Chapter One

The scene is set, insight into past.

The stark vastness of the outlying surroundings, illuminated by the fresh light of a dawning sun, seams to be a pure waste as the breathtaking tapestry falls on eyes that don't exist. No birds tweet and play in the green foliage, no coyotes howl and stalk their prey, no grizzly bear frolic in the rivers for salmon. Just an epic landscape who's void is filled with deep black, flat-faced cliffs which appear as slumbering leviathans on the dotted horizon.

Ancient paths once travelled by natives, long since persecuted and extinct, still remain beneath the building foliage. The green vegetation turns to a dry, almost desert-like plain where the cliffs of black turn to light brown faces of eroding sandstone. All is lost from the sight of the living, but the spiritual presence is more then overwhelming. In the evenings, just before the sun sets and the grip of cold chokes the wasteland, apparitions created throughout generations and centuries appear in the twilight.

Tall, dark skinned men with long, flowing braided black hair stand tall wrapped in animal skins to protect against the warmth. Although ghosts can't feel cold. Their stoic faces watch out over the land that was once their own. Tears form in their serious, expressionless eyes. These ancients still worship these blessed black hills even in the great there after.

There are also paler ghosts, clean shaved and fit with leather and steel. Their broad shoulders and strapping backs stretch the brown cowhide which lays across them. Crumpled, brimmed hats hang down atop their heads hiding the expressions which mark their eyes while the gleaming chrome on each of their hips shines in the remaining light. Their oily cylinders smelling of hot smoke and death.

Another pale faced poltergeist convalesces in a haze, also equipped with heavy doses of leather and steel. However, he looks worlds apart from the previous. His cowhide is black like the hills, embroidered with silver zippers and chains. Beneath the blackened exterior, tapestries of permanent art strangle the warriors muscle ripped arms. His portion of steel does not come in the form of oily revolvers but rather a bright hot metallic steed that roars like a mechanical lion as it's straddled between his denim pant legs.

But on this morning not even the eyes of the dead seam to be appreciating the grandeur of the naturally beautiful wasteland. The wonderment lost due to the narcissistic way of humanity so many centuries ago.

But alas, the morning is broken by the slow but confident movements of some being born of flesh and blood. Fresh twigs snap underfoot and the roughage rustles up to the knees. For striding amongst the behemoth black cliffs is a tall rangy man with incredibly large hands, long muscular legs, square strong shoulders and a weathered bearded face.

His hair is a thick thatch of deep brown fibers that looks red when caught at the right angle by the sun. It peaks out from the brim of a crinkled old tan cowboy hat, a single black eagle feather tucked into the crease. Sunk into the traveler's sun baked face and scraggly hair are two wondrous orbs. The man's irises bare the resemblance of a shimmering, tropical ocean. With each disparity in lighting, the greens ripple and flow, tie-dying between emeralds, aquamarines and beryls to shades of sapphire, cerulean and azure.

Peaking out from the collar of a thin white doublet, runic etchings dot the man's tanned neck like deteriorating hieroglyphics in an ancient tomb. The artwork has become faded and crude, a product of the sun's erosion. Fitted over the grimy doublet, cowhide, much like the revolver-toting apparitions', creates a loose fitting jacket which protects wonderfully from the wasteland's elements.

The wanderer's hands remain bare, healed over blisters have created strong callouses. Just as strong and protective as gloves, but far more natural feeling. Moving to the lower half of the man's long body, his legs are encased in two hole-ridden columns of dirty blue denim last washed too many moons ago. The jeans fit far too loosely around his narrow waist as they are help up by a short section of rope. The blue denim bulges just below his kneecaps where a pair of worn, black leather engineer boots crunch steadily in the underbrush.

Strapped to the man's back, the black barrel of an ancient bolt action rifle points into the blue sky. The deep cherrywood stalk, filled with nicks and gashes, has been tapped from fore to aft in an extremely crude fashion and the metal work bares numerous small blotches of red rust despite the generous amount of oil it's owner applies.

In this place and time, a firearm has become a sort of relic used ages ago to achieve death and destruction. Ammo is no longer readily at hand, a reason why this wanderer covets the precious three shells he has left.

As for a secondary weapon, the wanderer carries it in his makeshift, rope belt. Dangling from the braided strand of a belt hangs a meticulously crafted hatchet. Or rather, tomahawk. It's smooth hickory handle is the handy work of a master artisan as it is tipped with a vicious iron blade sharpened to a razor's edge. One side pans out in the classic axe blade with the reverse, a deathly sharp point used for clawing and puncturing. Neat notches run up the bottom side of the handle, each signifying a head shattered or removed.

The wanderer abruptly stops and glances around his epic surroundings. Staring up through the ebony cliff faces, he lifts a finger to gauge the direction of the almost unmoving wind. East. The wind always blows East.

Drawing in a deep breath, the man breaks the silence. "Marduk? Marduk!" he calls from the pit of his belly in a deep, gravely voice that sounds like steel tacks grinding in a blender.

