Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation Read online

  Copyright © 2011 Unearthed Press

  Text copyright 2011 by UnEarthed Press

  Cover art copyright 2011 by Jake Barnes

  Internal art copyright 2011 by Dale Bott

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author and editor. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Edited by: Trevor E. Donaldson

  Visit our website at: www.UnEarthedPress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: May 2011

  First Print & Ebook Edition

  ISBN: 1460938011

  Published by UnEarthed Press

  Anthology of Ichor III

  Gears of Damnation

  Edited by:

  Trevor E. Donaldson

  UnEarthed press

  Foreword

  This Anthology marks the first anniversary of UnEarthed Press. The past year has seen changes in the publishing industry as more publications segue to ebook formats. Print on Demand publishing has also become commonplace. While this is a cost effective way of distributing a product, it reduces the collectible valuation of books.

  To the collecting minority, this is a sad time in the book-collecting world. To others, it is a positive situation allowing access to literature which would otherwise be limited in print runs, and thus availability.

  It is an exciting time for all authors who would have been unable to reach print 20 years ago in such a market.

  I enjoyed reading each submission for this anthology, and wish each author a very successful career in writing.

  And now, without further adieu, I present Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation.

  -Trevor E. Donaldson. Editor

  Table of Contents:

  A Battle of Ego 1

  Kevin James Breaux

  Side Effects 26

  Cynthia Ray

  Things Found in a 4th Floor Room 52

  Erik T. Johnson

  Darkness 68

  Bill Albert

  Freak Town – A Novella 82

  Jeffrey Hale

  Best Served Cold 212

  Marc Sorondo

  The Scientific Method 235

  Amanda Lawrence Auverigne

  Kreet 273

  A.J. French

  The Lucky Mouth 290

  Gerry Huntman

  Holding Her Hand 300

  Anthony Bell

  Symbiote 332

  L.T. Getty

  Sunrise at the Portara 364

  Adrian Chamberlin

  Music Man 390

  Bruce Memblatt

  Imperfection 404

  Michael Fletcher

  The Wheel of Life 415

  Garrett Ashley

  Psy – A Novella 430

  S.M. Sawyer

  A BATTLE OF EGO

  by

  Kevin James Breaux

  February 13, 1895 - Metuchen, New Jersey

  Metuchen was a small town, just beginning to grow with the addition of the New Jersey Railroad in New Brunswick. Ten homes, supported by two taverns and a general store sat on the main street along with one Presbyterian Church. The newest addition to town, a textile manufacturing mill, sat slightly off the main road, draped continuously in deep shadows.

  Purchased with his money, yet under a false name, and managed by a German man he was not known to have any association with, Nikola Tesla kept his basement and sub-basement laboratories a complete secret. No one, save his close friend Mark Twain, knew of their existence, not even the textile workers above.

  “What are we doing here on such an austere winter night?” Mark Twain said, pacing the stone slab floor of the darkened room. “I must say, I find it a tad frosty here, and much less hospitable than your other New York laboratories, Nikola.”

  Head down over his work all Mark Twain could rouse from his friend was a series of mumbled numbers. “0,268,205... 0,271,615... 0,271,616.”

  “Hiding in a town with all of twelve buildings makes little sense to me friend.”

  “Fifteen,” Tesla replied, while snapping a digit up on his left hand until fifteen counts were made.

  “You say?”

  “Fifteen buildings, divided by three makes five. Fifteen buildings complete the city of Metuchen. No street lights Mr. Twain, easier to hide in the dark than the light of the big city.”

  “You fancy me with a joke this night?” Twain chuckled.

  “0,268,205... 0,271,615... excuse me?”

  “Nikola, might I remind you, my good old friend, we are two levels underground. Street lights or burning sun, not a one will shine down on us here.”

  “Point made.”

  After walking across the room for the sixth time Mark Twain gazed down at his white shoes which were now covered with a thin layer of black dirt. Curious, Twain ran his finger across the floor drawing a straight line in the settled filth.

  “Is this coal soot?” Twain asked, rubbing his thumb and index finger together.

  “Indeed. My sincerest apologies for your shoes, I should have told you to wear boots,” Tesla answered, not taking his eyes off his project.

  Gazing inquisitively over his shoulder Twain took a good long look at what preoccupied his friend. Under Tesla’s desk lamp sat a turned over spiked military helmet. In each hand the scientist held a pair of shiny new pliers. Carefully Tesla fed a thin copper wire around the inside of the helmet’s dome, stitching it through the boiled leather.

  “A war helmet? My dear Nikola, where did you find such a dreadful thing?” Twain inquired stroking his white mustache with curiosity, not realizing he was darkening the tips with soot.

  “Not just any war helmet, a Prussian Pickelhaube. Surplus from the Franco-Prussian war. A colleague of mine shipped two dozen of these to me in exchange for some American tobacco.”

