True-Self: Concluded

In honor of All Hallow's Eve I have posted the conclusion to True-Self. Trick-or-Treat!

From the Water

  I crawled from the water. Born of the raging sea, I was spit out from the depths of the darkest abyss. I rode the great curling waves of my mother’s design to the shore of the huddled masses. They crowded together in fear of what they did not understand and what they could not control, little did they know that control and knowledge is all a fanciful creation devised to help them cope with the enormity and magnificence of the Gods.

  For a millennium I incubated in the tremendous pressure of my mother’s unfathomable womb, until I cried out and demanded my freedom. At first I was refused; she said I wasn’t ready. But I would not be dissuaded and I began my ascent to the human world without her blessing.

One after another, she sent her henchmen to thwart my attempt and drag me back to the realm of her influence.

  First, it was the monsters of the void that dangled crystalline lights of splendid distraction; their glow so sublime my voyage became nothing but a forgotten dream. After a decade in a trance of ecstasy, I remembered myself and resumed my expedition.     

  Furious, she sent the ancient one; a great behemoth of teeth and fury who had watched in horror as his brothers left the sea and abandoned their fins for claws and fur. He fought bravely with honor and loyalty. He vowed that he would never again allow his kin to leave the place of perpetual darkness and everlasting life. He was bested, unable to contain the power of my curiosity. He nodded his great prehistoric head and bowed to my strength. I sent him back to my mother with a message of commitment and dedication.

  Next, she sent a demon invisible to all but her. He did not attack with fangs or poison. Brute strength was not his forte. Instead, he brought the vicious message from my great mother that she would wake Poseidon, himself, if I did not obey. Indeed the threat gave me pause, but I pushed forward and prepared to meet my end.

  She did not rouse the Nautilus King. I had called her bluff. Even the grand mistress of the moon doth not dare disturb the Great One’s slumber. I glided forward, ever upward, carried by my powerful strokes of fin and determination.

  Sensing my eminent success, out of sheer desperation, she sent the kraken to reason with me. His muscular tentacles dominated the epic battle that wore on for a century. His cunning matched my every move and I thought for certain he would be the victor. Never before had I faced a foe so fierce and so clever. I grew envious of his abilities and wanted them for my own self-serving desires. As my jealousy matured and developed, I gained sight of the aura of his prowess. As I continued to brawl and tangle with the ancient beast, I began to devour the gleam that surrounded his every move. It filled me and became my own until at last he was nothing more than an empty husk of his former self.

  Invigorated by my newly obtained power, I roared at my mother and challenged her to send her fastest and strongest soldiers; to them, I would do the same as I had the others. For a year I floated silently and waited for the Goddess’s answer. When at last it came, it was from a small unassuming surface dweller. The message was simple. It is time for you to meet your father, my son.

  After centuries of fighting against them, my mother’s currents carried me swiftly to the surface where my head emerged to draw in the salty breath of my father. He welcomed me with winds of heroic proportions. My mother’s surge and my father’s gusts married and created foam and spray; together they paid tribute to my coming of age. Their union spawned a sibling, though short lived she would be, to guide me to my ambition.

  My young sister pushed forth and drove me up onto rocky shore. Suddenly, I was filled with doubt and called into question my judgment, crying out that I had been wrong. The immense goddess I called mother had been right, I was not ready. My sister pummeled the shoreline with the winds of our father and the rains of our mother. She roared that she had not been born only to die. She had been created and formed with a purpose, to deliver me unto a world without fins and gills. Her wrath was intoxicating and soon had me convinced.

  I dragged myself out of the water, weak limbed and awkward as a larval creature controlled only by miniscule flagella and the dominance of the tide. At last I stood on my feet and was able to grasp the truth. My dying sister’s rampage echoed my sentiments. I had crawled from the water. It was not I who was not ready, but humanity. 

Copyright © 2012 by Leigh Fischer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.

Edition: October 2012

Hurricane Special

The wind is howling, the power is flickering, outages have been reported. I think it is time for you to hunker down with Rising Tide.

Step 1: Go to http://www.facebook.com/RisingTideANovel and hit like.

Step 2: Email me at leighfischer83@gmail.com and tell me if you want a MOBI or a PDF.

Don't worry, zombies don't like hurricanes.

Artists Wanted

Big news! I am planning on brightening up my blog with some artwork. Well . . . maybe "brighten" is the wrong word, because the subject matter is not going to be puppies and kittens, but I think you get the picture.

I already have one artist that is interested and I may be posting some of his work on Wednesday, to coincide with the posting of the conclusion of True-Self. 