All is silent once again as a gust of wind kisses through the hills like the gentle lips of a woman on her lover's neck. A few seconds later, a muffled stirring filters up from the foliage into the wanderer's ears. Oddly, the wanderer doesn't turn to the disturbance. He just stands straight as an arrow with a gentle grin creasing his cracked lips.

The rustling stops for half a second drawing a sideways glance from the statuesque wanderer. His grin creases a little higher into a smile displaying a full set of surprisingly straight teeth.

"You better not have come back empty handed," he grumbles in a power-sander voice although it's more of a playful taunt then a badgering order.

At the sound of his voice, the rustling recommences and from the shelter of the tangled weeds and bushes emerges a small fury creature with a bushy tail and mysteriously intelligent eyes. The hairy mammal walks low to the ground on four legs and it's fur, gray with black bands just above it's feet and across it's eyes like a blindfold. Marduk scurries toward the wanderer and climbs his left leg with great ease. A plump, red breasted bird sits, dripping with blood, in the ferret's razor sharp teeth. Arriving at the wanderer's shoulder, Marduk drops the red breasted robin down his chest where it thumps onto the ground.

"'Atta boy," the wanderer reaches a hand up to scratch his little creature friend behind the ear.

Dropping to one knee, the wanderer takes the robin in his hands and spreads its wings out on the gorund. Holding them there with his steel toed boots, he pulls on the bird's spindly legs and with a crunch, the body is torn neatly from the wings leaving an unharmed double breast of rich dark meat.

With the sight of fresh meat, Marduk begins to fidget and squeak on his master's shoulder. A powerful finger pulls a strip of raw meat from above the robin's right leg which Marduk quickly gobbles up. Now satisfied, the ferret climbs back down his master's leg and disappears into the foliage for more stalking. His favorite game, especially when it yields a small treat and applause from his beloved master.

Using a small piece of rawhide attached to his lasso belt, the wanderer bounds the robin's legs and leaves it dangling at his side so he may move along. The first kill of the day and the sun just recently rose above the hills of black.

He can't help but think that this is a pretty perfect day. The sky is cloudless, the wind is gentle, Marduk has found his hunter's edge, fresh meat is on his hip. The images of home and her voice, that damned voice, are finally fading from memory. The nightmares have even ceased.

That thought is pushed to the recesses of his mind when Marduk can be heard squeaking from the brush accompanied by the sound of franticly beating wings. Yup, this should be a good day.

With the evening upon him, the wanderer finds some safe cover at the base of a massive oak tree. Marduk perches on the lower most branch to keep a keen lookout. Using a piece of flint and the flat blade of his hatchet, the wanderer starts a fire that builds quickly with such dry foliage.

His crude rope belt bares much more weight then normal as every rawhide strap is filled by some dismembered bird of one type or another. One by one, the wanderer spit roasts each bird and with every bite he takes, he tosses a small scrap to his loyal hunting partner who chirps enthusiastically in appreciation.

Once the meat is fully cooked, our wanderer friend reaches deep into the pocket of his leather jacket and removes a cloth pouch cinched shut by a draw string. From inside the pouch, he removes half a dozen bulbous roots which he dug from the earth with the thin, spiked end of his hatchet.

Safe inside a thick wrapping of green leaves, the meaty bulbs cook to perfection in the hot coals. The rich fibrous flesh of the budding plants fall nicely inside his stomach around the hot fowl and help alleviate his budding headache.

Sleep comes quickly once the meat settles, the headache fully fades and the three swigs of rotgut whiskey from his flask take effect. By the light of a moon that looks like a glowing white lantern, the wanderer snores softly by the smoldering embers while Marduk watches over him like a guardian angel. But for our wanderer, sleep does not bring much relaxation nor does it bring any mental rest. Sleep is merely a respite for his tired feet and slouching shoulders. Marduk senses his friend's dismay and utters a silent squeak to the darkness. Would the dreams ever end?

The cool summer's night breeze flying off the turquoise surface of the rippling ocean caresses the coastline and is quickly sucked back out to sea. We find ourselves on a rural coastline located between two, once bustling, now demolished, metropolises. A cluster of ramshackle houses dot the brown grass which borders the golden beach with just one still burning candles in this stygian darkness.

In this one illuminated house sits a figure with slouched shoulders and drooping bloodshot eyes. Between his parted legs sits an almost empty half gallon of vile amber liquid. The smell of alcohol spills from his mouth and pores along with the fuming stench of white hot rage and betrayal. With the bottle having properly done it's job, the wasted theorist has turned his attention to a small portion of stationary found in his wife's lock box. A letter from a plotting lover, perfectly laying out their hideous plan. A plan that would rid her of all her motherly and wifely responsibilities. He reads it over and over, with each subsequent time his fury growing larger and hotter.

My Love,

The errand you had me run is now complete.

I had a hard time ending the boy as his eyes flashed so much innocence.

Not to mention his features strongly resemble yours.

But if the cost of your love is the life of your offpsring,

then your love must be that intense.

On the night of the full moon I hope you will lead me to your home to tie off the final end in order to achieve our undying love.

The blood on my hands is a small price to pay in exchange for the warmth of your body and the sensual touch of your skin.

Don't let him see this or I fear for the both of us.

I love you dearly my love and soon we shall be each others.

