Busy, busy day.

Then the Kaminski Account fell through.

I was on the phone with about six people at once, multiple different conference calls, and one of my airpods was already dead.

"Yeah--yeah, yeah, I know," I said, "We couldn't--no, they dropped us because of the fees, not the serv--yep, yes, I know."

I rolled my eyes. The board didn't care. They'd picked their narrative already. God, I was tired.

I flicked on the mute button. "Pete," I said, lifting on airpod out of my ear.

My assistant Pete turned.

Pete had been a...fine? I guess? Guy when I first met him. His interests included craft beer, hiking, and enjoying the above two with his German Shepherd Rowdy. One of a kind Denverite, lemme tell ya. Then Pete went camping, and when he came back he was...

Ill.

His eyes were ragged and baggy, bloodshot, bruised. His hair was a mess, half had fallen out. His teeth were...different. Yellow. Dark yellow. His skin looked like it barely fit.

But he fielded all my calls expertly that day. Had time to run to starbucks, too. And life had never been the same.

"Pete, can you hold my three o'clock? The Board wants to have yet another phone call, not that this one is even close to finished. Errr-- bottom line-- Cancel my three o'clock for board meeting part 2?"

"Ḯ̵̤ẗ̴̩̙́̃ ̴̭͗i̵̧͉͗̃s̶̪̉ ̴̻͐d̷̫̯̆͛ó̶̦n̸̡͍̍͆e̷̕" said Pete, the irises around his eyes flashing crimson for a brief moment.

"Great, thanks."

"I̵̥͗ ̴͖̆ẅ̵̭́a̵̙͝s̶͔̾ ̶̨͠ẗ̷̹h̴̹̉i̴̠͘n̵̪͑k̵̜͋i̵͚͝ṇ̵͋g̸͖̈́ ̶̛̘o̶͈͂f̷͉͑ ̵̨̍g̷̞͆ò̷͖i̵͈̽n̴̼͐g̷̮̾ ̸̬̀ţ̷͑ō̶̜ ̸̗́S̷͓̍ț̷̅a̸̐͜r̴̠̍b̴̨͌u̶͈͋c̸̖̚k̸͎̈s̴̯͑ ̴̑͜w̸͔͘o̷̲̓u̵̩͠l̸̜̚ḏ̸͆ ̵̗͌y̵̜͒ỏ̸̬ṷ̴͝ ̷̺̎l̶̞͗i̵̱̇k̴̥͠ȅ̷̙ ̵͈͐s̵̜̿o̴̟̒m̶̻̂ě̶͍?"

"Yes," I said, then winced. I'd forgotten to mute. "Latte please," I whispered.

"Ọ̸̇Ǎ̵̗T̷̢̎ ̴̡̌M̶̥̆Ḯ̴̧L̸͇̈́K̶͈̉ ̷͉̄?" Pete croaked, and I gave him the thumbs up.

He nodded solemly and turned to leave, a crown of bones forming in the air above his head.

"Hey Pete!" Susan from Marketing said.

Pete's jaw distended a full foot, and a rush of wind escaped the twisting obsidian storm of his abyssal black maw.

Then Pete disintegrated into a cloud of flies and left the office.

Meanwhile, the board kept ragging on me and ragging on me, like all this was my fault! The Kaminski account was doomed the moment we upped their rates. We got greedy. I said this was going to happen a thousand times. I fought against it every step of the way.

But they wanted to squeeze for a bit more, and here we were.

"I tried to--" I started, but the board cut me off.

I tried not to break down. Tried not to cry in front of Susan from Marketing. I was just so frustrated. So unhappy. Is this life? Is this why I exist? Trillions of planets, trillions of years, organisms, all these insanely low chances that I even exist to experience life, and I spend it getting yelled at by the board because they had decided that "the narrative" was that I'd screwed up?

I sighed.

I was about to unmute myself when the conversation at the other end tapered off.

