“The sunken purple of the early evening was blistering itself red. A sky wounding itself. And the man had still not shown.”
Watch this space!
The sixth part of my adult sci-fi/western novel WULF (previously called The Wulf and the Tiger). This follows directly on from the last part. The full novel will soon be available as an ebook on Amazon (and about time too!).
Warning: Quite a bit of bad language here. Blame Savvi. That’s just how she is.
‘You took your time,’ Sav said, long fingers with close-cut nails the colour of chocolate curled around a wide mug. She looked amused.
‘You left me! In the middle of nowhere!’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ she said. ‘You got back alright, didn’t you?’
‘I nearly died! Why couldn’t you just have led me back?’
‘Because you know the way. Or should have done.’
‘Well I didn’t. I don’t.’
‘I see,’ she said, in a bored tone. ‘But you still made it.’
‘Only because of the tiger -’
‘A tiger led me back.’
‘Of course it did. I don’t see one with you, though.’
‘It’s sleeping just outside of town. Or at least it was when I left it.’
‘Mhmm. Ah well.’ She took a gulp from her drink.
Jay took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think you realise the situation I’m in.’
‘Oh, boo-hoo. If I knew you were going to be such a little bitch about it I wouldn’t have saved your life this time. What gives?’
‘Look,’ he said, stopped, and then tried to start again. ‘Look.’
‘What am I looking at? If this is another one of your lengthy come-ons . . .’
‘I have no memory of who I am or where I am.’ He had quickly decided this was a better course of explanation than ‘I appear to be in a different body in a potentially alien land.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ she replied, dryly. ‘You don’t remember me, then?’
‘I remember -’ he paused. ‘I remember scraps, just like half-formed ideas, or dreams. Many things seem faintly familiar. You, for instance. I feel I have this connection to you. That doesn’t quite explain it, and maybe it’s just that you saved my life, even though you didn’t exactly stick it through, but -’
‘That’s sweet honey, but you’re not the first man to tell me you have a connection to me, or whatever. I suppose you’ve also forgotten all the times you’ve tried to get into my pants?’
A blush failed to materialise. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in what he thought might pass for an abashed tone.
She stared. ‘Who the fuck are you and what have you done with Jay?’
He shrugged. ‘Am I right in thinking I can trust you?’
Sav laughed, the kind of unsubtle laugh that’s done right in someone’s face. That face being his own. ‘Trust me?’ she cried gleefully. ‘Listen my poor bitch, you can’t trust me an inch. And that’s an inch more than you can offer!’
‘But you must like me, surely?’
‘But then why save my life?’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose you amuse me.’ She banged her mug down. ‘Bar keep!’ she yelled. ‘Another!’
The bartender bustled over to her and refilled, smiling lopsidedly at Sav. She glared at Jay, then took the call from a woman chanting for what Jay’s mind translated as “black beer”.
‘You didn’t pay anything.’
‘Course not,’ Sav said, face half-hidden inside her mug. ‘She knows who I am.’
‘And who are you?’
‘Don’t make me repeat myself.’
Jay sighed. The woman was hard work, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It struck him as funny – odd funny, not ha-ha funny – that he could consider himself a beggar when it came to a lady – a woman, he corrected himself, not a lady – of such looks. Erotic appeal dripped from her, right down to the semi-contemptuous expression she fixed him with.
‘People here are strange,’ he said, looking back to his glass and taking another sip.
‘Speak for yourself, cock-smith.’
‘Can’t you be nice? It’s already a really fucking hard and confusing day, and I’m completely by myself here.’
‘What I meant was that, well, when I came into town everybody looked at me. I mean everybody. Do they not like outsiders in this town?’
‘Honey, they looked at you because they know you. You’ve been in this town for months. That, and you look like shit.’
‘They can’t know me . . . A man with a big moustache pulled me out of the water trough and didn’t know me, he looked fixing to kill me.’
‘That’ll be Remembrance Ed. Edder Van Took. He’s only got the short term memory. And he hates just about everyone, least of all anybody darker or redder than him. Sometimes he remembers people, but only if he really, really hates them.’
‘Oh.’ Jay took another drink. ‘But if they know me, why all the stares? Just for looking a bit rough and thirsty?’
‘No. Because you were hauled outta here your hands behind your back kicking and screaming early this morning.’
‘By who! Oh. Ah.’ He tapped his fingers on his glass. ‘So they’re all dead then?’
‘Well, the three brothers are, yes.’
‘They were brothers? Oh.’
‘So it’s just the dad left.’
‘I’d say he’s old and won’t be a bother, but he got their mother pregnant at twelve. That’s him twelve, I should say. She was a lot older and dead now. And he’s still going, leading his boys.’
‘Can I talk to him about it?’
‘He’s a murderous cunt and his three sons have just died. He won’t have heard about it yet, but he will. You had a hand in one, he’s gonna believe you had a hand in all three. What do you think?’
‘I’ve really got enough to be worrying about. What did I do for them to want to kill me? I mean originally?’
‘You fucked their sister.’
‘Is that all? I mean, their sister? Christ, I bet she was a bit of a sight. I hope she didn’t have a beard too.’
‘I doubt it would have stopped you.’
‘You make me sound like an animal. Wait – she did want to be fucked, didn’t she?’
‘You tell me.’
Jay felt his shoulders slump. ‘I really don’t know anything.’
Sav clapped him on the back cheerfully. ‘There you go, you do know something! You have remembered that you know nothing. This makes you as complete as you ever were.’ She drained her cup and got up. ‘For crying out loud, finish your whiskey already, you wet fucking blanket.’
‘I have a feeling -’ he started.
‘Better stop it then,’ she interrupted, picking up the glass and tipping it to his face. Before he knew it the last mouthfuls of whiskey-substitute was speeding towards his mouth. He gulped twice and Sav let go of the glass; it bounced off his knee and hit the floor, smashing.
His throat roared with fire and instant bile that he struggled to push away. The broken glass hadn’t concerned the other patrons, but the bartender was already over, shouldering past Jay with a broom in her hands.
‘I got it Savvi,’ she said with a beaming smile that crinkled the corners of two rather beautiful big eyes.
‘Thanks, Sal,’ Sav replied. ‘Sorry about Jay Wulf.’
‘It’s fine, fine,’ Sal said, not looking at Jay. ‘Up to his old tricks, I assume?’
‘If you mean being a dick, then yes, why stop now?’ Sav put a hand firmly on Jay’s back and pushed him out the bar before he could respond.
‘I’ve seen you drink better men and women under the table,’ Sav muttered as they returned to outside. The lilac sky had deepened and reddened to a rich magenta. The sun was hidden behind the peaked two-floored building signposted REST HOUSE, giving the edges of the dwelling a vibrant purple glow. It was on the other side of the street, and she steered him in its direction.
‘Tell me something, Sav.’ When she didn’t reply, he turned to her. ‘Savvi?’
‘When you see me, what you see?’
‘Is this a test?’
‘I see a cunt.’
‘No, I mean . . . What am I? What . . . race . . . species . . .’
She looked at him askance. ‘You’re a Rathian . . . a human.’
‘A human,’ he repeated. ‘How interesting.’
‘Why is that interesting?’
Jay hesitated, and Sav pushed open the door to the rest house. It swung in with a long, coffin creak. ‘Where I’m from,’ he said under his breath. ‘They call me and people like me human, too.’
‘Have you always been this mad?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘More so recently. You better get used to it.’
Jay waited as the two of them stood by the door. A small spectacled man behind a desk was filling in some forms, and hadn’t investigated his new customers.
‘Well?’ Sav said. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Oh. I thought, I thought -’
‘Are you an invalid? Do it yourself.’
Jay approached the desk, and pulled out the rest of the money from his pockets. ‘Erm, one night, please.’
‘He’ll stay for as long as,’ Sav said. ‘And pay once a week.’
