About Me

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Writer, soldier, thinker, and science fiction lover. I just can't seem to find a way to divide my adventurous self of constant outdoor activity and exercise from my nerdy self playing games and going to conventions. So why not just be both?

 I am a young professional living out of Tallahassee, Florida for the past five years. I have been on a deployment with the United States Army and continue to work outside of my other occupations to better myself mentally and physically. My passion for writing is driven by my passion for everything I find entertaining in life, and of course by my friends and family.

Friday, September 30, 2016

A New Kind of War (Inner Workings)

 The Regret knew what had happened. It wasn't that hard to foresee. The universe had a cosmic harmony to it. Everything ended, but that moment had not been the end to him, to Juan, yes. Just like the deplorable Americans and their sense of rights and liberties, everything has a end though. The Americans never realized theirs ended decades ago, just as the man as he is now does not know his time has come. The Regret would use his supreme ability to show him the faults of his ways, and convert him.
  At at time, someone like him would have been proclaimed to be royalty, sent from God. Of course, religion was only a means to control the masses, and in the last century it has become much simpler, with the singular exclusion to the arrogant American public. But soon enough, they too would be subjects, as truly, the 99% of the masses belong, subject to a singular righteous body to do as it saw fit. Hector, The Regret would be among the elite. Of course, neither the SoA or any singular government would understand. This was a global movement, done by the very select elite and carried over and worked on in each era.
 Now they were so close. And he would be The Regret's perfect pawn to tip the balance. He needed strong pawns to be the iron fist. People need to be subjugated, controlled, and especially disarmed. Even for his loyal work with the SoA, they did not fulfill his personal quest enough, the Soviets had almost done so, but since the death of his dear friend in 1953, the Motherland was never really the same.
   Hector sealed the door behind him. Turning he faced a long corridor, the walls were concrete, the center walk way was a grated metal catwalk over a body of water that should have been stagnant but in the last hour had begun to slightly rise. The water was just reaching the point to which it was touching the catwalk. In the next half hour he expected it to be ankle depth. But he was not concerned about the rising water, his guest was about to enter through the door at the opposite end of the catwalk.
 The door squealed and water poured in at the step.

 Zane saw the last submarine off. He didn't see Hector Kajima on board, he doubt he missed him. The bastard was still around somewhere. He had other issues to attend to. His small contingent and himself remained behind to attempt to learn as much as they could on the secret server. The server, if his commander's suspicions were correct, were more important than the rail-gun itself. The potential of  holding the facility after they cracked the server was complicated by several structural breaches that occurred after the main passage was destroyed. Now the holding tanks for the facilities weapon develop sector was leaking into the general water passage and maintenance corridors. Too much was at play against Zane and his SoA contingent, but information was power.
 Zane had to swallow a tough pill, even for a combat veteran. It wasn't easy first learning your origins had been a lie, the learning most of your life had been orchestrated, but lastly to learn his creator had no other motive other than 'they could.' His actions weren't any more treasonous than Eve's had been in the Garden of Eden.
 The next hour he'd be on his flight, to his first steps of freedom, and the first attempts at a world freedom as well.      