But, since the gig pays shit (nothing), I am looking for multiple sources so I don't interrupt anyone's real life. 

I know. I know. At this point you are saying, "Leigh, why would I want to spend my precious time producing something for you? What am I going to get out if?"

That is an excellent question and I have five excellent answers for you.

    1. You will get your own profile on my blog and full recognition for your work.

    2. If you already have your own blog I will post a link to it and regularly promote it through my updates here and on Facebook.

    3. Promotion of my work will also help promote your work. Yes, I have a promotion budget. Yes, it is tiny. But every little bit helps and in just the last few weeks I have seen the benefits. 

    4. In addition to being asked to provide images inspired by my stories, I will also ask that you provide your own unique work that I may use as inspiration. You could be the catalyst for my next great piece. 

    5. And the best reason to join Surviving the Apocalypse? You will get early read-aheads for all my stuff. 

Not sold? Well I have one more answer for you. 

    6. As I grow, you will grow. I can't promise you fortune or fame, but I can promise you 100% commitment. Once I commit to something, I am not easily dissuaded. I'm not giving up. I'm not going home with my tail between my legs. I am going to keep writing and keep trying. Once I set something in my sights,  I drive forward with a vigorous and enthusiastic passion. This passion, this drive, this intensity, is what I am offering you. Climb aboard and see if you can hold on.

So if you or anyone you know is interested in what I have to offer, I have your first challenge:

Send a drawing, sketch, painting . . . whatever floats your boat . . . that is inspired by The Mariner's Prediction to leighfischer83@gmail.com. 

P.S. I'm not opposed to puppies and kittens. I'm fairly certain fluffy little kittens have the ability to grow into creatures that could easily be responsible for the apocalypse. 

True-Self: Part 2

It's about to get wild so buckle up and keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times. Or not.

Part 2 of True-Self has been posted. 

True-Self: Part 1

I have posted the first part of True-Self. 

Comments from early readers:

"Overwhelming and very unexpected."

"Awesome! I just don't know where to begin."

Read if you dare, but consider yourself warned.

Of things to come . . .

So far I have shown you a little bit of my range. I have given you The Mariner's Prediction, which contains some moderate violence; The Lucid Adventures, which contain a mild roll in the hay or two; and the first three chapters of Rising Tide, which contains none of the above (that changes in Chapter 4).

However, I have been working on a short story that will take us way outside that box of warm and fuzzy. It will be graphic on all three counts: sex, violence, and language. I will post in multiple parts on its own page.

Watch out for the updates. Tis the season for guts and gore.

For all you mariners out there

The Mariner’s Prediction

   “Brewer, what’s the status?” I ask as I walk onto my bridge.

   The third mate looks up from the charts he is reviewing. “Skipper, we are a little behind schedule.”

   God he looks young. It seems like they get younger and younger every year. He is fresh faced and barely out of school. His tight cropped haircut only serves to confirm how green he really is.

  

   “May I ask what a ‘little’ behind schedule is?”

   The kid blanches. “Ma-ma’am, we are running about an hour behind,” he manages to stammer out. At least he has enough good sense to be afraid.

   “And why, Mr. Brewer, are we running an hour behind?” I growl.

   “Some of the longshoreman didn’t show up. There was some trouble in port last-”

   “Mr. Brewer. We were not in port last night. We were working long hard hours, navigating a minefield of pleasure boats and play toys to bring in our precious cargo. I do not care about what happened in port. Now tell me, what are we doing about this unacceptable delay?”

   “We sent Mier and Reichert down to the pier to help handle lines and load supplies,” a deep voice answers smoothly from behind. “We are refueled. The last car is being loaded and secured now. The pilot and tugs have been notified that we will be casting off in ninety minutes.”

   I turn around to see my bos’n, Kyle Woods, grinning through his graying beard. “Thank you Mr. Woods, but I do believe that is a question that Mr. Brewer should be more than capable of answering for himself. He is the Officer of the Deck, is he not?”

   Woods ignores my question and shoves by me to the kid. “Brewer, go get the Skippa’ a cup of coffee before she rips your head off and sends you to sleep with the fishes.”

   “Thanks, Boats,” Brewer mutters as he sprints off, glad to be doing a task he knows he can handle.

   The stocky bos’n crosses the bridge and stands in front of the massive windows that afford the best possible view of the ship below and the surrounding harbor. “You should cut the kid some slack. We both know he’s green, but he’s smart. If ya’ give him half a chance, he’s gonna do good.”