I heard confused noises, questioning tones. Then the first scream pierced the telephone line in harsh static. Then more screaming. Bloodcurtling screaming. The sloshing of flesh. The spilling of blood.

Then silence.

Finally, someone on the other end of the line spoke. It sounded like the chairman. Almost.

"W̸̻͑ê̷̞ ̵̫̎h̸̖̔a̶̳͋v̴̲̓e̷̳̔ ̵̙̚r̸̜̽ḙ̵̉c̶̯͝ò̵̝n̷̈́͜s̸̞̆i̵̟͐ḍ̴̎e̶͘ͅȓ̴̼e̷͈̿d̸̜̄ ̵̠͗t̶͉͗h̷̗͐e̷̤̾ ̸̛̯s̸̺͂ị̴̃t̷̨̂ų̶̽a̷̘͘t̵̛̟ḯ̸̡o̶̟̊n̸̜͑," the chairman said. "A̷̰͑n̷̲͂d̸̖͝ ̵̢̑ȧ̷̞p̵͈̽õ̷̩l̶̨̔ǒ̸̧g̸̫͊i̶̥͋z̸̻͌\̴͊͜e̶̟̒ ̶͉̈́f̵͓͊o̷̱̕r̸̯̂ ̶̢̓b̸͉͆l̸̻̆ȁ̶͚ṃ̶̂i̴̧͌n̵͑ͅg̴̪͝ ̸͙̒y̶͕͌o̷̻̿ū̴̡.̴̺̆ ̶̗͗"

There was a buzzing as Pete reformed next to me. He handed me my latte.

"Oatmilk?" I whispered.

"O̸͉͝a̷̖̅t̴̪͝m̷̫̈́i̵̳͆ĺ̷̹k̷̛̞," he confirmed.

I smiled.

He smiled back. His lip sagged down to his chin, revealing blue and yellow-crusted gums, and Pete had to manually pull it back up to the right place, but hey-- a smile is a smile.

He took a big slurp of his drink. One of the caramel drizzle things with the whip cream.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Pete just gave me a thumbs up.

​

------

/r/ethanfeld

​

Thanks for the fun prompt, /u/Black1495. I̶̖̓ ̸̪̈h̶͈͆ạ̸̕d̴͉͋ ̸͇̄a̸̻͝ ̵̙̇ļ̵̑ŏ̵̯t̸̢͗ ̶̫͌o̷͙̐f̶̞̉ ̸̫͒f̵̤͑ȕ̸̳n̶͓̍ ̷̤͋ <3

PART 3:

"Spread out!" Ssu screams in her di-tonal voice as a mass of undead bodies stagger towards us.

The necromancer throws his hands up towards us, and I get a good look at him.

He looks to be in his sixties, for the most part. Except his eyes, which are sunken too far back into his head, and surrounded by black and blue flesh it looks almost bruised. His skin is surprisingly pale, and a close crop of silver hair holds fast to his head. It's a CEO haircut.

I don't know why that strikes me as so strange and off-putting, but it does.

Wolfe is dead.

No more time.

The fingerbones extend again, ripping straight from the Necromancer's hands and plunging down the boston street towards me.

Markus blurs and is in front of me in an instant.

The fingers plunge into his abdoment and chest, and I hear ribs crack. Two of the fingers pierce over his heart.

Thankfully, the organ there is already black, and still.

When I finally kick into gear, the Necromancer is already striking out.

I dodge to the side at a roll and release a burst of bullets from the P90.

Two 3-bursts. Two shots go wide. The other four slam against the Necromancer.

Yes!

Except...

Sparks shower from his chest as my bullets tear through black fabric and slam into his ribcage. His exposed ribcage. No skin.

They spark off, and we're already on the move.

"I'll take care of the bodies," Markus says, drawing a rapier and dagger. Then he's a blur again, lunging and almost flickering between targets. The thin blade jabs out in bright bolts of steel. That's all my eyes can track, at least.

Ssu is going straight for our target.