Clark heaved, the door creaked, squealed and water poured from around his feet into the next room. At the far end of the long room stood a thin man. Clark locked his arms out, steady and squared up ready to fire his pistol. The figure didn't move. Clark eased off the trigger. Maybe he was another scientist who made it?
 "I've been expecting you." Clark kept his muzzle pointed at the man. His eyes narrowed. He knew something was wrong. The walls began to bend at his peripherals, no he ignored it, focus on the man. Clark said nothing in response. "You look just like him."
"Who are you?"
 "You can call me The Regret, and I want to see all your sins." The man flung his arm out. Clark almost squeezed the trigger, but the man's hand was empty. Just an empty hand pointing out to him. There was a nothing be silence between them.
  And then it began.
  An ear piercing whistling, like a dental drill being dragged across a blackboard inside of his head. He wavered, winced, pressing against his skull to get the noise to stop. He fell to his hands and knees, the water soaking into him and the noise stopped.
 Clark stood, blinking his eyes from the tears that watered their edges. He found his footing, and blinked at the images that were coming to him, trying to blink them away. He was no longer in the artificial caverns of the facility, but in wet soggy riverbed.
 The banks were steep but short, thick lush prehistoric like plants were hindered from reach him only by the barrier of water he stood in. The water was moving, a soft stream just over his ankles. The water was murky, clouded and impossible to see through. His legs felt weighted, and a heavy fog rolled across the stream before him. Too much fog rolled across the top of the stream between Clark and where the man who claimed to be the Regret had stood to be seen. Yet all around Clark he could heavy the heavy breathing of the man, like the trees were speakers blasting the sound around him.
 Clark took several step forward, he felt heavy and burdened, carrying weight that didn't belong.
 "You are a murderer." The man's voice came from the fog and from within him simultaneously. Clark looked behind him but he was alone, and in front of him, there the fog swirled. The fog swirled and hardened in thick lines, heavy arms and a disfigured face. "You convince yourself doing so on behalf of others isn't murder, but that makes you a liar." Clark took another step forward, dragging his right leg with him. The fog had created the image of the reptilian man he had faced. The figure floated, a phantom given form. The thing lunged, Clark  threw his hands up last second. The hit never came, but his gut tightened and a knot gripped his body. The figure was gone. A chill rose from within his bones, worse than when he had awoken in the snow fields, a knot grew tighter in his stomach.
 Clark moved forward. The fog swirled and more shapes began to take hold. Clark tried to move faster, faster to the end of where ever, to where ever but his legs moved as fast as concrete pillars.
 He saw other faces, faces of old friends, Army buddies and faces of enemies around the world begin to form. The was suddenly Randal, and old Birdman standing at the side of the banks. He stopped and looked at them, their semi-transparent figures looking at him from their sides and then down, disgust and disappointment painted across their features.
 "You could have kept us alive." But neither of their lips moved. Neither ghostly figures moved, even if they could see, they wouldn't look at the hurt that was in his eyes, they only sought to worsen it.
 In the center of the stream ahead he could see the man, The Regret, Hector Kojima, he two was ghostly but more solid, more present. When he spoke, his lips moved.
 "Look at all the pain and suffering you've caused."
 Another figure began forming among all the dead that surrounded him. Behind him his entire team had formed and stood silent. The Jackal, the woman formed, her death marks still there where they had stopped her heart beat.
 "You look just like him, a demon, a demon!"
 A final figure formed, it was Coppola, the agent, the mannequin man standing with his face just before he died. Clark's grip was loosening on his pistol. He sagged some, his head weighing him down, wanting to topple his body. He put his hands on his knees to hold himself up.
 "You killed me." He heard Coppola call out. Clark shook his head. Mumbling to himself, I didn't kill you. I didn't kill the half of you. The ghosts closed in on him, all except for Hector who stood stoic, but gleefully so in back, of the group, but with a clear path right to Clark.
 "Look at your sins. You can repent now, and attempt to fix them." Clark shook his head, it wasn't right, Coppola, Birdman, Randal, he didn't kill them, they didn't belong. "All you have to do Captain is work for us, for me, I can lead to you reason. Rational is a group objective. The individual does not matter, only the whole of society, and you've fought too long and hard against the whole of society."
 Clark only shook his head again in response.
  "Your delusions of good and evil have only made you a pawn to a system of oppression. You, could, fix it all right now."
 Clark shook his head. His grip tightened on his pistol. He looked down at it in his grip. It was real, it was real, it was truth. His body stopped shaking, something he became aware of only when he stopped. The silence of words brought his eyes up to Hector who eyed him.
 "Well, if you won't join what you know is right, then you could set yourself away from doing more harm. You know your damage is irreversible. Go ahead, use the pistol demon. Caste yourself away, or do what is right for the greater good."
 Clark pushed off his knees, his back still hunched from a knot that was only slowly dissolving. He would use the pistol, Hector was right. Raising it as his grip tightened, the silent audience around him of all those dead, the false dead around him.
 "Fine, use the pistol, end yourself, demon." Hector spoke, a smug grin as he clasped his hands behind his back watching Clark.
 Clark looked down at the pistol. The slide smooth, and nicked from years of use. He looked up at Hector, the smug content look. He snapped the pistol up at Hector.
 He fired.
 He was back on the catwalk. The river gone. The dead, gone, dead as dead. Hector lay on his back. A single hand's fingers twirling above a bubbling hold in his chest.


