Carnival of Blood Part VIII

As Jack fell, he caught a glimpse of the top-hated carnie that kicked him back into the shambling horde of side show freaks. Strangely their bloated and mangled bodies protected him from greater damage. The one beneath him perished in a fit of snapping bones and jagged screams. Three others were knocked aside. 

This gave him just enough time to get to his feet and yell, “You want me so bad, come on!”

Then his axe cut huge paths through the disfigured mass of freaks. Under normal circumstances, Jack would have felt pity for such tortured creatures, but regardless of their past state, the Xemmoni had corrupted their souls. It might not have been fair, but Jack knew that pain filled hearts became Darkened easier than most and the evil eyes that glared at him from forty skulls confirmed this.

Jack stepped into his wild swings and then drew back and braced himself. He tried to keep moving and the foe wouldn’t grow too thick, but within seconds he was forced back into the dead end. Bodies had already piled at his feet, but the horrid enemy came in waves. Elongated arms lost their hands and fat heads coved in odd growths were split in half. Hands, nails, claws, and ratty teeth tore at him. With most of his jacket already destroyed, he had only his hardened flesh of Yig to fall back on. So far it kept him alive, but the numbers grew overwhelming.

His eyes darted toward the opening he had carved overhead. So close, but it might has well been on the other side of this Yig-forsaken town. There was no way he could fight his way free of this press and make it up there without the freaks pulling him back down.

He braced a heel against the wall of the dead end, took a deep breath, and then roared. It was the roar of the savage fighting to keep from being devoured, the Viking storming the shores on an unknown land, the cave dweller defending his mate.

The freaks withdrew for a moment, but then the carnie’s voice shouted down. “At him, rend the flesh from his bones or his fate will be yours!”

Then they came.

Like a tidal wave of flesh, they descended at him. Midgets mixed with giants. Some had too few limbs, while others had twice the amount they should. 

Jack unleashed with a primitive fury. His eyes glowed with the green of Yig while his axe ripped through them in bloody arcs. They fell by the half dozen, but still pressing in. Soon their blood painted his body. Drops of crimson flew from the ends of his hair and rolled down his arms in strings, which mixed with his own more often than not.

Still they came. A nightmare of mutated flesh. Mouths snapped where hands should be. Bodies seemed to flow and join together until he couldn’t be sure where one enemy started and another ended. All the while they hammered and gibbered, clutched and bit.

The sea of flesh parted to let a thundering form charge him. Big enough to be five men, the circus fat-man lurched toward him. Its blubber bounced in stench-ridden waves the size of his thigh. The foul head resting above the swollen form seemed overly small and insane laughter erupted from a mouth full of splintered teeth. Hands the size of baked turkeys slapped together, like they already anticipated tearing him apart. To be caught in those hands would mean his death.

Some times in life you have to do something stupid to stay alive.

Jack threw the axe at the thing’s head.

The move was so unexpected the fat-man had no chance to block the steel headed missile and the mighty axe split its skull. The pale mountain of obesity toppled backwards with a drawn out moan and killed four of his former allies when he crushed them flat.

Another oversized freak had been following the fat-man. This was a hairy giant that could have been mistaken for a Bigfoot. No clothes concealed the layers and layers of course matted hair that sprung from the towering figure’s form. Its gait and profile both had an apish feel, as thought this creature was a throwback to an earlier predecessor of man. This eight foot tall giant tore the axe out of his fallen friend with a roar and turned to face Jack.

But Jack was already moving.

Between the minions of freaks moving aside for the fat-man and then being either crushed or cut off from him but its colossal bunk, Jack had a few feet of clearance around him. Drawing his hand axe, he raced up onto the chest of the boated corpse and jumped onto the top of the maze’s wall he had so recently perched from. Losing his balance, he began to topple back toward the giant axe welder and his remaining freakish followers, but the hook of his hand axe lashed out and caught on the lip of the hole he had cut into the ceiling.

“Oh I don’t think so,” the carnie said and Jack heard boots thumping toward him. At the same time, he spotted something he hadn’t slowed down long enough to notice before.

The exit.

From where he stayed perched, he could see the exit to the maze.

Behind him the hairy giant prepared a blow that would cut him in two, while above him the booted foot lined up to kick his hand axe away.

With a yell, Jack reversed the grip on his hand axe and sent it cutting into the carnie’s shin. This caused the bastard to scream as Jack flung himself over the wall—seconds before the Bigfoot’s axe cut through the air where he had been.

