"Smoke" by Alastair Collins

The air was thick with tobacco smoke, an ethereal blanket settling over the group, reflecting their mood in its symbolic dampening effect. Twelve men and women, all in the green flight suits of fighter pilots, sat in the small room, silent and motionless. Each of the pilots sat, engulfed in their own world, focusing their thoughts and calming their nerves. Each of them sat with a cigarette in their hand, periodically drawing a breath through it and adding to the haze.

Flight Lieutenant Frank Torquay looked around at the others. He remembered that when this war began, none of the pilots smoked. They had taken it up, one at a time, as the stress had built. It was the only relaxant they had with no performance affecting side effects and, when your life expectancy is measured in hours, not years, lung cancer ceases to be a deterrent. Now, seven years on, they were all chain smokers, desperate people clutching at any small comfort they could find.

The room started to sway side to side, lurching occasionally. None of the gathered pilots reacted, having long since become acclimatized with the sometimes sporadic motion. A low rumble seemed to build and, with a sudden violence, the room seemed to drop. This seemed to shake them out of their reverie, their heads raising and looking at each other questioningly. The rhythmic swaying ceased, replaced by small shakes in all directions and the rumbles of weapon hits.

A shrill alarm started to sound somewhere nearby and the pilots all looked at each other, each showing their own mix of relief, determination and sullen resignation. Every pilot was different, every engagement was different. Torquay stood, looking over the group one more time. They all turned to him, seeking something from him. Taking a deep breath, the officer smiled at them, trying to diffuse their tension by showing confidence in the face of the enemy. One by one, the others extinguished their cigarettes and stood, making ready for combat.

The short expanse of corridor between the ready room and the flight deck was deserted, the red combat lighting and almost constant rumbling giving it the impression of travelling further in to the belly of some large beast. The twelve figures moved quickly, in single file, their sure and steady steps coping easily with the unsteady floor.

The flight deck was a bustle of activity, as it always was during combat. The flight crew ran back and forth like the busy workers of an insect colony, preparing the warriors to march forth and fight. Twelve fighters stood, silent and still, each facing in to its launch tube, awaiting its pilot. As the squadron entered the flight deck, the crew seemed to slow, watching them with an unusual interest. This squadron had flown in hundreds of sorties and engagements in the last seven years, each time the same. The flight crew had watched them go every time, seemingly not noticing the sudden lack of vehicles in their bay until they returned, battered and scarred. This time, however, the flight deck stopped and watched as the pilots approached their fighters, like warriors of old approaching their chariots.

Frank Torquay sealed his cockpit, his flight helmet sitting comfortably over his head. He took a deep breath, forcing his nerves to calm themselves, before looking up at the crew chief crouching on his fighter’s fuselage and giving him a thumbs up. The chief disappeared quickly and the Lieutenant watched as he was wheeled in to the launch tube. Activating his intercom, Frank listened in to the chatter of his pilots. The talk was subdued, even for them, as each pilot sought to control their anxiety and fear.

The flight deck controller’s voice broke in to their conversation, announcing the countdown to launch. This silenced the squadron, each realizing that this was it. There was no avoiding it and no denying it; if they failed today, the war was lost. The twelve of them, the finest squadron currently flying, were fighting for victory, right here and right now. The countdown reached zero and, with a sickening push, the twelve fighters were ejected from the carrier.

In to the cold of space. In to the heat of battle.

“Treasure” by Alastair Collins

The boat rocked violently, threatening to eject the driver in to the river. Holding fast to the wheel, Sandy kept her footing, but only just. The hissing, whining sound fast approaching from behind her betrayed the approaching rocket, allowing her to swerve the boat to the left before it sank her. The boat rocked violently again, even dipping under the waves for a few seconds this time. Sandy jumped, hearing another rocket closing in almost immediately. Swerving back to the right, hoping to avoid the river bank, her boat didn’t quite escape the rocket and the rear of the vehicle exploded in a fireball, sending Sandy and the rest of the boat’s cargo flying through the air, coming down hard on the soft ground nearby.