Tuesday, September 13, 2016

A New Kind of War (Door to Door)

 Clark pressed on the handle for the door, it resisted, then gave. A heavy metal click confirmed the latch had disengaged. A drum of heavy bass beats pounded away from the inside of Clark's chest. The catwalk on the opposite side showed no sign of the reptilian creature. Only the wet marks along the grated steel where it had climbed out of the water gave any sign that what he had seen was real. Clark proceeded forward, scanning the girth of the walk away, trying to get his rifle to scan each nook and corner among the large pipes leading up and down the walls. Junctions split off from the walk way. Each time he'd move up, his breath would go stale, but the results were the same. Some dead end with only gauges and control valves at the end.
 No one had been posted along the lone industrial like path, did he eat them too? Clark found himself at the next door. A steel framed set of double doors, the reptile man had gone through here as he watched in horror it snake up and out of the water.
 As Clark closed the last few steps to the door, his palms poured sweat. Entering a room was always one of the most dangerous things to do, doing so alone was suicidal, doing so alone against genetically modified creatures was fucking ridiculous. He breathed out heavily, his joints old stones grinding as he readied, steadied himself.
 Clark pressed in. The door swung open. Clark's vision began to tunnel. He cleared the fatal funnel behind him. He kept sweeping the area, his corners, nothing, bleak concrete. Piping. Water.  No shots came. No teeth came bearing at him.
 The room was wider than the last. A catwalk ran along the center over a massive body of water. The room took a hard turn at the end to the right. He could tell that the cat walk began a slight decline as it took the corner to the right. That was concerning, it wasn't high off the water as it was, if it dipped down, he didn't know how wet he'd be getting. Clark scanned the area again, the large pipes coming down in the central area and off the side walls cast humanoid shadows against the concrete walls. Paranoia.  It could keep you alive, but it could also waste time. He could stay in one place making that area the most cleared area at anytime. Facing the unknown is more dreadful than facing the worse of the well known.
 Clark moved a few steps, his rifle at the low ready, his steps going from heal to toe. The metal under his feet stayed strong, but with each step he expected it to beg to give, for the water to get closer to flooding over his body. He moved along the long length of the center catwalk, the ceiling lowered down, narrowing as he went, the ceiling was almost touching his head as he came to the right turn.
 The water was higher after the right turn. A large crack along the right side concrete wall spewed a geyser of water. The metal catwalk was submerged, but within the hour would be completely underwater. Clark let out a slow breath and took his first step into the water.
 The water was surprisingly warm but chilled him as it soaked through at ankle depth. He moved, slowly, stiffly, the spurting of the water from the cracked wall masking his subtle movements. His socks had become soaked and heavy, the wet squish enveloped his feet with each step.
 The waster spurting from the cracked wall obscured Clark's view to the other side of the catwalk. His world became a blur of sound and foaming white as he passed under the spraying water.
 He emerged. Pain spread across his face. He couldn't register what was happening, react! His rifle was over whatever it was pushing him. A heavy heave. He was being hit hard and drove back. A blur of sound and foamy white. His stomach heaved with the blow as he slid back with the force. His shooting hand left to catch himself as he felt the descent coming. He gripped onto the slippery rail, the man driving him back by his stomach sought to take him in the water. His back rammed the rail, snapping. He felt a twist. The rail giving out. The reptile man pushing on. Not the goddamn water! Clark bore down with his fist, the rail giving away and breaking loose. The man slid off, giving as Clark held strong. Clark's teeth gritted as he back felt no support behind him. He pulled hard. The man slid off and a splash of water came up. Clark felt his feet giving, the edge of his boots tipping, threatening his balance. He flexed harder. His boots coming back to the side of reason. Clark looked back. The rail torn and twisted to his left, the water rippling where the reptile man had gone. Clark turned facing the ripples, just as he oriented himself a mass of teeth emerged. His finger squeezed, high, too late, the rounds burst out. The teeth snapping shut around his magazine, inches from his crotch. He felt the warping of metal. The snap of the spring. Clark tried to twist up and away, but the massive creature pulled back, yanking him forward. The hind end of the creature began to slip into the water, and Clark could see the water approaching, he pushed and drove, but the rifle was attached by the sling and dragging him forward with the sinking weight. Clark's fingers moved to the lower receiver and  before he toppled over with the reptile man, Clark ejected the magazine. 