He hit the floor on the other side of the wall and sprinted toward the maze’s exit. The hairy freak and its foul fellows gave chase, but he found the exit and hurried through. After frantically searching for a door he could shut, but finding none, he raced forward. Jack quickly traveled past what he guessed was the empty freak show. Once through the cages and filthy display cases, he found a staircase in the back going up.

The undulating horde of flesh followed from behind while the carnie and other tribulations waited for him ahead.

Jack wiped the lingering blood from his eyes and pressed on.

To be continued next Monday

Find out how Jack’s Adventures Started Here!

Lock Down, Bite Down… part III

Dells watched in muted horror as the doors to the clinic flew open and nine stumbling blood splattered people, half of which he knew, came pouring out. Standen had barely noticed because he still wrestled with the small Janise girl that had her teeth clamped down on his left hand.

“Shot them, shot them!” the teen Becca screamed.

Dells indecision reached new heights, but his attention was drawn to his partner smashing the young girl on the side of the face with his pistol. This proved enough to knock her off his hand, but a blow that should have left her bed ridden and crying all day, didn’t faze her and she sprung back onto her feet and rushed Standen again.

This time he kicked her away. She lost her footing again, but scrambled to her feet like nothing had occurred. “Son of a bitch…” he started, but by then the victims from the clinic had drawn near.

Standen stood closer and they fell on him while he focused on the girl. “What the hell?” Soon his words were replaced by ear rending screams as three new mouths clamped down on him.

“Holy Hell,” Dells started several of the people rushed toward him on awkward stiff legs.

Becca grabbed his arm. “Either shot them or run!”

How could he run while his partner was being killed, but looking over he saw that Standen had already been pulled to the ground and it would be too late to do anything for him. It was also too late to make it to his vehicle, because the bloody mindless victims stood between him and his ride.

The girl had already run off, but turned long enough to yell. “Come on! If they bite you, you end up like them. They already got my brother.”

Her words snapped him out of the mind numbing horror he witnessed and he turned just as the first hands reached out for him. Sprinting forward he grabbed Becca’s arm and hurried her along.

“When are you going to start shooting them?” she got out between gasps.

“I can’t just go and shoot people. There could be a way to save them.”

“Can’t you shoot people that are murderers?”

He nodded.

“Well than all of those fuckers qualify. I left my brother in there. Oh God.”

“We need to get to the station, I have to call more sheriffs and get folks up here from Tucson.”

“With all respects,” she said while pulling a lock of auburn hair from her face, “screw that. Mary had just come back from Tucson. This had happened to her there. How do you know things aren’t worse there? We need to warn the people here!”

“You alright, sheriff?” a voice called out to him from a pickup truck. Mickey Gibson drove and Bill Adams rode beside him.

“I’m about as far from alright as you can get. I need you boys to take us to my station and consider yourselves both deputized.” They gave him a strange look, but stopped the truck so the pair could hop in.

Before Mickey pulled away, Dells heard fresh screams sounding behind him. He cursed as the truck pulled away.

A new Eternal Aftermath Story begins next Saturday!

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Jack Primus, The Ghetto Shaman, and All the Chicken Wings they could Rally

Washington, DC—On Oct. 30^th The National Mall was packed wall-to-wall with celebrities attending the Shaman’s Rally to Retrieve the U.S. Soul. After a long weekend of bashing in the skulls of the foul Darcarre, Jack Primus swung east in support of the Discord’s cause.  Being a fictional character doesn’t stop Primus from doing any number of cool things on a given day. You know that dude, the world’s most interesting man, from those Dos Equis commercials? Jack Primus won’t return his calls.

Jack is the archetypal hero. He captured the new century’s zeitgeist and keeps it chained in his basement next to his morning star.  Primus rarely does interviews, but for the Discord…we paid him—virtual money, of course.

The rest of this post is courtesy of Mr. P himself:

The Ghetto Shaman has given his blessing to Yig.  He is truly wise. Since he’s been receiving death threats from both the Xemmoni underground and the Sharron Angle campaign—both sworn enemies of Yig—I decided to help out my old friend. He asked me to support his cause, protect him from the super natural forces that be, and, of course, buy him some malt liquor products. Actually, I only agreed if GS promised me a plug on the Discord to sell more books.  He also promised me all the chicken wings I could eat. The joke was really on them; I hid an extra eighty in my backpack on the way out.  I heard Zano is getting his “wages” garnished over that one. But GS told me he’s got Winslow wrapped around his little chicken wing and I could muscle-in whenever I wanted.
If what happened at the Mall on October 30th continues to plague America, you’re really going to need the Chronicles of Jack Primus.  It’s not just a book; it’s a survival guide for the coming apocalypse!