  “Did he send you arms and armor as well, is that your plan?”

  Tesla stopped what he was doing, turning the helmet over and placing it carefully atop his work otherwise empty bench. He wiped his hands together to loosen any dirt ingrained in the skin of his palms and then further ran them down his stark white apron. After standing he reached for a clean moist towel, which Twain had already prepared for him. After rubbing his hands through the coarse cloth to a count of twenty-one strokes Tesla turned his attention fully to his friend.

  “I know you pain over this my friend, but every great personage must be shadowed by a parasite who is infinitely little.”

  “My parasite has consumed more of my precious time than I care divulge. Lives have begun and ended in less time than he has stolen from me. You would not understand,” Nikola grumbled, his accent more pronounced when he was angry.

  “Would I not? You so soon forget my typesetting machine?”

  “Had that device been made of flesh and blood, would you not have snuffed out its light years ago?”

  Mark Twain, normally quick to answer paused a moment. His friend was right, and although he did not condone violence he found pro-aggressive words on his tongue.

  “You are right Nikola. There is more real pleasure to be gotten out of a malicious act, where your heart is in it, than out of thirty acts of a nobler sort.”

  “Then tonight I seize in ecstasy,” Tesla clenched his risen fist. “Before dawn’s glow I will see the end of
my cancer.”

  “Are you sure no accordance can be found?” Twain tried one last time to sway his friend.

  “None! Tonight Thomas Alva Edison dies!”

  Tesla led Mark Twain into his main laboratory from the office where he was just finishing up his work. Upon entering the sealed off, pitch black room Twain’s nose was filled with the overwhelming stench of death. Pervading his every sense, Twain staggered back while gagging and rummaging through his vest pockets for a handkerchief.

  “What is this horrid stench? Are you testing on dead animals again Nikola? I fear you have forgotten to cremate the bodies of the most decayed specimens.”

  “Not animals.”

  After pulling a level on the wall near the door, the room lit up as bright as a sunny day at Coney Island. Caught off guard Mark Twain shielded his eyes until he felt that they would be able to handle the bright yellow light. Displayed before him, tethered to the wall like big game trophies, were the bodies of eleven men. Dressed in rags, and ruined soldier’s boots, the corpses each wore a Pickelhaube helmet that had wires running from the metal spike atop the crown, up the walls to the ceiling where they met in the center of the room. The jumble of wires then dropped down like jungle vines into a large power generator which was humming ever so lightly.

  “What have you done to these poor men Nikola!” Mark Twain gasped.

  “Relax,” Tesla reached out lowering Twain’s shaking pointed finger. “They arrived here in this state, no crime has been committed.”

  “What am I looking at?”

  “I call them Automatons. Dead men, who through the power of electricity and a custom designed exoskeleton, can be ordered to complete the simplest commands,” Tesla explained.

  “I recall your works in this field before, yet there were no rotting bodies then, just steel and iron. Tell me, do you seek to reanimate these corpses?” Twain had to ask it, although it seemed thoroughly impossible.

  “No, not at all! Think of these cadavers as nothing more than a sculptor’s armature.”

  Tesla stomped to the first body, snatching a sharp scalpel from one of his desks as he walked. Turning the blade upward he carefully sheered the clothing off the dead man’s torso and legs. As he cut swatches of cloth free a shiny metal cage-like structure wrapped around the limbs and chest of the corpse came more and more into view.

  “You see Twain, an exoskeleton!” Tesla voice peaked with elation. “My dream, born into worldly existence. You are looking at the second design, one I have yet to patent.”

  Easily fascinated by technology Mark Twain stepped up to the metal laden man, his handkerchief to his face to filter out the stink. As Tesla pointed to the metal bars and gears that made up the exoskeleton Twain’s eyes followed as if he was a child being lead by a chocolate bar.

  “How is he-it operated?”

  “The exoskeleton or the soldier?” Tesla queried.

  “This magnificent, yet perverted structure,” Twain ran his hand across one of the smallest gears in the arm housing. “How is it powered?”

  “Steam,” Nikola retorted.

  “Like a locomotive, I should have known,” Twain nodded.

  “Yes, like a locomotive. I must give some credit to my design, as much of it is borrowed from Walschaert’s valve gear technology.”

  “I understand you being able to make the dead man move, but how will you command it Nikola, there is no means possible,” Twain flapped his hand like a floating butterfly as he spoke.

  After a short chuckle, Tesla boasted. “When have I worked within the realm of possibility?”

  “If you can do what you say, do you not worry about the repercussions? If it can walk and pick up items...” Twain paused to collect himself. “Imagine the thousands of laborers who will lose their jobs, if the dead can replace them in the work place.”

  “The dead rot like fruit——you know this. So their ability to provide labor is short term at best.”

  “Then why use the corpse as an armature? Why not build the entire Automaton out of metal,” Twain played the part of a scientist.