Recovering quickly, Sandy scrambled to her feet. She could hear the pursuing boats approaching fast, eager to get their hands on her cargo. Grabbing her backpack, the young woman shouldered the load and ran, deep in to the jungle. After a dozen meters, a burning pain lanced through her body, driving her to the ground. Looking as far as she could over her right shoulder, Sandy could see a small shard of metal, probably a piece of the boat, lodged in her shoulder. Grimacing at the pain, she switched the bag to her other shoulder and continued running.

She could hear her pursuers gaining on her; no doubt her running speed was suffering from her injuries. Breaking through a tangle of vines, Sandy came across a clearing with a chasm in its center. Stumbling to a halt, Sandy appraised the hole. If she had been uninjured, she wouldn’t have hesitated at jumping for it, but in her current state she wasn’t so sure she’d make it. As she stood there, her pursuers broke through the tree line and stopped. The sound of rifles being readied was clearly audible. Soft footsteps betrayed the approach of one of them. Sandy stood straight and turned, hands raised.

The man approaching her was obviously not a part of the militia who were with him. Dressed surprisingly well for someone engaging in jungle combat, he walked with a confidence that spoke of years spent in the wild, exploring and hunting. He seemed to be unarmed, but moved with the deliberate movements of someone who is expecting to defend themselves at any moment.
“Sandy, all you need to do is hand it over. Then we can all just walk away from this.” He held out his hand, taking care not to come in to easy reach. “We can even offer you safe passage to the city.” Sandy stared in to his eyes.
“Go to hell.” She ran for the chasm.

The man signaled with his hand and a member of the militia fired a single shot at the fleeing woman. The bullet tore through her knee, severing almost all connection between each half of her leg. She collapsed, reaching out towards the chasm wall. Although she had fallen short, she could grip the wall. With one determined scream, Sandy pulled herself over the edge and fell in to the darkness below.
Sandy awoke in burning pain. The fall in to the small river below had ripped what remained of her knee completely apart, severing the lower leg and washing it away. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but she had been lying on the metal embedded in her shoulder, driving it further in to the bone. With a grunt, Sandy opened her eyes and looked up, straight in to the face of her pursuer.
“I admire your conviction, Sandy. Maybe not your technique, but you certainly were determined to keep the artifact.” He moved his arm in to view, holding aloft a gold amulet. Sandy struggled to raise her arm, but found that she could not.
“I found it, you bastard! It’s mine.” He looked at her incredulously.

Standing with a grunt, the man signaled to the men he accompanied, speaking in the local tongue. The men started to leave, making their way back to the boats. Sandy watched them go with a fatalistic acceptance. As he reached the tree line, the man turned back to her. Holding up the amulet, he spoke the last words Sandy would ever hear.

“This belongs in a museum.”

"Protector" by Alastair Collins

The small room stank of oil, gunpowder and alcohol. With a faint scraping of metal against metal and a final, resounding snap, the pistol’s top slide locked in to place. The slide moved silently and without restriction under the man’s hand, locking back as he looked over the weapon one last time. Satisfied, the man depressed the slide release and the firearm’s chamber closed again with a click.

With casual movements that betrayed none of the man’s careful treatment of the object, he placed the pistol back down on the towel, one among many, before selecting the next weapon to be cleaned. Tyson liked cleaning the pistols. There was a simple pleasure to be had in the loving care of an object, particularly an object that frequently held the difference between life and death within its metal frame.

The door to the small room opened and another man entered, closing it behind him. He watched Tyson for a short time, taking in the slow but purposeful movements and the trance-like concentration, before approaching the table and sitting in an empty chair. Silence hung in the air while Tyson deliberately avoided showing any signs of recognition towards the man, continuing with his task. The other man chuckled, reaching out towards one of the cleaned pistols on the table.