To rewind a bit, everything had started out well enough. The Discord was bussing people down to the event. The Ghetto Shaman was reading excerpts of Jack Primus to the cheering masses. But those who could not decipher the Primus Code, never got a bus ride home! This book was their return ticket, you see. Without it, they were forced to hang out at Capital City Brewing—that big dumb brewpub downtown; the one with small portions and rubbery chicken wings. If you get stuck down there and the Xemmoni or the Darcarre get you, don’t come bitching to me. You’ve been warned. They’re in all the major cities, and they tend to know when you know…you know? So now that you know, you better read this book and learn how to stay alive…and don’t order those chicken wings.

I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Can you edit that out, Winslow? Not the staying alive part, the other part about the wings. Sometimes they’re OK drowned in enough blue cheese dressing. But you should buy the book and try to stay alive, of course. Geesh.

So, you want to really know what happened on October 30th? Why GS needed me as he shifted into an alternate dimension? He isn’t called a Shaman for nothing. They did come after him that day—in mass, I might add. You see, anyone and everyone must guard his or her corporeal body during any exercise in soul travel, especially one this important.

When The Ghetto Shaman drank his potion on the Lincoln Memorial steps, those damn Darcarre moved in like bed bugs in an Econo Lodge.  They surrounded us, alongside their unwilling slave, Jeff “come-on-in-guys” Probst of Survivor fame. They didn’t want GS’s message to get out to the people.  They will derail any message resembling Yig’s.  Could you imagine what would have happened if GS told everyone on national television to dissolve our differences and embrace the All Father snake? Yep, you’re right, we’d all be in a state of bliss, with all hunger and wars a thing of the past. Don’t look at me like that… Snakes are all about bliss… duh.  Haven’t you ever read any Graham Hancock?

So when they came, I was ready, or at least I was after I wiped the BBQ sauce off my weapon hand.  GS even helped with the battle; he was pretty bad ass with those chicken bone nunchucks. We gave those Serial Killers a good licking, but the damage was done. They jammed the telecast and those other stooges claimed all the credit for the rally.

Why do you think the special wasn’t on television and they switched all the coverage to those Comedy Central dudes with the weird haircuts and no sideburns?  It was a diversion!  I kept the Shaman safe until the police…er, “took over.”

There you have it, right from the hero’s mouth.  Some call Primus a Yig-loving fictional freak. Whereas this is true, it’s still not a very nice thing to say. We would rather you stay alive, learn your enemy’s secrets, and read The Chronicles of Jack Primus.

Grab one of the Chronicles f Jack Primus here!

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Carnival of Blood Part VII

Jack grasped the shortened battle axe tighter as the Haunted Funhouse plunged into complete darkness. “Didn’t you already try this trick before,” Jack grumbled. He made it about eight more feet before his foot banged something painfully and he let out a string of curses.

“What’s that matter, has no one ever made it this far before? So now you gotta kill the lights so you can think of what to send at me next.”

Silence.

It was so quiet his ears were ringing.

 

 

“Screw this,” he said and moved forward until he reached one of the walls of the maze. He had seen earlier that the walls didn’t reach the ceiling, but stopped a few feet shy of it. He went left while running his hand against the wall. As soon as he found a corner he leapt up and climbed on top of the wall. A little luck was with him for even in the darkness, he could tell he had found a place where the intersecting walls had formed a large.

Once he got himself situated on top of the wall, he took a deep breath, and then began to whack the ceiling overhead. It was made from some type of metal, which didn’t surprise him, but it only took three hits from the giant twin headed axe to create a gash large enough for a trickle of light to come through.

He kept at it until a voice echoed through the maze. “What are you doing?” The voice was shrill like a female hobbit that had just sucked in a mouth full of helium. “You aren’t playing by the rules. You are cheating!”

“We’ll hats off to me then. And… I make my own rules.”

There was a series of piping curses and then the patter of a dozen feet rushing toward him through the maze. Strangely the lights popped back on. Jack was half tempted to leap down and kill whatever might be racing at him, but it sounded like more had joined in the chase and he always preferred the high ground anyway.

They drew in close, but with the maze slowing them down, he might have a chance to make it through. The hole had several jagged strips of metal that reduced its size and Jack was forced to pause as he pulled these back.