The man peered out at them like a mole. ‘Do I have your word on that, ma’am?’
‘No. If he doesn’t, kick him out. Just don’t come to me asking for money. You won’t get it.’
‘Charming,’ Jay said.
‘First week up front,’ the clerk said stiffly. ‘Ten queens. Plus five queens deposit.’
‘Steep,’ Sav said. ‘What’s this town coming to, that’s what I want to know.’
‘Feel free to take your business elsewhere, ma’am. You know how I feel about this one.’
‘What about me?’ Jay said. ‘Do we know each other?’
‘The gall to ask that,’ the clerk said, his eyes cold. ‘No, you do not know me, Mr Wulf, but I do believe you know my wife.’
‘He’s been saying that quite a lot today,’ chipped in Sav.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jay said. ‘I don’t remember anything. Where is your wife?’
‘Kept away from you.’
Jay took Sav aside. ‘I’m not a very nice person, am I?’
‘I told you you were a cunt.’
‘Do you not think it better to go someone where else? A place perhaps where I haven’t fucked the owner’s wife? Or sister, daughter, mother, horse, or any other relation of.’
Sav put her finger on her lower lip and pulled it down thoughtfully, showing the bottom array of little white stones. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure that gives us many options’.
‘Come on. Can’t I stay with you?’
‘Are you joking?’
‘Fifteen queens,’ repeated the clerk. ‘Please.’
‘Stop faffing, my horny little beast boy.’ Sav pinched his side and he yelped, dropping a coin. ‘All he wants is the money. Pay up and trouble over.’
Jay picked up the coin and laid them all out on the desk. ‘This is what I have.’
‘You have five kings and ten queens,’ the clerk counted. ‘And four jackals,’ he sniffed.
‘Good. That sounds like enough.’
‘Well it isn’t.’
‘Really?’ Jay pawed at the coins. ‘How many queens to a king?’
‘There are five kings to one queen.’
‘Oh. Um. So I have . . . eleven queens. And four jackals. Which makes . . .’
‘Eleven queens and four jackals.’
‘Unfortunate,’ Sav said. ‘Give him your gun.’
‘My gun? Won’t I be needing that?’
‘You’ll just have to take your chances, until you find another.’
‘Whereabouts am I to find another gun, without any money?’
‘Perhaps you can wrestle one off the next person who tries to kill you.’
‘Sounds great,’ Jay said. He pulled out the gun and laid it on the table with the coins. ‘The gun for the deposit. The queens for the week.’
The clerk wrinkled his nose. ‘Not the finest specimen in the world.’
‘Will it do for the deposit?’
‘Of course it fucking will,’ Sav said. ‘It’s still a gun. People usually want their guns back.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Jay said.
The clerk stooped and placed the gun under the counter, inside a box that he locked with a click. Then he swept the coins off the counter and into his hands, before carefully depositing them one by one (counting all the time) into the till.
‘Your room is upstairs, last on the right.’
‘Do I get a key?’
‘No. There are no keys.’
‘How am I supposed to get in?’
‘You could try pushing,’ the man said flatly, in that kind of polite sarcasm aggravated service staff were so adept at the universe over. ‘That usually works. If that fails you could always try giving it a good hard ram. It seems to be your go-to move, don’t you think? It certainly served you well with my wife.’
‘I’ll be off now,’ Jay said. ‘Sorry again.’
‘Stop apologising for things,’ Sav said. ‘It’s getting boring.’
He turned and noticed she wasn’t following him up the staircase.
‘I’m going back to the bar,’ she said, noticing his expression. She was sat up on the desk; the clerk was trying to busy himself with his forms, and not lose himself in the contours of her lower back and sides that beckoned smooth and honeyed in the gaps in her clothing. ‘And no, I am not sharing a room with you. Not now, not ever.’
‘I didn’t mean -’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’
‘Where will I find you tomorrow?’
‘Alright,’ Jay said. ‘And Sav . . . Thank you.’
‘Pft,’ she said, and she blew him a kiss, smirked, and was gone.
Jay trod with heavy feet up to his room. He still felt awful. He pushed open the door, worried for a second that he would intrude upon some barbaric couple mid-coitus who would nail him to the wall and make him watch.
Don’t be an idiot, he thought. They’d probably just shoot you.
The room was empty, though. He was going to consider that the room really couldn’t be much plainer, but that’s before he noticed the sink. A bed and a sink. That’s enough luxury for today. He rushed to it, turning the single tap on. There was a protesting groan, a rumble, and then to his relief came a trickle of not entirely lukewarm water. He cupped his hands and drank every time they filled up, until he had satiated himself and then some.
He lay on the bed. The door had closed itself. There was a flat white pillow on the bed, and a brown woollen blanket, but no sheets or duvet. He wasn’t about to complain. He got up only to close the curtains, barely registering the now bloody-red sky. What he did see was down on the street; the dog that he had seen from a distance yapping and rushing about was back.
Only it wasn’t a dog. For a start, it had six legs.
Jay shut it out of his sight, and fell back on the bed. The room was starting to lose focus, and he felt a great shuddering yawn run through him, a yawn that never left his mouth.
That creature wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before.
Those little black demon spots appeared again. They always danced away from him, seeming to be mocking him.
The sky was purple today.
He felt heavy, like he could sink right through the mattress. The bed propped him up only in the sense a still ocean propped up a floating body.
I’m on another planet.
I’m on another planet, and I’m not even me.
Jay felt the room spin, and his eyes closed, but whether it was by his own volition or not he wasn’t sure.
An extract from my adult sci-fi/fantasy/western novel The Wulf and the Tiger. This does not follow on from the previous part, but is a later extract. Please bear in mind it’s a first draft work in progress, and there may be mistakes not yet caught.
Jay bumped into Savvi, and Alexia into him. Savvi had stopped.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
Nobody answered, and he felt a touch on his other shoulder that, if he was a lesser man than he was now, would have made him piss himself. It’s Dol Sander. It’s Dol Sander. He’s telling you to shut up.
Jay listened. The blackness around him seemed to swallow all noise.
There it was. A slight slapping sound, like wet leather. He could not tell how close it was, only that it was to his right. Perhaps there was a passage that intersected with this one. Or maybe they were no longer in a passage at all, but they were in a vast hall. He had no way of knowing. Maybe Dol Sander was leading them past the sleeping quarters of hundreds of ghoums. The First Ones . . .
They stood frozen for what seemed like forever. Time as a measurable concept disintegrated, swallowed up by a bubble of empty night. His fingers dug into Savvi’s shoulder, and Alexia’s nails dug into his. He almost cried out loud when he felt something brush past his leg. It’s the tiger. It’s the fucking tiger. It’s furry, it’s the tiger. Why the fuck is the tiger moving? STOP MOVING YOU FURRY FUCK!
The scrabbling had disappeared into the distance, but still they were motionless. Eventually (and who knows how long it was in the end? An hour or a mere minute?) Dol Sander must have moved forward, for Savvi began to move also, and then they all were, a motley line of beings entirely out of their depth, walking on fear.
At first he thought he was imagining it, or that it was a trick of his vision. But no, there it was: light. It was very faint and low, but there was a green glow coming from up ahead. As they approached he began to make out the outlines of the others, the hand he waved in front of his face. The relief was palpable, but it was not to last.
The glow came from the rocks, he found. Some luminescent mineral. It was still barely enough to see by, but that was enough. He felt Savvi’s shoulders relax, and he let go. Alexia’s hand fell away from him.
Some kind of cave system, he thought at first, but as he looked around he saw the work of a fallen civilisation: sharp corners and smooth stones, crumbled doorways, pillars disappearing above them into oily heights. The glowing substance crawled and climbed over the place like weeds. Maybe it’s not a rock at all, maybe it’s some imitative fungus. Either way I’m thankful.