She reaches him in an instant and swipes out with one hand. The skin on her arm, dark brown and very much human, morphs mid-swing into golden fur, and metallic brass nails. A lion.

Ssu-- Lamassu, misses by inches. The Necromancer flickers back in a cloud of black smoke. Wings sprout from Ssu's back for a brief moment as she clears the distance between them and gives chase.

What do I do? What do I do?

PART 2:

It's called a P90, and it's a weirdly shaped gun, all things considered. It's bizarre straight from the factory-- short-muzzled and curled at the grip with a long bar to load the ammunition.

This one isn't straight from the factory, either.

I've modified it quite a bit. I'm a decent shot. More than decent. But the reason I'm here is ingenuity and engineering.

When the world turned upside down, Zombies took over, and words like "Necromancer" and "Vampire Lord" became common place, I discovered a few talents I'd never known I had, and had no reason to have to know.

The slide bar that holds the ammunition is clear on the left side so I can reload. The right side however is no longer accessible, due to the glass bar of anointed holy oil that slides against the side of the bullets with each new load.

The grip is still the circular shape, but I've stuck a rotary-style whirring mechanism within. The mechanism spins as I run and move, like one of those self-charging watches. The power then feeds into a focusing crystal underneath the stock. With a gesture of will I can power the crystal to release a hyper-focused beam of fire. It's thin as a needle, and if it pierces a brain it might as well be the size of a softball. It's lethal.

Oh, and I've got three scopes, both iron sights. Black iron, specifically. First is a Star of David, and inside a cross to serve as the sight itself. Then I've got a half-moon on the side of the sight, and the star to the right lines up with the center of the cross.

Hey, might as well hedge my bets. I've got other modifications, but those are the main ones.

Every square inch of my body that can take it is covered in ammo. Otherwise, I've got a shortsword from the finest of Greek relic-hunters if things get hairy.

Speaking of hairy, Wolfe signals we're ready to go.

"He knows we're here," the wolf-man says, referring to the Necromancer. "He's probably holed up in there nice and good. We're going to break down the door, find him, then take him out."

Ssu rolls her eyes. "No subtlety, then."

"No," Wolfe says, either not catching her tone or deliberately ignoring it. "The library itself is a vertical stretch. A giant rectangle. If I'm the Necro, I'm at the far end, and the best undead I can raise are standing between me and anything else."

I nod-- I agree.

"Markus, you're first in the breach," Wolfe says.

"Of course, who cares about pain when you can't die?" Markus drolls.

"Agreed, completely," Wolfe says.

Deliberately ignoring, I decide.

"Then I'll come in with Ssu. Markus and I will take care of the undead. Ssu goes for the necro."

The three of them nod, and Wolfe throws open the rear doors of the SUV.

"What about me?" I call after.

Wolfe takes a distracted look back. "Oh," he says, "You can--"

Then something moves through Wolfe's brain.

It takes me a moment to register.

It's a fingerbone.

A three-meter long, skinless, greenish-pale fingerbone.

It slides out of Wolfe's brain with a sickly, sticky sound.

Our leader sinks to the ground, dead.

I gaze down at him, then up at the courtyard outside the library in horror. I find the owner of the finger.

The necromancer is not waiting for us inside.

PART 1:

"The Ends Justify The Means--- That's Martinelli," Wolfe says to me, jabbing a fat and fur-laden finger my way as the military transport SUV bumps along the cobblestones of Old Boston.

"Machiavelli, pretty sure," I think, but don't say. Wolfe's in charge, and this is my first day with Zeta-Team. I'm a professional, after all. I want to make a good impression.

"Machiavelli, idiot," Ssu says in her strange di-tonal voice. One is the voice of a woman in her late-thirties. The other is the scratchy, deep tone of the Assyrian Mystic she shares a winged form with.

I shudder.

I can't help it.

I'm only human. Literally. And in this crowd, that's a novelty.

Wolfe makes a sort of complaining sound as the SUV goes over a rock or under a pothole-- I'm not sure which. Either way it makes us all jostle up, and he slams his head against the car door.