He had just finished doing so and figured the opening was probably big enough for him to fit through when the first of his pursuers came into view and he wished they hadn’t

It was as if they had emptied out the freak house and sent them all his way. Things with matted flesh and coarse hair mixed with pale fish colored men with elongated arms and missing body parts. Things of indeterminate sex walked on their hands or dragged themselves along by any manner their mangled bodies would allow. Others were beastly things that could prove fierce combatants.

“Screw this,” Jack said again, and made for the hole, just as the lovecraftain horde poured into the hallway on which he perched. He was just climbing through when he heard laughter above him. He was just able to catch a glimpse of the thin man he had met outside of the ride, before a black boot sent him tumbling back into the gibbering freaks below.

To be continued next Monday

Find out how Jack’s Adventures Started Here!

A Clone of a Different Color, Part IV

“What’s wrong?” Erin gasped, when she saw the look on his face. She had always been very good at reading him.

He didn’t pull any punches, he never did when someone’s life was on the line and this was his Erin. “The Mayor knows about us.”

Her small hands covered her mouth in horror. “Oh no, oh no.” She shook for a moment and that was all it took for him to have her fill his arms. She shivered against him.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

“I’m not sure.” He moved her back so he could look into her crying eyes. “It sounds like he already knew about us. Most likely he figured he would keep it for an ace in the hole to use when he needed something from me.”

“Like now?”

“Yeah, like now.”

“What does he want from you?”

“It was pretty much like you thought. He wants to blame this on Jumpers and get more PR before the election.”

“Did he really kill Homes?” she asked while trying to hold back the tears.

“Who knows and I doubt it matters. There’s no way I could do anything against the Mayor even if he had pulled the trigger himself.”

“You can’t blame some innocent Jumper can you?” she asked, her eyes looking so sad.

“No, of course not. I think the only thing we can do is try to leave. Get outside the hub.”

“You want me to go with you?” her words came slow, with hesitation.

“Oh course I do, I said we didn’t I?”

“You don’t have to do this Dak. Being an Enforcer is your life. I could Jump back. No one would know. What could they prove against you then?”

“I don’t want to do that.”

She looked up at him as they each held the other’s arms. “Why?”

“You said being an Enforcer was my life. That’s not true anymore.” He stuttered for a moment. “I think I’m in love with you. Everything I see, it’s all tarnished, wicked, and wrong. You’re the only light.”

He stopped suddenly and her tears began again, but for a different reason this time. “Can you really love me? Can I really be your woman?”

“Erin, you already are my woman. Now get your things packed and remember, we are traveling light.”

She started to go, but then dashed back and gave him a long kiss. He watched her for a moment, while she started to pack her things and hoped he was making the right choice. 

 

Look for the Conclusion Of Clone of a Different Color on August 9th! 

Learn more about Skinjumpers and the world of New Cluster here!

 

Lock Down, Bite Down part II

One thing about the lonely desert town of San Miguel, it wasn’t very large. Driving from the sheriff station to the clinic only took a matter of minutes. One would have thought he could have made the short drive without incident, but such wasn’t to be.

Before he had turned his first corner, Sheriff Dells saw old Emma Jane. The woman had been his third grade teacher, but now she stumbled down the road clutching her blood stained hand against her chest. Crimson stained the front of the pale dress like a bright flag.

He screeched the squad car to a stop and the pair rushed out to help the older woman. “Emma, we need to get you to the clinic!” Dells said, as he supported the frail woman.

“The heck you will! That’s where I just came from. And I’d say that young dep of yours is in over his head.”

Just as Dells was about to curse the moment the sun rose on this day, Molly Atkins rushed out of her home. “Oh my goodness, Mrs. Fallen, are you alright?”

“No, I’m not alright. That brat Mary Janise bit me. I don’t care how bad a child’s fever is, there is no excuse for such behavior.”

Emma went on, but Dells turned toward Molly. The woman mouthed, ‘I’ll take care of her.’

That was good enough for him. “Come on Standen, we need to get to that clinic.”

A minute later, they had almost arrived when Standen leaned back in the passenger seat. “I’m not feeling so well.” Sweat had drenched the man’s endless brow and his face appeared flushed.

“You don’t look good either. Maybe we can grab you some antibiotics at the clinic.”

Just as he pulled into the clinic everyone inside was rushing out of the building like it was on fire. A few of the women screamed as they ran by, but a young girl rushed toward the vehicle. In was the local girl, Becca, that his wife had gotten to babysit his children a time or two.