 Again, only the water rippled where the creature had been. Clark back away faster than a scared cat from a Doberman. Clark moved further from the busted rail as he fished the next magazine from his carrier. The fresh magazine slid and settled in the magazine well. He swore he felt a bump come from the cat walk under his feet. He swore, he turned to where he had come from, started going back, wanting to get his feet out of the water, higher away from the water, out of its advantage. Clark splashed for the segment that was slightly raised out of the water, the small gap closing smaller and smaller but not fast enough.
 The grating below collapsed, sliding away to the depths. The water exploded up towards the ceiling. Foamy white death, Clark flinched back, his rifle coming up. Clark squeezed off a round into the geyser, the massive reptilian mouth coming towards him. The round went wild, drowning in the water. The mouth kept closing the distance, faster and faster, Clark fired against his barrel pushed out of the way by the thick stubby fingers of the thing. A single round found its mark in the thick fleshy leg of the man. The mouth recoiled back. The fat fingers gripped the rifle, Clark found himself being dragged along to the other side of the catwalk, led by his rifle.  Clark began to pull himself from under his sling but the force took him with it. He was greeted with twisting sharp pain as the rail and rifle pressed into his stomach muscles. But he was free of the sling. The rifle went toppling, midair, in slow motion he watched as his rifle splashed horrifically in the water and was gone.
Clark flipped around. The creature cam stumbling at him with the stubby hands out at him. Clark launched his body away back towards the gushing water. The creature lunged sporadically at him, favoring the uninjured leg. Clark crashed through the spurting water, the creature disappearing from view as he passed through the portal. He drew from his thigh his sidearm, his last hope as he sloshed backwards. The water came with a crashing roar as the reptilian face came smashing through. Clark tried to get a square frame and fire. Muscle memory overruled and he fired when he found had a sight picture. The .45 slug punched and ballooned up  the right cheek, but the maw of teeth still advanced. He fired again, wild, the bullet hitting a mark, teeth sinking into his left forearm. Clark yelped, his pistol firmly in only his right hand now. He pressed his arm out as he felt the thing begin to twist taking his arm with it. The muzzle pressed against it, and he fired, and again, and again, and again, more twisting, and again. The reptile man drooped to his knees. The teeth still firmly clamped onto Clark's arm.
 Clark looked at the milky filmy eyes of the creature, marbles motionless at him. The dead weight bore down heavily on his arm, the muscles swelled around the filled puncture marks. He waited, the thing didn't move.
 Clark moved, his pistol hand lifted the head up, the straight teeth and humanoid teeth pulled out of the flesh, the tendons screamed. A sickly sucking noise escaped as the last of the teeth came out of their burial places in his arm. The body slumped forward, a hiss came. Clark fired, the .45 slug cracked the dome. But it was only a death noise, no life had caused it, and his pistol had locked back the slide, empty. The empty pistol still pointed at the now deformed dome of the deformed thing. His arm lowered and he ejected the magazine.
 He tried his left hand, the fingers moved and his arm screamed at him in protest, but he could grit it, and silence the screams. He put in a spare magazine, only two left for his pistol now. Turning away from the body, he saw the last door to the other side before him. 

Friday, September 9, 2016

Alien Isolation writing

I entered a writing contest based around elements from the game Alien: Isolation. The story was recently posted, you can can add to the group on Facebook and read it on the Wyland-Yutani Bulletin here.