He was reaching out to touch one when Dol Sander stopped in front of them, a dagger silently appearing his hands. Jay looked past him and saw the ghoum.
It emerged from between two rocks with a slick, wet sound, its bald head bobbing from side to side like a moored boat. It shuffled closer, each of them holding their breath, staring directly at it or straight ahead in fixed terror. Jay was the former; he couldn’t keep his eyes off the creature. Dol Sander was right: it had no eyes, and only a small slit for a nose, but its ears were like deep gills cut into the sides of its face, and they seemed to tremble in the glowing darkness.
Its entire body was thin and fleshy, skin stretched over wasted muscles. Its hands and feet webbed, extended arms hanging loosely at its side. The way it moved seemed almost boneless.
Jay didn’t know what sound alerted it; someone must have breathed. Its head jerked up and it flopped, slopped towards them with a terrifying burst in speed. Its mouth yawned open displaying dripping gums and hundreds of needle-like teeth.
Everybody’s hands went to their weapons, but Dol Sander got there first. He flashed forward and the creature’s neck split open. Thick goo oozed out and the creature dropped – but not before it had made a hollow, reverberating groan, a disgusting oooooom noise that seemed cavernous.
Oooom, came the replies. Oooom. Ooooom.
‘Where are they coming from?!’ Alexia cried. ‘It’s everywhere!’
‘Silence, Alexia!’ Dol Sander said, his thin sword now clutched in his hand.
‘Too late now,’ Savvi said. ‘They’ve found us.’
‘It’s never too -’ started Dol Sander, but ducked as a pillar shattered by his head. If the creature’s dying call had seemed loud, the gunshot that boomed and echoed could have filled the world. It temporarily drowned out the ghoum calls, but as it faded they returned, tripled in number and in intensity.
‘Who the fuck was . . . It’s them!’ Dol Sander said, and they all turned with him to face what was behind.
‘Think they’ll band together with us against the ghoums?’ Jay said. He reached for his rifle but Dol Sander put his arm out and stopped him, dragging Jay to behind the pillar where Savvi and Alexia had darted. The tiger was already there, Alexia aggressively stroking his back, more likely for her comfort than his.
‘What do you think?’ Savvi said, hoisting her bow.
‘This is good,’ Dol Sander said. ‘No, it is. They will summon the ghoums. This was the plan. I had just hoped we would not have been with them at the time.’
‘So what, we run and hide?’
‘How quietly can you run?’
‘Never measured. You?’
They heard now a thum-thum-thum, and knew it as the hulk loping towards them, picking up speed with the single-minded force of a battering ram.
‘Everybody,’ Dol Sander said. ‘Run and hide. In my general direction. Go!’
‘Ghoums versus bad guys,’ Jay said, in between breaths as he took off. ‘We’re staying out of it.’
The fifth part of my adult sci-fi/western novel The Wulf and the Tiger. This follows directly on from the last part. Please bear in mind it’s a first draft work in progress (I’ve got much further than this part, though!).
The town came up first as a mirage. Only when Jay crawled closer did the clutter of shacks that occupied the long stretch of dry valley prove their firmness, their intent to stay.
His mind was screaming at him, but he wasn’t listening to it. He wasn’t listening to it because his throat was screaming louder. On hands and knees he shuffled through sand and along dusty rocks. The temperature was a little cooler now, but his head swam and he was starting to see dots that looked like a swarm of winged black demons coming down at him from far off in the sky.
He squinted and made out a few people in the street. There was a main thoroughfare that led along structures with signs like GUNSHOP and BAR – NO TROUBLE. The buildings were all made of a black wood that shined in the calming sun. A dog barked and raced from one side of the street to another.
Jay got to his feet slowly, groaning and shutting his eyes for a few seconds until the demons floated off. He looked behind him. The tiger was asleep. It had been noticeably impatient with him, and on this last crawling stretch it had simply laid down and shut its eyes.
Turning back his eye caught the promise of water. There was a trough where a few horses were tied, right at the edge of town. They took turns to gulp it gratefully – taller horses than he’d seen before, and slightly . . . pointier. There was a white mare with these big lazy pools for eyes, an imperious red with dark socks, and an exotic looking stallion as black as pitch, with flaming scarlet hair that burst all about him. He looked at Jay as he approached and seemed to nod. His hooves stamped the ground.
Jay was in no sense to avoid the horses, nor to play nice. He budged up beside the mare at the end, which whinnied at him, water dripping from its mouth. Then he sank to his knees and plunged his head into the trough. He barely noticed the taste of horse, only half-cared that the water was warm and had likely been sat out all day. Flies that sounded like fizzing soda hopped and skipped over his neck, and shoulders, and he let them. Under the water his gullet moved as he swallowed.
Just before he was ready to come up and drink with his hands he was pulled back and away by tough hands. He fell back, the hair that lay long about his forehead streaming little trails of trough water to the parched ground.
‘What in the name of fuck are you tryin’ to do?’ said a shadow over him.
Jay blinked. A man with a fat moustache and a bent hat was dragging him up to his feet.
‘I was thirsty,’ Jay said.
‘A lot of people get thirsty,’ said the man. ‘You know what they do? They go to the bar. They don’t try’n drown themselves in horse spit.’
‘Was desperate.’ Jay tried to brush his wet hair away from his face, and he wiped away the droplets that clung to his nose and chin.
‘Come in from the Wastes huh? Didn’t plan the journey? Look at the state of you. Tough but stupid, that’s it.’
‘I don’t know this place. At all.’
‘Yeah, well. This place is called Nohaven.’
‘It doesn’t sound too welcoming.’
‘That’s because it ain’t.’ The man stared at him with small eyes. ‘Go on, get. To the bar, to a bed, to the gunshop to blow your brains out, or right back the way you came, I don’t give one single golden fuck. Just get away from my horse and away from that trough. I ain’t havin’ to fish you out again when you’ve drowned and befouled the water for my ride.’ The man put a hand on its soft white coat.
‘I’ve already got a gun.’ Jay said. He pointed at his holster.
The small-eyed man snorted. ‘Call that a gun? I bet you could lay that piece of crap right against my forehead and pull the trigger and two seconds later we’d both be still standing wonderin’ where the bullet went.’
Jay’s hand played about his side, and the man opened his jacket slightly. ‘I dare ya,’ he said, as Jay glimpsed a bulging hunk of steel: an obese firearm strapped to his chest. Jay moved his hand from his holster to his waist and untied his shirt, walking off with feigned nonchalance as he wriggled back into it. He could feel the man’s eyes on the back of his neck.
The people were a motley scuffery of beaten jackets and shirts, plain half-cut dresses and makeshift skirts. Farmer shifts and fighting suits. Every outfit, every look seemed a hodgepodge, a DIY of appearance. They were everyone, it seemed, blacks and browns and reds, half-and-halves and the quartered, those whose pink or grey complexions were tinted or mottled a nearly seaweed green. There were the tattooed and there were the disfigured. There were even a couple of chalk-like figures – god knows how they didn’t tan under this sun.
A woman with lashes that curled out far from her face like spikes watched him, amber eyes flecked with crimson. As he drew closer he saw her carelessly tickling the two dozen knives that ringed her belt. A younger girl sat in the shadow of an overhang with an old man grinding blades. She looked about fifteen, with exceptionally pale blue eyes. Her hair hung white in four pigtails, and she stroked a gun that rested its butt on the ground and could well be nearly as tall as her standing. The old man glanced up, spat and went back to his work. His hair was tangled all the way down his back, and his mouth had been cut into a permanent scowl.
They watched him from all about, from windows and porch chairs, passing him in ones and twos on the thoroughfare; he was the outsider.