Her auburn hair concealed half her face as she ran to his opening window. “Your officer is dead. Everyone is going crazy in there!”

As if on cue, the little Janise girl pushed open the outer door of the clinic. Her head jerked their way. Her hair was matted with sweat and something else—blood.

Both of the men hurried out of their vehicle. The rest of the crowd had moved by them, but Becca remained. Perhaps she feels safer with us, he mused.

“Shoot her! She’s crazy,” the teen screamed.

“Are you nuts?” Standen said and began to move toward the girl.

“That’s how the other office died,” Becca said quickly. “When that woman went nuts he tried to calm her and she bit out his throat.”

Dells drew his side arm. “Watch this o

ne,” he cautioned. “If she has rabies it’s already too late for her.”

“She’s just a kid. No one gets rabies anymore. Maybe we’ll just have to—son of a bitch!” Standen yelled when her teeth clamped down on his wrist.

“Kill her!” Becca yelled. “She’s gone nuts and she’s not the only one.”

Dells took aim, but it all seemed so insane. How could he shot a girl?

That was when the doors of the clinic slammed open and more of them hurried to emerge.

A new Eternal Aftermath Story begins next Saturday!

You can find out more about the Eternal Aftermath here!

ATVs: A-hole Trashy Victimizers and Why I Hate Them By Alex Bone

Collapsing Shack, AZ—Over the past decade the use of ATVs has become more popular than ever, surpassing even the killing of harmless animals, the shooting of illegal immigrants, or other culturally important redneck pastimes (CIRP).   The following observation on those who choose to drive an ATV is sadly accurate.  The names have been changed to protect…I really didn’t get their names.  Too much gurgling from all the blood in their throats.

Now people don’t even need four wheel drive vehicles to get deep into the wilderness. Many families can just drive their RV to the edge of the woods, set up camp, and—as soon as they finish the last video from the Jeff Foxworthy mythos—head as far as the dirt roads will allow. I decided for this post to set out to discover the ins-and-outs of forest etiquette, particularly in regards to the owners of these fearsome machines known as ATVs.  ATV owners are the BMW drivers of the badlands. Speaking of which, if they ever do make a BMW-ATV, wow….

 

Now I know why I am one of Northern Arizona’s premiere horror writers.  I just scared the shit out of myself.

I have studied the ATVsters behaviors and their ethics for some time—from a distance, of course, as not to contaminate the study.   So the following is just a short list of things that occurred while dealing with these jack wads. I’ve had the owners of ATVs:

1. Drive over my possessions as they race through my campsite (I will miss you Sony Walkman).
2. Park behind my artist wife in the middle of composing a painting (wow, that’s a beautiful use of water color, honey, but…uh, is that the back end of a Yamaha Raptor?)
3. Try to move our camp tables in order to drive a few more feet past our canvas paradise.
4. Lash small children to their front bumpers and drive through patches of jumping cholla (I’m actually OK with this one, but, wouldn’t you know it, that’s the only one that isn’t true!)

 

Some ATV owners have even tried to get me to buy George W’s new book. I hope I dug those graves deep enough. Since ATVs are from Hell, my new goal is to ensure that every time I’m around one they already feel like they are there. I don’t want them to die and have the whole eternal-damnation thing be a shock to their system.  So now, each time one shows up anywhere near me, I rush forward to them, get into their face, and yell RAAAH, RAAAH, RAHHH at an ear-tearing volume.

 

Do they think I’m crazy? If they can hear me over the roar of their engines… my guess would be, yes. Still, my goal is a noble one, to try to annoy them at least a fraction of how much they have annoyed me over the years. Is this good journalism? Is this sane? Well, of course not, but keep in mind, this is The Daily Discord.

The important thing is they begin to think twice…oh wait, that might be too hard for ATV owners. How about think…at all, before they rush into some stranger’s camp. So ATVers beware, there are worse things in the back woods than broken RV heaters, burnt microwave dinners, and skipping DVDs. Sometimes your little roar buckets might not be enough to get you back to your mobile homes, because barb wire has a whole lot of uses, heh, heh, heh—especially when it’s placed between trees about neck high. Did I just say that aloud?  Mr. Winslow is saying, no, I typed it out loud.  Oh, aren’t we supposed to tone down the rhetoric?  Well, next time, for now I have some traps to set for some boobs.  The last bastards we took out only had some Miller Lite and some Jeff Foxworthy tapes.

 

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