“You really should know better than that, Michael.” Tyson said, his eyes not leaving the gun in his hands as he removed the firing pin, placing it on the towel. Michael’s hand stopped, hovering over the table, before withdrawing back to his lap. Silence returned before Michael finally broke it, leaning forward on the table.
“I have a question for you, Tyson. But, before I do that, I want to tell you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“You terrify me, Tyson. You really do. Before this all started you had never served in the military, never had any training and, according to you, never even been in a fight.” Tyson looked up, pausing in his work to watch Michael closely.
“That’s right.” Michael took a deep breath before continuing.
“I’ve been in five fights with you now. Each time we fight someone you show this amazing amount of skill, like you’ve been fighting like this all your life. I’ve never seen anyone react the way you do in a combat situation.”
“It’s a talent, I guess.” Tyson shrugged, resuming his work.

“But that’s not it.” Michael continued, shaking with the energy of his thoughts. “Even the way you fight terrifies me. Most of the people we have with us were like you; no experience and no training. When you put a knife in their hand and an enemy in front of them, they don’t try to kill them, they fight to injure. But you.” Michael stopped, shaking his head and taking a breath. “You go for the kill immediately. The throat, the chest or the legs; you slash for wherever will kill them the fastest. You’re a born predator and it scares me.”

Tyson put down the half assembled pistol and leaned forward, staring intently at Michael, who was trying to avoid meeting his eyes.
“I don’t want to downplay your fear here, Michael, but what has this got to do with anything?” Michael’s eyes finally flicked up and locked with Tyson’s. “What’s the question?” Tyson nodded, taking a deep breath and collecting his thoughts.
“There’s a popular theory that, now we’ve found a place to settle, you’re going to abandon us here. The people see your training of the militia as a way of you alleviating your guilt when you leave.” Michael stopped, trying to gauge the other man’s reaction.
“What do you think, Michael?”
“I think you’re staying. A man like you can carve a wide path through the wasteland, we both know that. But, you’ve stayed with us this far, it wouldn’t make any sense for you to leave now.”
“Well, you’re right. I’m not going anywhere.” Tyson leaned back and reached for the pistol, stopping when Michael spoke again.
“But, what I want to know is why? Why are you staying with us? As I said, you could carve a living for yourself out there, what is holding you to us?” Tyson looked long and hard at Michael, waiting until he started to squirm a little before speaking again.

“Do you remember much of what Humanity was like before it all went to hell?” Michael shook his head. “When it fell, our society was decadent, stupidly so. We had fallen apart as a race because we lost focus. We let our natural greed and desire for superiority get the better of us and we let the fundamental basics of society fall away. Without those foundations, we had nothing to build on and we lost it all. If we are ever to build anything from what we have, we need to work together for the greater good of our species, not our own personal glory. Life and survival are a team game, not a race.” Tyson looked hard at Michael, the intensity of his passion burning in his eyes.

“If I left you now, what kind of improvement would I be?”

“Cavity” by Alastair Collins

Jessica stopped dead in the street, hand pressing against her cheek in shock. Lancing pain burned up from the back of her mouth to the top of her head, so intense she felt like she would faint. Leaning against the apartment building she found herself in front of, Jessica breathed deeply, trying to let the pain wash over her.

Ahead of her, a terrible crashing sound, deadened slightly in her stupor made her jump. Looking up, Jessica saw the remains of a piano, its keys tapping out its death rattle as the last of the splintered wood settled on the ground. Although she couldn’t see where the piano had come from, Jessica realized that if she hadn’t stopped, it would have crushed her.

The dentist’s waiting room seemed empty. The magazines were old and worn, containing the same old stories of scandal involving celebrities who had either died or passed out of fame years before. It was almost comforting, but Jessica had always wondered what the people in the mid eighties had read when they sat in these chairs.

There was a rattling sound as the surgery’s door opened. Jessica looked up, seeing a man in a trench coat enter, looking around nervously. Jessica smiled, despite herself. She had always found it funny when someone confessed a fear of dentists. She had never had a problem with it, finding the oral exams somehow comforting. She could never explain it, so she had stopped trying to.

The man talked to the receptionist and sat down across the waiting room. He sat in a relaxed way, but his leg jiggled restlessly and he looked around constantly, even picking up a magazine and skimming it for a few minutes. Jessica watched him, entranced by his almost palpable trepidation.