He walked into the bar. It was only slightly cooler in the shade; in here there was a kind of dank, heavy gloom, and a permeating odour of sweat and hard spirits. Jay’s eyes adjusted slowly. He imagined he had just walked into a saloon; that there might be a tinkling rag-time piano that suddenly stopped, and the faces of a dozen plus rogues turned to him in silence.
It wasn’t like that. They looked at him, but only for a second. There had been no music, only a constant hubbub of chatter running at different levels: the low murmurs and clandestine mumblings right up to raucous shouts and cat-calls. Just like outside, they were not cowboys, not exactly. There was the bandit in a number of them, there was no doubt about that and other tropes he could recognise – two prostitutes in the corner, or my name’s not (JAY WULF) – but nobody’s style he could easily label; he was reminded clearly of things from Earth and its history, and nothing here seemed particularly absurd or otherworldly in that regard, but there was nevertheless the unmistakeable feeling of something other; naturally developed and stained with the dust and labour of this land’s own history, and yet wholly new.
He sidled up to the bar in the most unobtrusive way he could manage, and found himself elbow-to-elbow with a middle-aged man with a square-ish bowler hat and a loosened tie, and all the demeanour of a merchant banker with more love for the drink than the job. Jay nodded at him and grinned – even my smile feels different, it feels more . . . wolfish – and the man shook his head, not making eye contact. Jay tried to look sympathetic, but the banker only shook his head again, raising his eyes only to stare wistfully into the faded bottle in front of him.
‘Well?’ The bartender was drumming her fingers; a motion of irritability not heard against the background noise.
‘Erm, whiskey,’ Jay said. ‘Please,’ he added, then regretting it as the barrel-bodied woman gave him a funny look.
He watched her pour it in front of him, a chest like two diving bells resting on the bar-top. He knew the word that had actually come out of his mouth wasn’t “whiskey”. The glass of muddy gold before him was only the nearest translation. He hoped it was nicer than neat whiskey; he’d only asked for the stuff to fit in, and could really have done with more water.
‘Three kings,’ she said.
‘That’ll be three kings you owe.’ She affixed a tried-and-true don’t-fuck-with-me expression and puffed herself up, not that any more notice could have been given to that full-buttocked chest. She may have been shorter than most of the patrons there, but she sure as sin was wider – and deeper – and even presuming no weapons with slugs the size of sword hilts lay within easy reach of those big, clasping hands, she could no doubt barrel most trouble out the door. A scar on her cheek stood testimony to at least one altercation she’d survived.
Jay dug into his pants pocket and found the red poker-chip coins he’d stolen off the dead men. It seemed that a few had gone missing, no doubt lost in his scrabbles. Now he could see that they were of three different sizes and abrasions; each textured uniquely to the touch.
‘Which one are the kings?’ he said.
The bar woman raised an unimpressed eyebrow. ‘The big ones.’
He plucked out three of them and deposited them in her outstretched hand. She closed her fist and quickly snapped it back, looked him up and down and turned away to serve another further down. Jay sipped his drink. He grimaced. Yep, that was as bad as whiskey. A dirty, warm whiskey carrying a flavour reminiscent of slightly off berry . . . one of the berries, one of the ones nobody remembered . . .
He picked up his glass and gave the liquid a swirl. There were waves of a darker colour, that glided phantasmal and elfin. He caught the reflection, and turned to his right, where she was sitting.
The fourth part of my adult sci-fi/western novel The Wulf and the Tiger. This follows directly on from the last part. Please bear in mind it’s a first draft work in progress.
The man with the green eyes rose his head. ‘An oversight,’ he repeated simply.
The man with the green eyes stood stiff. ‘We don’t quite understand sir. Not yet. But we’re missing someone. He’s gone completely off the grid.’
The man with the green eyes nodded. ‘It has happened before.’
The man with the green eyes looked a little surprised. ‘It has, sir?’
The man with the green eyes looked at the man with the green eyes. ‘How old are you?’
‘Six hundred, sir.’
‘You are very young.’
‘I know sir. I’m good at what I do, sir.’
‘When you get as old as me, you see a lot of mistakes in the universe. A lot of problems, especially when it comes to Reshuffles.’ He paused, then stroked his smooth head with a forefinger, as though slicking down invisible hair. ‘I don’t think there’s anything in the universe or out of it that can be surprise me. I’ve seen everything.’
‘Find out what happened. If there’s a culprit, find them. And find whoever went missing. Nobody gets to leave the grid. And nobody is untraceable.’
‘He was from Earth-502, sir. His name is -’
The man with the green eyes looked coldly at his inferior. ‘I do not care what his name is. Find him.’
Any fool could tell you not to fall asleep beside a wild tiger, but Jay Wulf had gone and done just that. It wasn’t as though he’d planned to. There had been no point when he’d yawned and settled down, thinking ‘I’ll just close my eyes for a wink, I’m sure I’ll hear if the tiger gets up to maul me.’
It had merely been the case that one moment he was awake and the next, as the lilac sky deepened and the indigo clouds drifted back from the horizon, he was not. There was a sensation in his head of a whirlpool; circling it, and being sucked ever downwards.
His last thoughts were nothing concrete, merely a spiral of tigers of all colours, and the report of guns everywhere, and of alien technology, lasers and leviathan ships. And then just the desert, and the woman Sav coming from out the sand, swaying towards him, and how his insides breathed for her, how he ached.
Eventually the tiger closed its own eyes and began to purr next to him in sleep.
The mind of Jay Wulf was a mess. It stank – sweet smells and sour, all carrying a familiarity that he could not put his finger on. There was clutter everywhere; he moved through a room filled with pelts and ripped silk, with leather half cut into holsters and saddles. There was bloodstains on the floorboards and hung on the half rotting walls were guns and knives and swords. The furniture was a hodgepodge of old and new, and was piled high with trinkets and semi-valuable treasures. There was an old ship’s wheel resting against the wall, almost the size of him. A nearby fire burned low in a grate, casting flickers on the wheel that made it look like it was reliving past battles of sword and flame.
On blankets and fur strewn in the centre were several naked women. They were beautiful in that vague, dream-like way, where no one aspect can be concentrated on enough to provide any real kind of definition to the person, no sense that any part of who they were could survive awakening.
‘Hello, Jay,’ purred one of the women. Just like the tiger.
‘Hello,’ Jay replied. ‘Where am I?’
The women just smiled at him. ‘Come to bed, Jay,’ they said.
‘Who are you? No, for that matter, who am I?’
They giggled. ‘You know who you are,’ said one.
‘Jay Wulf, I suppose,’ he said.
‘The greatest fighter in the world,’ cooed one of them.
‘The greatest lover in the world,’ said another.
‘The greatest man -’
‘With the biggest -’
The final words were gurgled as the room blew away like smoke.
‘Get off her,’ he said.
The man glanced behind him to see a gun pointed at his head. ‘What’s this?’ he growled, after a hesitation.
The man spat, half on the bed, half on the woman. ‘It’s got fuck all to do with you.’
Jay Wulf looked down at her, then back at the man. ‘Lady says no,’ he said simply.
‘Lady,’ the man snorted. ‘When a whore says no she says yes.’
The woman punched him in the side, and he grunted and drew a knife on her. ‘Do that again. Do that again.’
‘Sometimes, sure,’ Jay said. ‘But when this whore says no she means no.’ His gun remained trained on the man, unwavering.
‘And you can tell how?’
‘You can tell by not being a fucking idiot.’
The man moved his knife from the woman’s throat and turned it quickly in his hand, and Jay shot him in the forehead.
He shoved him off the woman and lifted her to her feet.
‘You got blood all over my fucking dress,’ she said.
‘Don’t I get a thank you?’ He holstered his gun.
She looked him up and down. ‘You want a thank you for stopping him raping me? You’re not serious. That’s duty, not heroism.’
‘Not in this place it ain’t. Duties like that, they don’t stay around forever with lack of reward. Aye, well. I suppose.’ He leaned against the wall and spat. ‘You staying here? Want me to take you someplace else?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘What do you want, you want to try your luck too?’