How did I get here?

But of course I know how I got here.

Competency.

It's a curse, really. Not literal, like the man-creature to my right, Markus. But a curse nonetheless.

My station here as the only pure-human member of Zeta is a jarringly short story. One moment I was getting my Master's in International Affairs, looking around at CIA desk-jobs, or non-combat field jobs.

Then there's a physics defying eclipse, and bodies are ripping out of graves. The world turns on its head. It's funny-- I actually did end up using my Master's degree. They framed it for me in a glass frame, and I shattered it over my ex's head, then stabbed him in the brain with one of the shards.

Thanks, Harvard.

Harvard.

I've been on this road before, I realize. It's not so far from the downtown bars I went to with friends a handful of times.

Next to me, Wolfe cups his hands over his snout-like mouth and huffs into them. Even in the SUV it's freezing, and his breath fogs in the air between the cracks in his black furred claws.

"Of all people to be cold, surely you're in no place to complain," Markus says in an English nobles accent so strong I thought it was reserved for Americans playing Jane Austen characters in movies.

"Do you get cold, Markus?" Ssu asks, cocking her head and blinking. It's then I notice her eyes are dual-pupiled, like a goat's.

Another shudder.

None of the rest of our four-person team notice.

"No, I do not," Markus says.

"So really," Wolfe says, "Of all people it's you who shouldn't complain."

Wolfe glances out the bulletproof windows of the SUV. The dead are outside in their droves. A small following gathers behind the vehicle. We're closing in.

There's a necromancer at Boston Library, and it's Zeta team's job to take him out.

"What was I saying?" Wolfe asks, looking around.

"The Ends Justify the Means," I prompt.

"Ah, right," he says. "The thing to remember is that we won't eat you, William. You're part of the team now."

"But you eat people," I say softly. "Innocents."

"If they aren't innocents, they do not sustain us," Markus says, in a voice that seems to be weighed with the same regret as mine.

"The Ends Justify the Means," Wolfe repeated.

"Right," Ssu says. "The famous Martinelli quote."

"Machiavelli," Wolfe says distractedly, glancing out the window.

These idiots are going to get me killed, or eat me. Those are my options.

I'm not impressed, I will admit. I start to sweat.

Zeta-team is supposed to be one of the best. How---

"It's from the Prince," Wolfe says, causing all three of us to look at him. He smiles. "It's from the Prince. But the quote often ignores the context that the Prince itself was not meant to be the guidebook for the conniving it's seen as today. And though he wrote it to alleviate his political exile from Florence, the barest critical eye will reveal Machiavelli's contempt for the suggestions he's now so famous for writing the literal book on."

I stared at Wolfe.

Ssu shook her head.

Markus even huffed out a laugh.

But Wolfe wasn't smiling. His eyes pulled away from the glass window as the SUV rolled to a stop.

"Let's go," he said, and stood.

Lifeblinder Pt 2

"Hey...hey!" I shouted, sprinting over to Lifeblinder's corpse, freeing my sword from his skull. I whirled on the black cloaked figure, but he hadn't moved.

"Who--" I began, then Charon spoke.

"Not another step, Lifeblinder."

I felt chills run down my spine.

"I'll go right," I mumered to Charon. "Try to flank him towards the cliff."

I took off.

"I said," Charon growled, her voice low enough that, puzzlinglingly, only I could hear it, "Not another step, Lifeblinder."

I turned.

Charon was staring at me, pupils thin as pinpricks, a blasting wand leveled straight at my chest.

I took a step backwards.

"Charon," I said, "It's me, it's--"

"Enough," she said, "You don't think I know what's happening?"

I laughed, though it was panicked and came out more like a bark. "Charon, I don't know what's happening."

She shook her head.

"Scourge," she said, voice full of hate. "So much death, so much pain you've brought. And why? I can't ever figure out why?"