  “Too heavy.”

  Staring more at the exoskeleton Twain further realized a similarity between the leg structures and a train’s wheels.

  “Your exoskeleton, it eventually tears the body apart?” Twain deduced.

  “Yes, so a fresh, strong corpse is required.”

  Nodding the writer asked another question, “And you control them how?”

  “The body is the conduit to the machine, a perfect balance,” Nikola smiled content with his own genius. “This you will find astounding my friend. I took the findings of Richard Caton and applied them to my research with the transmission of electrical energy without wires.”

  “Richard Caton, I am not familiar with this name.”

  After sighing and rubbing his forehead, Tesla took a step back. Counting his footsteps under his breath the man crossed the room to a drawing board cluttered with numbers. Upon reaching the board he wrote the sum of his paces in a corner that was less jumbled with scribbles. After reflecting on the number a moment he continued his explanation.

  “Mr. Richard Caton discovered electrical activity in the brain, a theory mind you, I mulled over for many years.”

  “Ah yes, I do recall you telling the tale of this phenomena a year or so ago. Please do continue.” Twain’s interest began to grow.

  “I could speak on this topic all day, but time is of the essence. Just let me demonstrate. To paraphrase John Locke, actions best interpret a man’s thoughts.”

  “Bravo,” Twain’s smirk could be seen peeking out from his handkerchief covered face.

  Hanging up on the wall opposite the bodies was a Pickelhaube helmet wired differently than the others. Attached to a smaller generator, one that sat atop a wooden cart, this helmet had a pair of large antenna on either side of the shiny metal spike atop the dome.

  After strapping the helmet on, Tesla positioned it side to side until it was fitted perfectly. No less than a dozen wires ran from the helmet to the portable generator, curling like pig’s tails as he drew closer to the cart.

  “Stand back,” Tesla told his friend. “A generator exploded two weeks ago, I was deaf for the sum of two hours.”

  Tesla flipped the switch to the generator without pause, or flinch; he was fearless Twain thought, or too bent on revenge to care about his own well being.

  “Now, lend a hand and power up the main power generator,” Tesla yelled over the crackling of electricity to Twain who had stepped back to the threshold between the office and laboratory.

  “What? Now?”

  “Yes!”

  After shuffling timidly to the main lever Mark Twain looked at his friend, his eyes nearly bulging from his head with fright.

  “One exploded; your words precisely.”

  “Do it! Do it now!” Tesla screamed, prompting Twain’s hand.

  With the main power on the room hummed and shook. How the workers in the levels above ground did not wonder what was happening below them, Twain could not fathom.

  Twitching as he moved, Tesla movements were jerky; inhumanly—terrifying.

  “Nikola! Nikola!” Twain yelled over the generators and the static crackling in the air. “Nikola are you well?”

  His friend did not answer, instead he raised his arm not once, but three times before it held up and into a pointing position. Following its aim, Twain saw the men hanging upon the wall begin to stir.

  Switching his gaze between his friend and the moving corpses Twain’s mind began to draw a correlation. Nikola’s boastings were true, he could control these Automatons with only his mind. Tesla’s body would jerk, his arms twitch and the exoskeletons would respond in time. Twain watched as all eleven of the men unlatched themselves from the wall and took three steps forward, in cadence like a line of well trained soldiers. Gears turned and pistons pumped as thick white steam vapors exhausted from the water tanks on the mens' backs.

  “You see, my thoughts are
sent to each of them and translated into electrical impulses that instruct the machinery.”

  “How advanced can their actions get, can they frolic like children or do they only shuffle about like old men?”

  “Frolic, my friend? Behold.”

  Tesla’s body shook like a man stricken with disease, yet Twain’s eyes could not stay on his friend for long, as two of the Automatons had joined hands and begun to dance. Astounded by the two metal clad mens’ movement, Twain counted off the beats to their dance while looking at his watch, his assumption was correct the Automatons danced a near perfect Viennese Waltz.

  “58 beats, amazing!”

  Removing his helmet ceased the dance, and returned all eleven of the men to a slumped, yet rigid standing position.

  “So this is your plan Nikola? To send your Automatons to do your dirty work?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I believe the blame will be too easily traced back to you my friend? Who else could create such... such things?” Twain spoke with conviction. “Who else besides Dr. Frankenstein and we all know-“

  “I have already considered that.”

  Tesla walked to the closest of his soldiers, one of the two who had just danced. While waving for Mark Twain to come closer, Tesla carefully unhooked a large metal panel on the exoskeleton’s back. Between the two glass water tanks was a small combustion tank, fueled by burning coal, the housing was glowing red hot, so Tesla donned his work gloves from his back pocket.

  “You see here, like a train, the coal burns and produces the steam which drives the pistons. Yet I included a fail-safe. If I instruct the automaton to, it can pull a level under the armpit that will drop all the coal into the fire, and seal the exhaust valve.”