Completely and entirely,

Your Lover.

The murderous prick even had the audacity to sign the letter, Your Lover, he didn't even know the cocksucker's name. Not that it really mattered, he knew what he had to do and thinking of him as a nameless, faceless non-human would make doing it that much easier. For outside his open window, the throbbing lantern of the full moon cuts it's path through a ghosty shroud of cotton pillows.

Next to his whiskey drenched Lazy Boy is a homemade pine end table containing a silver tray mounded with loose tobacco and weed used for home rolling and a brightly burning candle. Leaned against the little desk, the drunkard's trusty bolt action .308 hunting rifle points menacingly towards the ceiling. A box of shells sits on the floor beside it.

While downing the last remnants of his burning liquor, a gentle patter filters in from outside the door. With rage taking the reins, his inebriation takes a back seat to action. The note in hand is crumpled and tossed to the floor. As he leans over to retrieve his tool of murder, a gentle pulse of air from between his lips extinguishes the candle's fluttering flame. The door doesn't open immediately as a series of instructive and supportive dialogue commences instead. With his sights set firmly on the thin, plywood door, the man waits and listens in his death dark living room.

"Okay sweetie, this should be easy. Ever since the boy, he's been in a drunken stupor. Just go to his bed and cut his throat. And I'm all yours," her low whisper is soft and sexual.

Bleeding f*****g succubus.

The door is unlatched, with as much stealth as possible with shaky, nervous hands. By the moon's light through the sill, our man can see two stalking silhouettes trying to make as little sound as possible. Little do they know they're directly facing the man they mean harm. The filthy murdering man leads the way with the plotting little w***e taking up the rear.

Now within five yards, the knife wielding man gasps as his eyes adjust fully to see a hunched figure in the chair before him. The last thought in his mind before the white light takes him is to turn and see his lovers face for a final time.

He's too slow.

A belching starburst of flame spits from the barrel as the trigger is pulled. The hot hunk of thirty caliber lead rips through the soft underbelly of the man's gasping jaw. With a hideous crunch, the cartridge flies through his mouth, into his cranium and out the back of his neck where the spinal cord joins to the brain. Chunks of bone and flesh spatter the evil woman's face and she stumbles back in bewilderment as her lover falls in upon himself amongst a flash flood of scarlet.

"Dear god, dear god. What have you done?"

The armed man doesn't blink as he sets down his killing implement and strikes a match to the candle in order to look upon the b***h's terrified face before he ends her. As the light dances up around the room, he can see her fear ridden face as it's dyed with her lover's blood. Her dark raven hair is messy and sent askew to match her disheveled outfit which has fallen open revealing her hypnotizing breasts and venus fly trap crotch. He stands to end her.

"Darling, it's not what you think."

"You. You."

"No," she trembles with fear.

"Killed our boy. My boy. For that f*****g cowardly p***y!"

"This wasn't working..."

"Well, I hope your happy now," he lifts his leg.

"You have to understa-"

With the flying force of his steel-toed engineer boots, the life is swiftly and mercilessly kicked from her soulless, sinful body. Her face crunches and her blood instantly pools with that of her lover's. Her last breaths are frantic pleads of mercy through a mouth filled with shattered teeth.

"W-hy -his -int -ave -oo," her words are slurred beyond legibleness as the final essences of life slip from her cold, unfeeling eyes. The gibberish sends rigid goosebumps up his neck but he quickly swallows his guilt when the mental image of his mutilated son comes back to him.

Shaking intensely now, the liberated man rolls the rest of his tobacco-marijuana mix into splifs amongst the massacre. As dawn beckons across Davey Jones Locker, the bolt action rifle and it's shells are packed along with a wonderfully crafted hatchet, a pouch of dried beef jerky, a sack of water and the rest of his booze into a flask. In order to leave this horrible life behind he begins a journey west. To what, he doesn't know. He's never heard nor seen what lies beyond the coastline which has always been his home.

An earth shattering crack splits the airy silence followed in quick succession by a rumbling of what sounds like a stampede of mustangs. But mustangs haven't roamed these plains and hills for decades. This menacing rumbling doesn't come from the earth but rather it comes the sky which has turned a deep malevolent obsidian. Jagged silver streaks of light claw across the heavens in quick frantic movements.

The wanderer jolts from his dream to find himself in a world just as dark. Cold droplets of rain patter down through the vegetation causing cold plumes of ash from the extinguished fire to puff into the air. Marduk chirps anxiously on his watch post branch as the water dampens his soft puffy coat.

The ground is cold and the wanderer's body heat is fleeing fast so he decides to stand and move some blood back into his stiff legs. How did such a perfect night turn into such a dark and dreary day? Perhaps the dream had filtered over into reality. Where was this damn town anyways? Were the rumors even true? In this colossal frontier it could be anywhere. Hopefully the directions received would bare fruit. Common knowledge seamed to suggest that the largest overgrown road would lead into the center of town. But if not, then his adventure would continue. Maybe until he walked off the face of the earth. And perhaps that would be a welcome and refreshing destiny.

Author's Note

How does this flow?
Enough description?
General thoughts/ suggestions?