‘Maybe I do,’ he replied. ‘But not tonight, I think. Tomorrow, perhaps. But it’ll be all luck and trying, and nought else.’
He yawned as she scowled. ‘But another whore will do,’ he said. ‘Willing and paid in more than good coin, have no fear. Fact, I think I’ll go for it now, taking your leave miss. Shooting that fella off you and meeting your fine self got my blood up and my dick hard.’
She stared at him in disbelief and anger. ‘You’re aroused from preventing a rape by way of murder?’
Jay laughed huskily. ‘Sounds a lot worse the way you put it. I wouldn’t put too much by it, though. My dick is always hard. It gets hard at someone opening a door, gets hard at another closing it.’
She looked down and said in a scathing tone, ‘it don’t look hard.’
Jay laughed. ‘Aye, down for one minute, out of respect.’ He nodded at her and stood up off the wall. ‘I’ll be going now. Don’t mind him no more’ – he kicked the dead body – ‘I’m sure you can sleep around him. Get some rest. Whores need their rest.’
‘Whores need a day where they aren’t whores.’
‘That too.’ He touched his brow and left, leaving bloody footprints on the wood that got fainter and fainter with every step.
He woke up to the tiger once again a few inches from his face, upside down and glaring, with an insistent rumbling kind of purr that was closer to growl. Jay yelled and sprang up, and the tiger watched him disdainfully as he scrambled to get to the uncovered gun.
Jay picked it up and – under the tiger’s watch – slowly put it in his holster. Finding out that he hadn’t been ripped apart after he’d passed out had given him enough reason to believe that his life wasn’t in danger any more. Well, not from the tiger at least. No doubt the rest of this land (wherever the Hell it was) wanted to kill him.
‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said.
The tiger yawned at him. A long yawn, too long by Jay’s count.
‘Are you done? Neither of us, I think, wants to hurt each other. But I mean, well, am I crazy here? You’re a smart cat, aren’t you?’
The tiger licked his lips.
Jay sighed. ‘Be that way. I’m going on. I may be in a new body in quite possibly a new world, but I sure know what hunger and thirst feel like. I feel . . . not good, and I need saving. I need to get to the nearest town, and the sooner the better or I’m gonna die out here.’
The tiger watched Jay stand up wearily and turn away.
‘Leaving me to it?’ Jay said, then shrugged his shoulders and continued on.
Jay was about to pass between two shelves of rock when he felt teeth on his leg. He yelled out and kicked away, and the tiger backed off, snarling.
‘Listen, fuck off!’ Jay said, removing the gun from his holster and waving it ineffectually once more. He replaced it back in its holster and made to move on.
The tiger darted in and bit at his leg again, but this time it just caught the light cloth of his pants. They didn’t rip, but the tiger was dragging him, and Jay staggered, trying to keep his balance.
‘What is it!’ More like a dog than a cat, he thought. The kind of dog move that means something . . . ‘What’s that boy?’ he said, leaning down. ‘Timmy fallen down the well? Ouch!’ He lifted his leg and rubbed it where the tiger had bit him, harder than before. ‘Alright alright! What do you want?’
The tiger padded away a few steps, then looked meaningfully back at him.
‘You want me to go that way? That’s the way I came from!’
The tiger said nothing, but waited impatiently.
‘Let me think for a second.’ The tiger flopped to the ground. ‘Well,’ Jay pondered out loud, ‘if I follow you, you might just lead me back to my starting position, you might lure me into an ambush and eat me . . . although I suppose you could have killed me at any point . . . But you could just be taking me back to your lair, which wouldn’t exactly do me much good, unless . . . unless you know where water is? I’m not going to feast on any raw critter you have waiting for me, I’ll have you know. Then there’s the other hand, I suppose if I ignore you you’ll just keep biting and dragging me, won’t you?’
The tiger nodded.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying! I know you do! Hello!’ Jay waved his hand in the tiger’s face.
The tiger looked at him balefully, then stood up and walked off.
‘Alright, I’m coming. All I’m saying, is if you lead me into a trap, or worse, to nowhere at all, and I die because of you, I’m going to be pretty mad. I’m just saying.’
Jay picked his way back among the rocks, his throat aching. I need drink soon. The tiger has to keep hydrated too. I just wish that Sav woman hadn’t fucked off . . . no doubt a tendency to quickly fuck off has served her well in the past.
She saved me, though. So that must mean at least one person is on my side. Somewhat.
Unless she just wants to kill me herself at a later date.
He remembered the dream. Walking slowly amongst the room of junk and treasure, guns and blades and blood, the room of animal furs and naked, flattering ladies.
Then he remembered what came after, and he knew it hadn’t been a dream, not really.
It had been a memory.
The Gauntlet of Gore is a strange and bloody short story/novella about a competitive school sport where players punch opposing players in the stomach with a powered gauntlet, which makes the person explode.
There is also a pervading supernatural horror element – and some of the creepiest team captains you may ever encounter…
You can find it on Amazon here.
Here is a second extract to read. This extract does not follow on from the prior one.
She ran from the battle.
She ran from her team mates.
She ran from Mike.
‘Sarah!’ she heard the cry behind her, but she didn’t look around; she was too busy jumping fallen branches, ducking and dodging, and putting her screaming legs to the limit as she sprinted through the darkness.
Gotta stay alive, she repeated to herself, and even the disembodied voice in her head was panting the words. Can’t win if I’m dead, it shifted to, and she began to convince herself that this was strategy, and not a cowardly, selfish flight.
The trees clustered in closer, and she slowed, eventually coming to a halt when she could no longer hear any signs of pursuit. She walked among the bones of black trees, feeling sick and empty. She snapped off some broad leaves from a plant and tried to wipe some of the muck off her face.
She had lost all sense of direction. She didn’t know if she was heading back to the field, or deeper into the woods.
It was starting to get cold. While it might be daylight outside, in here it might as well be night. She inspected the trees closely, but she couldn’t see a single camera, and she had a chilling feeling that nobody knew where she was, that she was entirely alone.
The noise was like the creak of a door, or a slowly falling tree, except it wasn’t natural, but came from a mouth. It rose in volume, a harpy screech that seemed to come from every nook and pore of the forest.
‘Who’s there?’ Sarah called out, not caring anymore about revealing her position to another player. She wanted to surrender. She wanted to put her arms up, take her gauntlet off and give herself up.
But she knew that you couldn’t surrender. Not in this game. If you put your arms up, you were dead.
Then someone, something came out from behind a tree, a tree so thin it seemed impossible it could have hidden her, it. The woman was completely naked, pale as death and almost skeletal. Her bones gleamed slightly, with an almost sickly wet pallor. There was nearly no light, but the woman’s popping, owl-ish eyes shone black and white, like polished snooker balls.
The creature was the Stonewaters captain, and she was smiling, impossibly wide and stretched, her rubbery lips coming almost up to her eyeballs. The teeth had come out from the gums, and were now as long as fingers, as thin as twigs and as sharp as stakes.
Sarah couldn’t breathe. Her feet were stuck to the ground. She saw the pale monster reach out her spindly arms, holding them outstretched before her. The fingers, like the teeth, were longer than before, and were growing before her eyes. The fingers came out like a network of roots blossoming in fast forward through the earth. They crept through the air towards her, multiplying in crooked joints with every few inches gained. As they grew, they creaked and rasped.
Sarah screamed then, trailing off in a whimper when she saw the huge eyes light up, as though inner delight fed the torch that burned behind those black-white bulbs.
The creature licked its lips with a slimy black tongue.
‘We took care of the cameras, dearie,’ said the creature in a voice like a saw. ‘Nobody sees when we don’t want them to.’