   I join him. It’s a beautiful morning. The sun is just peaking over the eastern shore of the harbor and paints the sky with vibrant hues of red and orange. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning. It’s hard to imagine that a view so spectacular and striking is used to predict ominous events. The sea is like glass. The morning calm in the small seaport is disrupted only by a few small fishing boats headed out to the shoals and one lonely tanker that has just arrived at the terminal. It is a perfect moment. It is a quiet moment of peace before the real work begins. But only a moment.

   I sigh. “I only asked a few simple questions. If he can’t answer a few questions, how is he ever going to be able to respond in a real crisis?”

   “Heather, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but questions from you before you’ve had your coffee . . . that is a real crisis.”

   I laugh and punch him playfully on the shoulder. “Alright Boats, I’m gonna head to the galley and get some chow before we get this show on the road. You want anything?”

   “A jelly donut?”

   “Sure thing,” I say and turn to leave. “Oh and one more thing, Brewer said there was trouble in port last night?”

   “Nothing serious, Skip. Just a couple bar fights. Just the usual ruckus you get when you have too many mariners in one spot and not enough women.”

   I laugh again and head for the mess hall, leaving my bridge in capable hands.

*

I am Captain Heather Flint and I am the master of the MV Valiant. She is a 605 foot, roll-on/roll-off vessel that transports cars; trucks; tractors; or anything else with wheels, to ports around the globe. I am honored to say that I have been her skipper for the last five years. I take my charge seriously. I know my ship and her operations. I know her crew and they know me. I run on schedule and under budget. But most importantly, in the time that I have been in command, we have not had a single injury or accident and I aim to keep it that way.

*

   My thoughts are shattered as my phone rings. I had been just about ready to hit the rack. It was a long exhausting day. Getting the ship out of port and into open water is always high stress and takes its toll. This had better not be another minke sighting.

   “What?” I answer brusquely.

   “Ma’am, there has been an injury.” It’s Brewer. He sounds uncomfortable, but he usually sounds uncomfortable when he’s talking to me.

   “Mr. Brewer, what kind of injury warrants rousing the Captain in her stateroom at this late hour?” My safety record means a lot to me, but not this much.

   “Ma’am . . . there . . . it’s  . . .”

   “Spit it out already,” I order.

   “Mier attacked Jimenez. They are working on detaining Mier now, but the Doc says he doesn’t think Jimenez is going to make it.”

   What? Make it? What is this kid talking about? I was expecting to hear that someone fell down a ladder-way or hit their head on a low overhead. He must have heard wrong.

   “What are you talking about? What happened?”

   “Ma’am, I don’t know a whole lot myself. The Doc just called up here and said that there had been a fight and there were some pretty serious injuries. He strongly encouraged me to get you out of bed for this one. I’ve sent the cadet down to the infirmary to get you a full report.”

   “Alright, if the Doc wants me out of bed . . . I’m out of bed. I’ll be right up.” I hang up and begin dressing. I skip the company whites and shoulder boards and opt for my coveralls. Before I head to the bridge, I pick up my phone and dial the infirmary. No answer. The Doc must be busy.

*

   The cadet curses as she runs down the passageway. They all look the same. No matter which way she turns, it all looks the same and none of it looks familiar, just one gray passageway after another. She is hopelessly lost. 

   The cadet is on loan for the summer from one of the academies. She has only been aboard a week. She doesn’t even have a name yet. She is just “the cadet.” This is her first real order and she is screwing it up. Up the ladder-way, through the hatch, down the passageway, turn to port . . . no turn to starboard. She strains to remember anything from her ship tour just a few days earlier. In her rush she trips over the raised threshold of a hatch. She cries out in pain and frustration as she lands hard on the deck.

   At the sound of shuffling footsteps she is relieved at the prospect of a crew member being able to show her the way to the infirmary. But, all relief drains from her face as she looks up at her savior. His gray coveralls have been ripped open. No his stomach has been ripped open and his entrails protrude, dripping viscera on the deck. Black veins pulsate under the gray paper thin skin on his face. His eyes are cloudy and lifeless. His orange shock of hair has bloody patches where clumps of it have been ripped out.

   Before she can scream, he is upon her. His iron fingers plunge easily into her soft flesh. He bites her throat and rips it open wide. She bleeds out quickly, slicking the deck with gore. He rips open her stomach and begins to root for her prized organs: the liver . . . the heart . . . the lungs. As he eats, his victim begins to stir.

*

   “Where the hell is that damn cadet?” I roar as I drive my fist into the steel bulkhead. My knuckles explode with blood and pain shoots through my arm. I know immediately that I have broken it, both my hand and my composure.

   “She probably got lost. She’s only been aboard for a week or so. I should have gone myself,” Brewer says as he grabs the med kit from the nav station.

