Thin red line

I pray before battle.

When dawn turns our red coats visible to living eyes we muster in hollow square: a porcupine of pike men, halberdiers and our priceless, shrinking rifle company. We wait, frantically deodorized, for the dogs to howl, the horses to shy and for Boney to arrive. After three dark-skied winters of war the enemy’s clothing has mostly faded to the nothing-grey of hell as Boney seeks the regimental band’s drumming ‘Zulu.’ Exceptionally, princess pink dye hasn’t dulled much during three ash-raining years. You need God’s forgiveness when shooting a crossbow at something wearing a Hello Kitty dress.

Waiting for the pop

The first victim had her neck snapped. We found cornflakes in her shoes. The second was wrapped in old-style cellophane: so crisp it could not fail to crackle whenever we touched her; from unwrapping to removing the oatmeal to swabbing her lips for the perp’s signatures of milk and sugar.

The Squad has a book running at a hundred dollars a…go. What will the third pun be: someone’s dear old dad or hit songs or the British CSI who says it’s slang for a soda?

The manipulable press had no difficulty nicknaming the killer.

I love the clever ones. They’re…great.

Predators

The aliens are better than us: faster, stronger, and more athletic. They climb with great agility and can outrun us over most terrain and rain death on us from afar. They see further into the electro-magnetic spectrum than we do and over a greater range than our eyes can. Their weapons strike us down at distance or they can close in and decapitate us with all sorts of blades. And that’s when hunting us solo. When they fight in groups it’s like the end of the world, but when we do isolate a rare individual, the brains taste so sweet.

On your marks. Get set. Go.

   “Put the gun down. On the rock there. Good. Now let’s see those irises.”

   “I have a flashlight. Shall I?”

   “The moonlight’s fine. You’re human. Leave the gun there. Drink? Water’s clean.”

   “Thanks. You come from the mountains?”
   “Desert. Xenos in the mountains sweeping up refugees and survivalists. Squinty bastards poisoning the well.”

   “We culture realistic corneal implants, too. Useful intel about the desert that. How’ve you managed to remain yourself?”

   “I never sleep. Not for centuries. Go home. Don’t phone ahead – just go. We have biology labs too.”

   “This flashlight has ultraviolet.”

   “Before I can reach the gun? Seriously?” 

The first step

   “Do not be afraid. Come and see.”

   And I wanted to: I truly did.

   I wanted to follow that voice and observe those remarkable eyes wherever they looked. I was certain - then as now - that they would lead me to a life wholly unlike my own; to a future as different from my expectations as could be and perhaps to a world remade. One without my present pain, darkness and despair.

    It might be that they’d lead instead to chains and cutting and even to darkness redefined. Perhaps it would be both.

   I trod onto the first step.

Posse comitatus

   “You can have my gun, Sheriff.

   Terms and conditions apply.”

   After three or four minutes of fruitless finger-prizing, my skin temperature must have registered and soon she was searching - also in vain - for a pulse.

   “Please hurry up your horrified realization of a dark new reality shtick because the children have no time left. I’m not your enemy; but the thing inside the basement with those kids is and if you don’t persuade their parents to invite me in, then your little town will soon be overrun with munchkins such as you’ve never imagined. Emphasis on the ‘munch.’ ”

The detail

   Foodies are fanatics.

   Like techs and musicians they care about their work and that it’s done properly (ie, exactly their way) and they believe that results count. Fanatics, see? Unlike the rest of humanity, fanatics do their stuff not to pay the bills and put a bit of cash aside but because it matters.

   Take marinades. Sure; you can flavour meat with sauces and tenderize it with hammers but that overnight soak is the difference between a motel and you own home. Fanatic? Perhaps. But I’m also a people person and marinating simply works; especially with vocal chords and thumbs.