The two other captains appeared from behind poles of bark to either side of the woman, both as naked, like sharp white stick figures animated out from black line trees.
They were smiling too.
Sarah heard the drone, the sound that had replayed in her head since yesterday, since listening to the captains stood tall and grinning on that stage. That flat buzzing sound that now came from everywhere, came from inside her, trembling like worms in her veins and flies in her guts.
She put her hands over her ears, but the droning, the creaking, the screech of the captains was not muffled. The woman’s fingers had reached her now, tickling her chest and neck. The fingertips curled and tried to hook her, to snag her flesh.
The droning was increasing in volume, and Sarah imagined a brush in her mind, a hard thin broom with fingers for bristles, sweeping away the clutter of her thoughts, sweeping away her horror, slowly leaving her mind’s corridors and halls polished and empty, with only the scrape of fingernails to mark them.
The terror faded, and numbness washed through her. The woman’s groaning fingers tickled her mouth, trying to pry her lips open so they could come inside.
The finger-broom in her mind opened the doors to her memories, and advanced.
The third part of my adult sci-fi/western novel The Wulf and the Tiger. This follows directly on from the last part. Please bear in mind it’s a first draft work in progress.
He’d discarded what he could only call his shirt – he supposed once upon a time it was a distant relation to the colour white – and wrapped it around his waist, after sawing away his bonds on a rock. They were in bad condition and it didn’t take long. The sweat dripped down his skin, as the white yolk of the purple-frayed sun rose higher in the sky. He’d forgotten to ask for directions from Sav to the town, but he wondered if she’d even have helped. Whenever he thought of her, he got this slightly sick feeling, low down in him. A kind of bristling, impatient warmth that was nothing to do with the sun. He wondered how much of this feeling was him alone, and how much belonged to this body.
Jay Wulf was going the wrong way.
He inspected for the hundredth time what he could make out of his chest and arms. He couldn’t stop – it’s not every day that the body you’ve grown up with, grown wearyingly used to seeing every day in the mirror or whenever you look down, is suddenly entirely different and novel.
Past his hands – which were solid red gloves of skin, trailing past his wrists in flames – most of his skin seemed mottled, a kind of paler Middle-Eastern thing going on for the base, then covered with the same doomy scarlet in twisted abstractions and patterns – if patterns there were.
Burn victim? He wondered. Pigmentation, port-wine birth marks? Somehow he thought not, not with the variety and wildness that these blood stains draped and dappled his skin. He resolved to find a mirror as soon as possible.
He’d hung around the dead men for a while, a task not a grisly as he’d have expected. He took money from their pockets – a handful of round red coins like poker chips. It wasn’t until later that he even thought twice about this.
The men had been a single colour, all hairy and beardy. They looked very barbarous, but he figured they could have passed for half normal Earth-people if you’d stripped them (which he hadn’t). That was until he found the second set of ears half hidden by their hair.
Now, panting under the midday sun as he leaped the land with newfound agility and vigour, he realised that was another thing he should have asked her. He should have asked her if he was human.
He heard a scrabble of pebbles from behind him, and span around. There was nobody there.
‘Show yourself!’ he said, his voice showing the kind of no-bullshit aggressiveness his previous voice had never had.
There was silence.
‘I warn you, I’ve got a gun!’ He meant this as a lie, but then realised he’d taken a gun off one of the men. The same gun that meant to take his life. It was another thing he’d done without really thinking about it, on an autopilot he had no truck relying on, not this soon after an entry into a new world of fucked up.
He pulled the gun out of his holster – another thing that had been there all along. Little fragments of Jay Wulf were revealing themselves to his attention, as though in a queue, all waiting to come into play at their intended time. The pigmentation, the strange pendant hung from his neck, the hair shaved at the sides and long at the top. The array of muscles that shone tan and red and purple in the light. The gathered weight in his loins. The holster on his belt.
And what does that tell me? It tells me I’m the kind of man who is used to carrying a gun.
He’d never shot a gun before. Hell, he’d never even handled one. But now he clutched it with undeniable familiarity, the grip comfortable in a palm that was the driest part of his body. It looked old and worn and ugly, like something belonging to a previous age of the Earth, but it was nothing he could name, short of ‘pistol’. It looked very loud and very lethal.
A tiger slunk out from a boulder. It was black with red stripes; not the red of his skin but a bold, bright scarlet that seemed like jags of red lightning over the fur of the night. The claws – even the teeth were red. It moved calmly, carefully, sweeping its tail in the dust. But its dark gaze didn’t leave his face, and its teeth were bared.
He waved the gun. ‘Get back!’
The tiger stopped, but continued to glare at him. It was crouching now, tense.
‘Don’t even -’
The tiger sprang.
He was bowled over by the full weight of the thing – are all tigers this big?! – was his thought as he fit the ground with a thud. He was surprised to find a lack of savage teeth sinking into his neck. There was hot breath on his face. He opened his eyes tentatively, to see the tiger’s glaring eyes two inches from his. Its claws were gripping him tight, but not puncturing – not yet.
His arms were pinned beneath the weight of the tiger. The gun had fallen from his hand. He couldn’t even struggle – not with those teeth so sharp and so close to his jugular.
For a few seconds there was nothing but the breath of the tiger and the thump of two hearts. He could feel the tiger’s heartbeat through his own chest, and wondered if the tiger had the same sensation.
It roared, a sound that seemed to fill the world. It lasted a long time, and that was one more time that day the newly thinking Jay Wulf would cringe and expect a gory death.
Even now a whimper wouldn’t come. Even at my own demise I’m a hard-ass, apparently. Not a man for whom whimpers come easy.
The tiger’s eyes retreated, the weight lifted. He rolled away and backed up in a crouch. He looked to the gun but the tiger growled, and then went over and sat on it. It never took its eyes from his.
Cats never had the most tell-tale of expressions, but he had never seen such a curious look to one. That it was angry, that was certain, but there was more than that, hidden behind the impassive features . . . Annoyance? Frustration? And . . . confusion? Wonder? The tiger was staring at him with wide imperious eyes as though Jay was a marvel, a profoundly irritating source of amazement, something it’d never really seen before.
Maybe it hasn’t?
Every so often it growled low in its throat, or flexed its claws, or shook its head, as though trying to dispel an illusion. But if it meant me harm, it’d have done it already.
He stood up. The big cat did too.
‘I’d like my gun back,’ he said.
The tiger shook its head slowly.
He blinked. ‘You can understand me?’
The tiger just looked at him.
‘Okay . . .’ He felt like he was slipping, talking to a tiger. Relax, you’re doing pretty good for someone completely out of their depth.
He took a few steps back. The tiger took a few steps forward.
‘Are you going to follow me?’
The tiger did not reply.
‘Well. What should I call you? Tigger? Stripes?’
The growl rose, and so did haunches.
‘Alright alright. I guess you’ll just be a tiger then.’ The tiger laid back down on the gun and put its head on its paws. It finally took its eyes off Jay and sank them to the ground.
The second part of my adult sci-fi/western novel The Wulf and the Tiger. This follows directly on from the last part. Please bear in mind it’s a first draft work in progress.
He tensed, closed his eyes, there was a small thuk and the pressure of the gun fell away.
He opened an eye, then both. The two men in front of him were looking around wildly, pistols in their hands. The man who had been about to pull the trigger on him was laid on his arms in the sand. A fine breeze was picking up and throwing the grains to stick to the blood.
This time he saw the arrow; it whistled in and went through the eye of the beardiest. And before he knew what was happening he had charged forward into the man remaining, headbutting him to the ground. He straightened and stamped on the man’s fingers, kicking the gun away, then kicking down hard on his neck. He put all his weight on one foot, crushing the man’s windpipe, then hopped his tied wrists over one leg, so his hands were now hooked around his crotch. He quickly switched feet before the man could draw a breath, and did the same movement with the other leg.