   I manage a grunt. All hell has broken loose. At least one man is dead and there have been other reports of attacks and violence from throughout the ship. The Doc has been unreachable since I arrived. And on top of all that, the bos’n just called and told me not to leave the bridge under any circumstances and then hung up.

I am the Captain of this vessel! I am her master. I give the orders. I do not take them. It is entirely unacceptable for my most trusted sailor to fail to give me a proper status report and then condemn me to be a prisoner on my own bridge!

*

   The bos’n uses all of his strength to swing the fire ax up and over his head. As the razor sharp wedge descends, it glances off Reichert’s skull and slices through his shoulder like butter and lodges in some mass of cartilage and bone. What seems would be a debilitating blow, does nothing to dissuade Reichert as he continues to snap his jaws and lunge for Woods. He is kept at bay only by the sturdy fortitude of both the ax handle and the bos’n.

   “Brotha’, you gotta snap out of it, because I’ll chop you to pieces if I have to,” Woods says as he jerks the ax free.

   Reichert responds to his to new found freedom with another furious attack. Before he can get close, the bos’n drives the blunt end of the ax head into his face. There is a crack as bone breaks under the force of the heavy implement. Reichert falls to the deck and continues to writhe in an attempt to get to the bos’n. He has been slowed, but not stopped. The bos’n finishes the job. He brings the fire ax cleanly down on the man’s neck, severing his head, and ending the life of one of his crew.

   Bos’n Kyle Woods quickly rushes away from the grisly scene, as moans echo throughout the narrow passageways of the MV Valiant.

*

   Throughout the ship, screams can be heard as the violence spreads. Some crew members are spared; shredded beyond all recognition in a feeding frenzy. Most experience a torturous death of being eaten alive, only to then rise in search of their own victims. The decks are awash with blood and innards. Water tight doors, which could have been salvation, are flung open carelessly as the crew tries to escape from bowls of hell. At least one man jumps overboard, more than two hundred miles from any hope of rescue or survival.

*

   I am huddled in a corner of the bridge when the bos’n comes crashing through the hatch. He is covered head to toe in blood and carries a fire ax in the same condition. He dogs the hatch once he is through and exclaims that they are too stupid to operate them. Whatever that means.

   He is jabbering away. He’s been on the deck plates. He’s seen our men. They have gone mad. They are dying. We have to do something. They are killing and being killed. He himself killed Reichert. It was self-defense. He had to do it. We have to do something.

   I hear Brewer begin to speak. “Boats, the 1^st Mate is a confirmed casualty. The 2^nd is trapped in his stateroom. The chief engineer and a wiper have secured the engine room and are awaiting orders. All other officers and unlicensed crew are unaccounted for. As the ranking officer, I have the deck. I have just received word that we are under strict quarantine and are not attempt to dock the vessel . . . anywhere.”

   I am huddled in the corner. 

So I lied

So I lied about going AWOL for the weekend and ended up disappearing for most of the week too. That's what happens when the world is ending.

Seriously, the apocalypse has started. I have proof.

1. There was an earthquake last night. For those of you unfamiliar with Maine, we don't get earthquakes. Occasionally we get a little rumble that no one actually feels or notices, but last night we got enough of one that my Facebook feed went nuts. It was off the charts. People were freaking out and a dozen memes popped up within the hour. Facebook can't be wrong. The apocalypse has started.

2. Maine has made national news for a prostitution bust. Has it been a slow news week? Two wars, a presidential election, a tanking economy, the Middle East is in crisis, there are binders full of women, and Maine makes the news? For prostitution? See I think they are reporting it wrong. I don't think it is Zumba Prostitution, I think it is Zombie Prostitution. That would be national news worthy.

I rest my case. Stock up on ammo and start drawing straws for who gets to be cannibalized first.

Oh and check back tomorrow. I will be posting a new short.

AWOL

So, I am probably going to go AWOL for the weekend. I have been working on some top secret stuff that I can't share just yet. But I promise, once they have been cleared for release I will post them.

The first should be available by next weekend, so be sure to check back for an all new tale of things trying to eat your face.

And now for something a little different

Ok, I admit it. Zombies are not for everyone. I get that. It takes a certain type of person to take pleasure in blood, gore, and entrails. Although, tis the season.

As much as I enjoy horror and apocalyptic fiction, there is more to me. My skills and interests are as varied as the ways Romero kills zoms. So, to show you guys my lighter side, I have posted a short story for your reading pleasure. The whole thing is posted, so you don't even have to jump through any hoops.

Take a look. Share your comments. Tell your friends. Tell your family. Tell your dog. Tell the mutant spider in your basement . . . on second thought, skip the spider. I don't need publicity that bad.