“You know, there’s really nothing to fear here.” Jessica’s voice seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. The man, who had been looking out of the door, jumped and looked around quickly. Jessica smiled at him and he relaxed a little, chuckling.
“That obvious, huh?” He asked, scratching his head.
“You were almost in tears. Are you really that scared?”
“Yes. I always am.” The man leant forward, concentrating on this welcome distraction from his impending examination. “Aren’t you?”
“Me?” Jessica asked, innocently. “I’ve never had any problems with dentists. I almost find them relaxing.” He laughed, before moving to sit next to her.
“Michael.” He said, simply, extending his hand to her. Jessica waited for a second before taking it.
“Jessica.” Relaxed further, Michael leaned back into his chair. “So, Michael, what brings you here today?”
“Oh, just a routine checkup. You?”
“Tooth ache.”

The dentist sat on his stool, taking his hygiene mask off. “The good news is that it’s only a cavity in one of your molars, so it’s easily fixed.” He stopped as Jessica turned to him, confused.
“That’s it?” She asked.
“Yes. Why?” Lying back down, Jessica thought of the piano and then of Michael, his phone number now secure in her pocket. Not only had this cavity saved her life, it had also given her something new and exciting.
“No reason."

“Blood” by Alastair Collins

“Why do you want to know why? I was assured your services were discrete.”

The rain falls hard outside of the window, obscuring my view a little. Why does it always rain on days like this? I guess god likes a little bit of dramatic tension. Maybe he’s a sucker for the old noir films. As annoying as it is, I can’t fault the big guy; the rain and oppressive cloud make all this seem important. It’s not like I have to be out here, I chose this life. I check my pistol, nestled at the small of my back. My trusted protector, friend and companion. Most guys keep dogs; I guess they feel the same way about them. I wouldn’t know. Loaded and cocked, but I always keep the safety on. The last thing I want is my own gun blowing my ass off, caught on a door. I knew a guy who died like that. Poor guy kept his pistol down the front of his pants, he reached for it quickly and bang!

“You have a good point. In the interest of preparation, I have something to show you.”

I don’t know where this guy’s guards are and it’s freaking me out! I’ve been watching him all week and he’s always had at least five guys in this building with him. There’s no one here except me. I’m pretty sure he’s here too, since I saw him arrive ten minutes back. The corridors are dank and dark. Man, I need to lay off the old horror films; it just makes me jumpy when I’m on a job. Concentrate. Focus. Looking around, I spot an empty room, nothing but a broken desk and an empty bookcase. I sit in a corner, gun in hand, gathering my thoughts. I guess it’s worked.

“We received this blood sample. Notice anything?”

I’ll be glad when this job is over. Too many fanatics. This cult scares me, they’re all fucking crazy! Some didn’t tell me anything. Well, they told me they were ready for death and then they forgave me, but they didn’t give me anything useful. It always pisses me off when I waste the time interrogating someone and they have the bad manners to die before imparting anything useful to me. You’d think some people would appreciate a truly artful torturer. It took three weeks to find out where this guy sleeps; seventeen dead bodies. But, now I’m here. Focus, stop thinking about it. Just get in, get the guy and get out. I am being paid for this, after all.

“This DNA structure is so amazingly complex. It’s absolutely perfect.”

I’m down to the last possible room. I’ve been in here for an hour, searching room after room. Still no sign of the guards. Either they’re waiting for me in this room or they’re not here. In the end, there’s nothing for it. If I’m gunned down, I’m dead, but if I leave empty handed, I’m as good as dead. If my employer doesn’t kill me, my reputation goes and, in my trade, your reputation is all that you have to keep the work and the money coming in.

Kicking in the door, I dive to the side, pistol raised and ready. I roll and rise to a crouch, shifting my aim back and forth. The room is pretty bright, almost painfully so. Right in the centre I can see my target. He’s just watching me, sitting on the floor. I know I should scan the room, I know I should look for danger and threats, but I can’t. All I can do is look at this man. My gun arm wavers, it drops to the ground. My will drains from me, but I’m not sure why. I feel safe and welcome. He smiles at me and talks to me. He talks to me with the voice of angels, purely within my head.

“It took some time before we could accept it, but this can only be one thing”

“The blood of god.”