With bonded double fists he made to punch the man out, but by the looseness of the neck and the open eyes it seemed the man was dead.
He sat down, unsure of what had just happened. He wasn’t a fighter, but he’d just gone for a man with a gun. He could have waited; why get in the way of his mysterious saviour and his arrows?
He’d gone for a man and he’d killed him in a matter of movements – movements he’d never made before. What was worse, he didn’t feel like he thought he would, those times when he’d lay in bed and wonder what it would be like to kill another human. He tried to summon the shock, the numbness or hysteria, the overpowering guilt and regret, the anger . . . none of it came. It was though there was a new part of him, a part that dominated and reacted to the murder with a mere shrug of the shoulders.
He looked at his hands. A new part of me? I’m all new parts. His hands were red, not just the rawness around the ropes but everywhere, a deep, dark red with even darker nails. It wasn’t a dyed red, or a sunburned red. It was a skin colour red, a red like blood.
He looked up, and stared. His archer was a she, a woman – that much was obvious right from the get go. He didn’t think he’d seen anyone like her, except possibly as some kind of fantasy art back on . . . back in . . . back where he came from. She was an Amazonian: that was his first thought. He was taller in this new body, he could tell, but she was taller still. Not freakish in height, but enough to balance the sumptuousness of her caramel body with the aura of dominance. A long black bow hung around her, a stretch of black string kept tucked away in the shadows of her cleavage.
She raised one dark eyebrow at him, then, as he continued to look on dumbly, she stepped over to the man he had felled.
‘Yes,’ she said simply, returning to him. ‘Cat got your tongue, Jay?’
That’s my name. Or rather, that’s the name of this body. Jay . . . Jay Wulf. The name came to him, tumbling up from somewhere inside.
‘Who are you?’
‘Fuck off,’ she said. She sat down. ‘I know you have a dog’s eyes Jay, but this is taking the piss even for you. You look like you’ve never seen a Savvi before.’
Taking the piss. His brain was immediately translating into the most recognisable of forms, slang and all. Learning American.
‘What’s a Savvi?’ he said.
‘I’m Savvi, dick.’ Her eyes narrowed as there was no sign of recognition. ‘Sav. What’s the matter with you? You get hit on the head again?’
‘I take it we’re supposed to know one another.’
‘No shit. Oh for crying out loud. I’m not hanging around for all this.’
She stood up. ‘I’m going.’
He offered his hands up pitifully. ‘Can you at least cut me free?’
She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘I’m not getting that close to you.’
‘You’ve got knives all over you, just pass me one . . . gently.’
The woman who called herself Savvi, or Sav, laughed. ‘You really must have hit your head if you think I’m going to give you a blade.’
He wanted to weep, but it seemed Jay’s body had little time for such things, and he resorted to falling to his knees and putting his head in his hands.
‘Aw, poor baby,’ she said.
‘I’ve only been here a few minutes,’ he said into his hands. He tried to make it sound self-pitying to earn some sympathy, but it didn’t work with his new voice; he just sounded frustrated. ‘And already I’ve barely escaped dying, killed a man who was probably going to kill me, and now left for dead by a . . . a woman who . . . by my own saviour, who, who won’t listen to me,’ he finished lamely.
She rolled her eyes. ‘What rubbish. I’m not leaving you for dead, there’s all manner of sharp rocks you can cut your bonds on. Then you’re free to go back to town, or wherever you want. The key word you used is “saviour”. I really should stop saving your life, it’s getting to be quite a bad habit.’ The words dripped silkily from the kind of lips that could swallow a man up but would never stoop to kiss his ass.
He watched her walk away from him. He didn’t know if she was swaying or he was. He could smell blood on the breeze.
She picked up speed, and soon she was running over slope and scree, arrows lightly quivering. He marvelled at the way she moved, like she was half elf half . . . panther. Her ebony form seemed to fade in and out of the rocks, the black and brown of the straps and scraps of her clothing the perfect camouflage. Her black hair lay as still as a dark pool, and crossed the land like a shadow of a great bird.
I wonder how many men have spent too long looking at her, he wondered, and not at her arrows and knives.
He rose suddenly. ‘Wait,’ he cried out. ‘WAIT!’ My new favourite word.
‘I’m still not gonna fuck you!’ Her voice sailed back at distance, before she was lost to him.
He stood still, bewildered. Who am I?!
Jay Wulf. That’s who I am. That’s who I am in this world. I’ll find out more about me, what kind of person I am, but I’m starting to get an idea.
I’ll find out everything. Where I am, who I am, who she is, and what the fuck happened to me.
And how to get home, and back to my old body, said a smaller voice in him.
‘Steady on,’ he said, feeling the strength in him like a second sun. Overhead the pure lilac sky was carrying away a single coupling of indigo clouds. ‘Let’s not be hasty.’
This ain’t Tolkien!
The Wulf and the Tiger is my in-progress novel, still fairly early stages, that contains some pretty big ideas to it. Think a both gritty and comedic blend of sci-fi, fantasy and western, all with a real world backing to it. It’s adult, it’s humorous, it’s bloody, it’s complex (a little bit of brain melting might occur), it’s full of surprises, and it’s got some seriously badass characters. I certainly hope anyone looking for ‘strong female characters’ won’t be disappointed.
I also intend for it to be the first in a crazy series (but let’s not get ahead of ourselves).
I’ve mentioned it before, but not posted anything written until now. Here is the very first part. I hope you like it. Please bear in mind that it is a first draft, a work-in-progress, and may undergo corrections and revisions in the future.
All across the world philosopher scientists united, having finally discovered the Ultimate Secret: the meaning of life, the meaning of existence, and the meaning behind the universe, all of which amounted to pretty much the same thing.
In reaction to this monumental breakthrough the Earth was racked by waves of suicides. Countless others were numb and silent. Many stayed in denial.
The deniers would convert the fastest.
It was around this time that the universe (which was only a mirage, a trick, anyway – not that they knew) was Reshuffled, as it sometimes was.
The order of things is moved around. Different minds to different bodies. Some of it is repair work, but most of it is experimental. Memories are changed to fit the new build. You will always remember things just as they have always been, even if the way things have been has only been true for the last day. A body that once housed a kind, sensitive soul now holds a rough, arrogant mind – and everybody remembers them as this new sort, and an entirely new shape has had its effect on the lives of everybody that come into contact with them.
Needless to say, a Reshuffling takes an enormous amount of work. A lot of it is simple presets, now, but there are always new configurations to make, new hiccups to consider. The debug program points out any gaps or mistakes, any potential bogeys let through before the changes become live. And afterwards, mistakes can always be quickly rectified, or at least smoothed over somewhat.
A great deal of change can be made simply by putting different minds into different people in different positions.
It is no wonder the world is so confusing, and people struggle so. Their minds and lives have gone through so many changes, and many people’s minds are not in their original bodies. Some people may never be directly touched by the reshuffle, and some people’s memories will be rewritten over and over as their brains or the brains of their friends and family find themselves with new occupants.
Thankfully, Earth had never achieved interstellar contact or cross-dimensional exploration, and so the latest Reshuffle was localised to Earth. That said, it was the greatest single-planet Reshuffle ever yet done. Some would say it was in response to Earth’s self-claimed Ultimate Discovery, while others might point out that the plans had been in motion for a long time, and Earth had been due a Reshuffle for some time.
Afterwards, the Ultimate Discovery would be seen to be bogus, a piece of nonsense so derided that people thought it was a wonder it had ever been taken seriously, and noted both the ‘discovery’ and the resulting reactions as an unpleasant black spot on modern history. The philosopher scientists were blamed wholeheartedly, and they in turn blamed each other, and all tried not to broadcast their own personal shame.
It was almost perfect. And it would have been, if not for one oversight.
That oversight was one man.