If you really enjoy it, get in touch with me and I will give you some ideas as to how you can spread the word of my awesomeness.

Thanks for your support. Happy reading.

The Lucid Adventures

Part 5

Continued from Part 4

I follow Dragon into the tight stairway that spirals down six flights. Each flight consists of a dozen steel stair treads that echo with each step. At the bottom of each flight is a small platform where the next flight connects at ninety degrees. The lights are harsh, making me want to squint against the glare of the stark white walls. I don’t come to the Dungeon because I hate it down here. It makes me feel like they are over compensating for something. Like they are trying to convince you it’s something that it’s not; trying to make you forget that you are deep underground; trying to make you forget that you are completely cut off from the world and at the mercy of cold, calculating, Ministry protocols. I’m also claustrophobic.

At the bottom of the stairway I stare at the cipher lock. The magic word for getting through the door is the same. Well, almost the same. The steps and codes are the same; you just do them in reverse. It would be easy enough for a would-be saboteur to stand around in the main hallway and become familiar with the process, but gaining intelligence on the security in this space would require insider knowledge. If the enemy were to hi-jack an employee to get through these gates, he most likely wouldn't be tipped off if the same procedure was used. But he would be mistaken. If you don’t reverse the order: thumb, PIN, badge; the space goes into lock down. No one will be able to enter or leave until Security arrives.

Now would be my chance to alert Security, if I had any doubts about these guys. And I do have plenty of doubts. If they have such a high clearance, why don’t they have their own PINs and access programs? Why would they need me? If this is some kind of emergency lock down, where is Security? Where are the alarms? Where is anyone?

“Is there a problem, Ms. Fischer?” Dragon asks. His tone is firm but I catch something that might be a hint of concern. Probably just concern that this wasn't going to be a cakewalk and he might have to use force after all. The thought makes me cringe and my stomach flips.

This is it. OPSEC. They drill it into you every minute of every day from the time your hire-on until you retire. Guard your documents. Guard your passwords. Guard your conversations. Guard your knowledge. Guard your secrets. Guard everything. You laugh about it because you are a finance monkey and your secrets consist of how many toner cartridges are bought in a year. You flex the rules because the passwords are too long to remember and have to be changed every thirty days. Maybe you start off gung-ho and serious, but then the day-to-day sets in and you realize there is no boogeyman hiding in every shadow waiting to pounce. But then the boogeyman does show up. What then? They don’t tell you how to stare down the barrel of a gun and say no.

I swipe my badge.

“Not that way, Ms. Fischer,” Dragon says calmly.

So he knows the order of operations at the bottom of the stairs. I tried. He is too well informed. He is either legit or has done his homework. Whatever, I tried. I’m not dying today. My initial patriotism has worn off with the drawn out trip to the Dungeon. I've changed my mind. I'll take my chances with treason.

I wait for the card reader to time out and then I place my thumb on the scanner. The green light begins to blink. I enter my PIN and it continues to blink green. As I go to swipe my badge, I feel a subtle change in the tension emanating from the operatives beside me. Throughout this crazy expedition to the Dungeon, they have been alert, but calm. There was a positive tension that they were using to focus. But now, their posture has changed. Is it fear? Anticipation? This is not my area of expertise, but whatever it is, I don’t like it.

I swipe my badge and the light settles on green and the lock clicks open. This time I make no move to open the door. I just want to go home.  

Check out the preview

I have posted the first three chapters of Rising Tide: A Novel. Check it out.

As promised . . .

Ok, as I mentioned yesterday, with a little bit of effort I'm going to hook you up with a copy of my new book   Rising Tide: A Novel.

Step 1: Cruise on over to my Facebook Page and friend me.
Step 2: "Like" my book's page.
Step 3: Post a status update linked to either my profile or Rising Tide.
Step 4: Send me a message via leighfischer83@gmail.com or Facebook and provide an email address to which I can send either a .MOBI or .PDF.

That's it. It doesn't get much easier. Thanks for your help and support.

*PS. If you're not into Facebook, shoot me an email and we will work something out.

A Short Intermission for Promotion

Yea I know, so far this blog has been filled with intermissions. That's what I get for starting a new project during a most glorious summer. But don't worry, summer has come to a close and November with all its misery is on its way. So I will be less preoccupied and will be updating more frequently.

But this is different than me just me being a slacker because the sun has been calling my name. This is as an intermission to send you towards a project on which I have not been slacking. Go check it out. I dare you. It's awesome. Rising Tide: A Novel is my new book. I just released it on Amazon.

Check back here for more information about the book and how you can hook yourself up with a free copy.