a place in Dakota territory and he’d be willing to pay for any skin and meat you find.” This was what Joseph needed, a good job making decent money he could send back to his mother and sister. “Thank you, Charlotte, I-” Now Joseph started to weep, which is not a common sight. “Your very welcome, Joseph.”

We all know the moon landing in July of ‘69 and for the next few years there were many missions back to the moon, but in the early 70s they stopped. This was for many reasons, one being, the government most likely wanting to focus on other areas and the moon wasn’t this unknown entity anymore, so they packed up. But what if the real reason we stopped going was covered up? What if the astronauts discovered something that terrified them so much, the government covered it up? What if something else aside from us was out there?

P.S. I will be using fictionalized names and characters. This is purely a fun writing excercise. So, sit back relax, God Bless, and enjoy.

P.P.S. Stay tuned for a spooky movie review this week of an animated classic perfect for the season.

Audio Entry of Captain Boone Smith, Decemeber 20th 1973:

It’s been a year since the last mission to the moon and I have to record this or else I’m gonna go insane. Maybe in thirty years this will be apart of the declassification and the nation will finally know why we gave up on the dream of space.

It was just like any other mission, we touched down on the moon. That same barren rocky ball in the middle of the abyss. I couldn’t help but think of what kinds of otherworldly creatures were out there. I thought of the elder gods from Lovecrafts’s writings and that both awed and terrified me. We collected what samples we could and recorded our findings. Then, one of our crew, a young man named Jim Williams called me over. I went over to meet him, this is how our conversation went:

Captain Smith: “What have you found Williams?”
Williams: “There’s something under this rock, something not native to the moon. Almost like a structure.”
Captain Smith: “I’ll get the crew over here and see if we can’t uncover this.”

I called the crew over and we began uncovering the non-native structure. Eventually we uncovered most of it and what we found terrified us to the core. It was a shrine, but to what and built by whom. I thought of the Lovecraftian elder gods again, which didn’t help my state of mind. This was it, evidence for alien life. Someone built this maybe hundreds or even thousands of years ago. Then, the kid Williams made the mistake of touching it which sent up a beam of some kind.

Captain Smith: “Jesus Williams. What did you do? You might’ve just alerted whoever built this to our presence.”
Williams: “Sorry Captain. Call me a little curious I guess.”

We returned to the Lunar Module and once we made it back to Earth, we were immediately debriefed by our boss and a group of agents from the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) We explained everything and then we were told the reason for the agents being there. Somehow an alien message was picked up by the government and somehow communicated with this alien civilization. All this civilization said was: “Sacrifice!”

We were all told to keep silent and to never tell a soul to our families, or else. I’m already risking much by recording this. If this got out, I don’t know what fate would befall me and my family and there’s already people questioning the government about what really happened, they’re labelled “conspiracy theorists” of course but we know they’re right. To my wife and children, if you ever find this or if I don’t come home one day. I love you all and I’m sorry.