He was Reshuffled, but his memories were left intact, and his mind was sent to the wrong place. It was not sent to one of his friends, or his friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s dog’s groomer, or someone in Africa or someone in New Zealand.
It was sent to another world.
He woke up standing with a gun to his head.
Desert plain, sand-coloured rocks, a stunted shrub of a tree. The touch of hot metal against his temple.
There were two men in front of him, also with guns, smiling toothy, dirty smiles.
He blinked, and opened his mouth. ‘What the fuck -’ he started, before immediately changing to ‘Oh my -’ and then ‘what’, and finishing with ‘This isn’t my voice!’ as his knees buckled.
The smudge of a man in his corner vision who held the gun pressed to his head grabbed him roughly by the neck, keeping him upright. ‘Don’t even think bout pullin some trick,’ came the growl in his ear.
The men looked like mercenaries from an old age. They were dirty and ragged, yellowed cloth and brown belts and heads covered in bristles. They leered and snarled at him.
‘Wha – what’s going on?’ he managed to breathe, and he trembled again as he heard another person’s voice form the words.
The pistol barrel nudged harder into him. ‘Cut the shit Jay.’
‘Please. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.’
‘You’re gonna die, that’s what. And not before time.’
He didn’t delude himself into thinking it was a dream. The gun against his head felt all too real. It seemed to be heating up under the glare of the sun. His hands were tied behind his back, and the rough knots bit into his skin.
It was that when he saw the lilac sky, a bright, alien colour that ringed the sun’s circle in purple flame.
He looked down, blinking as velvet motes danced over the sand and the rocks. He saw high boots and pants the colour of bark. His hair felt different, his face felt different. His whole body felt different. He was . . . stronger.
‘Wait,’ he said, licking his lips, trying to understand the voice. The accent seemed vaguely familiar – something exotic, a voice of spiced incense and long burning days and silks stained with blood – and yet nothing he could put a country’s name to, or even a region. His new voice was deeper, tougher, and instinctively he flexed his jaw and flexed the muscles in his arms. It felt good.
He squinted back up at the day’s light, that soft white-purple haze that quilted the land. The terrain lay about him like a bruise. There was no horizon; everything led to one slope or another. The astonishment of it all, the incredulity taming itself through a rising awe, was almost enough to make him forget the gun.
‘Time to die, tabaca.’
It was then that he realised nobody was speaking English. Not even him. He hadn’t realised because while he was hearing another language, something he’d never heard before, he was understanding it in English. Words – his own words too, circling back on him – had been hitting his ears in whatever-the-fuck-it-was and appearing in his brain perfectly sensible.
Was this what been fluent was like? He figured not.
The gun clicked, ready for the end.
He wanted to say, ‘There’s been a huge misunderstanding.’ He wanted to say, ‘I’ve just woken up like this and I have no fucking idea where I am who I am and more precisely who I am to you and you’re about to kill me, possibly forever unless this really is the biggest most expensive whopper of a trick ever played on someone.’ He wanted to say a lot of things, a lot of things that wouldn’t have done him one bit of good, and yet in the end all that came out of his new mouth was ‘Wait,’ again.
One minute in a new body in a new world and I’m gonna die. Just my luck.
‘Goodbye,’ growled the reprobate in front of him.
‘This is ridiculous.’ He looked surprised for a second at himself, the words as unfamiliar as the voice. Well, at least I’m not crying at the end…
The Gauntlet of Gore is one of my longer short stories – a similar length to The School of Necromancy, if you read that. It is also, perhaps, my bloodiest, and one of my strangest.
It is about a competitive school sport where players punch opposing players in the stomach with a powered gauntlet, which makes the person explode.
There is also a pervading supernatural horror element – and some of the creepiest team captains you may ever encounter…
You can find it on Amazon here.
The grass were iron blades burnished under the heat of the midday sun. Millions upon millions of little knives, all thirsting, ready to whet their whistles on the redness of humans.
The grounds for play covered the field, the central mud banks where lives were often lost, and the sparse yet dark forests around the fringes, where each team would begin. That’s where they waited, so tense you could cut yourself on their muscles. Some shivering, some breathing deep, some with eyes closed and praying to the gods of slaughter.
In no time at all, each of them would look a horror, team colours almost indistinguishable under slopping coats of mud and blood. Fighting, frenzied and frothing, lost in the berserker hazes of battle lust and battle terror. The tactics drilled into them could never last forever, could never be present when you were staring into the rolling whites of enemy eyes. Then, it was just you and them, and your death hung on a seesaw.
The woods were thin, but most of the trunks were wide. In the later stages of the game, sometimes called the hunt, sometimes called clean-up, they would hide players, players shivering and scared, putting off the inevitable, and players silent in their concealment, waiting to assassinate their hunters. Overhead the canopy was thick and heavy from these trees, filling in the gaps and shutting out the sun. The experienced players stood and crouched like panthers in the darkness, feeling the dirt under them and stroking the bark of the trees with their free hand.
You couldn’t see the cameras unless you were looking for them, but they were there. They had their places. In the field the cameras were long-range, pointing in at the action from the sidelines, but here they sneaked in among the trees, flicking on and off with night vision to the rapt, hungry attention of their audience.
The spectators sat in their stands on the only side of the field not bordered by woods, munching their processed meats and gurgling beer, keeping eyes on the huge screens that showed the choice views from the cameras, field and forest. The audience who watched at home slunk lower in their fat armchairs, or indulged drunken bloodlusts perched on barstools with their chattering, gasping brethren.
No spectators would cross the boundaries and come onto the pitch. There would be no streakers, no attention-seekers. If you passed the boundaries, your life was forfeit. Neither the Organisers or any player were held responsible if you were hurt, or if you died.
The audience stayed put.
This wasn’t as polished a set-up as the Nationals, or the World Titles, but a lot of people preferred the Locals, the inter-school matches. They were amateurs, technically, but the orgy of violence suited them, suited the dirt and roughness of the grounds. There were only a handful of pro stadiums – called Coliseums these days – out there. The players didn’t play on fields and in forests and sliding up and down mud banks, but on laminate flooring. Obstacles were varied, with new ones introduced in each game, keeping a novelty element for the audience and a surprise element for the teams. Regular obstacles included a simulated forest made of branchless, leafless poles to dodge, a waxen floor to slip and slide on, and a crowd favourite, an area of connected trampolines. You hadn’t seen anything until you’d seen two players jumping towards each other, fists connecting in each other’s stomachs, and exploding in mid-air.
Sarah checked her gauntlet for what seemed to be the twentieth time. There was no such thing as over-checking, not when your life depended on it working and staying strapped tight around your hand. She opened the small protective casing, flicked the switch and felt the familiar thrum, the vibrations coursing through her fingers and up her arm. When it hit the spot, a stomach, the vibrations, tuned to the perfect frequency, would multiply over and over, rumbling their way through the gauntlet and rippling the enemy’s (you better hope they were an enemy) stomach. And then they exploded.
She moved to switch it back off, when a siren sounded, sharp and angry, emitting from every camera. Now she could see them, blinking black and sullen in the trees.
‘Switch ‘em on!’ she shouted, and those players that needed telling did so.
She looked over at Mike, who nodded at her, his face hard. She turned to see Joseph, who had his eyes closed and was muttering fast to himself. She was relieved to see his gauntlet was on and working.
A couple of steps before her, Freddy was stretching. You better be good, she thought.
A second noise, higher than the last, and ending faster.
‘Everybody!’ Sarah shouted. ‘You’re here now! If you want to turn back, it’s too late, you’ll just have to fight your way out! Remember your training! Remember your teammates! Fight for your team, fight for your life, fight for William Howard! Give ‘em Hell!’
A cheer, desperate and aggressive, was echoed by some, and was quickly swallowed by the darkness. Some of them were gulping repeatedly and some were shaking their heads, as though wishing the dream away.
The third call.