"Charon," I pleaded, taking a weary step backwards, "I'm not Lifeblinder. Something's wrong with you. It's me-- it's Durro! You've known me for years! You've seen me with you while Lifeblinder has commited acts of evil I beyond both of our nightmares from miles away! I am not Lifeblinder! Lifeblinder is--"

My heel catches on something and I stumble backwards, landing hard on the grass.

I had tripped over something. Over Lifeblinder's body.

I frowned.

Lifeblinder's corpse was pale, his raven black hair stained with blood. He looked almost like....

"Please," I gasp, crawling backwards as Charon advances, Blasting Wand humming with energy. "I'm your friend...."

My voice is shaking. My hands are shaking. Shaking so bad I can't even crawl anymore.

"It's me," I choke out, not letting myself look at the corpse at my feet. "It's me, it's Durro.."

Charon raises her chin, as high magery gathers around the wand, pulsing, crushing waves that flatten the grass all around her.

"I don't know who that is."

I take one last glance at the moors, where the black cloaked figure watches silently.

Then the blasting wand fires, and the fury of wind carries my body, and Mitch's corpse, over the edge of the cliff.

----

&#x200B;

Thank you for the fun prompt!!

If you enjoyed it, please let me know! Same if you have constructive criticism, I'm always eager and appreciative.

Lastly, feel free to join my growing community over at /r/ethanfeld_writes if you so choose!

Lifeblinder

It's cold on the cliffs. It smells like the sea, churning blue and white and uncaring a thousand feet beneath us. The wind cuts and blows my hair back. From behind me I hear Charon's robes, rich embroidered silk now stained with blood, flapping in the wind. But even that is a distant sound.

Otherwise...it's quiet.

Now that he's dead.

Now that he's finally dead.

I look down. My boot is still where I left it, pressed to the chest of the one they call Lifeblinder. It looks gruesome, and brutal, my boot on his chest like that. Not very heroic. But I needed to stabalize when I drove my sword through his temple. It's still there-- burried six inches past his cranium and into the soil

Also gruesome.

Also non-heroic.

"Sorry Mitch," I say, and pull the blade free. "I probably don't look quite like the hero you're always telling me to be. But the deed is done."

"The deed is done," echoes a voice, but it isn't Mitch's.

It's Charon, staggering forward and holding her head where dried blood at her temple softly mimics Lifeblinder's mortal wound.

She joins me at the cliff face. She stares down at Lifeblinder.

Shakes her head.

Then after a moment, our mage speaks.

"Who's Mitch?" she asks, glancing up at me with a frown.

"Who's Mit--" I begin, turning a quarter of the way to smile at Mitch.

Except Mitch isn't there.

No one is there.

"Mitch," I ask, loudly.

"Durro, you're scaring me..." Charon says, glancing between me and the corpse. She thinks I'm in shock or something. I am confused-- I'll give her that. But not shock.

"Oh, shit, did he..."

My heart seizes.

"Did Mitch fall?" I ask. I can feel my face growing pale. I run to the cliff edge. Like that would do any good.

Charon is slow to follow.

"Durro," she says, voice steadying itself now that the battle is over, "Who is Mitch?"

"Now's not the fucking time, Charon," I mumble.

"Time for what?"

"For jokes, or...messing with me, or whatever this is."

"I don't really mess with people," The mage says slowly, "And I don't think I've ever joked in my life."

That was true enough.

I peer over the edge.

No Mitch, no corpse dashed against the rocks as far as I can see. Of course, if he fell into the ocean he'd be long gone.

Vertigo took me for a moment, spinning, wavering, and I took a step back.

"Who is Mitch?" Charon repeated. She left me to hesitate while she darted back to her pack to rifle through some scrolls and components.

"Mitch, you know, Mitchell Haundrin? You've known him for three years? Pale, medium build, black hair? Do you not remember? What is this?"

"It's something," Charon murmured, rifling through her things. "Something--"

She stopped mid sentence and glanced up, eyes wide.

I turned to follow her gaze.

There was a figure there. Cloaked. Standing in the moors.