WB (first part)

A story of evil versus good, and sometimes evil versus neutral.

Once, many years before, I knew a place.

The place was in my dreams. My escape.

A place where I knew love, friendship, and hope.

This was all before my memory started to go.

Being alone with no family, I started to-wait.

Who’s there?

Oh, it’s you, my friend.

This house was nicer, once upon a time. Where’s Deidre? She would love it here. I met Deidre last year during the Spring Formal.

Hello my friend, is it that time again?

You look like that fellow, who was it? The fellow in the news paper.

Warren?

Who was I talking about?

Oh. Was I telling you about Warren? He was an odd one. His wife died in that fire all those years ago. I think he went somewhere for a while. I still have his old trinkets. He made me promise I’d keep them safe.

-
-

Help me, please.

How did I fall?

Can you help me up?

This body isn’t quite as lively as it used to be. Deidre wanted me to get into, what was it? Yogu?

God, I wish I could remember.

-
-

I don’t remember being in this hallway.

Who are you? Why are you in my house?

-
-

I can’t get up.

Is someone there?

I feel something warm on my head.

Is that...blood?

Am I dying?

-
-

Oh, hello, is it that time again?

Do I have a bandage on my head?

You look just like an old friend of mine.

Just like Warren.

Poor Warren, was a bit of an odd duck. He went away for a while.

-
-

Where am I?

Who are you?

Is that a knife?

-
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The Journal of Elias Tibbot, detailing his trip through the Gero Forest


May 22

I am not one for the wooded land. Angie loves them so, but I’m afraid this isn’t my ideal setting. I find it much too terrifying.

We set out from the town of Marle’s Peak, in Ochasoo county, to the Gero Forest, at the plea of my friend and colleague, Warren, who was struck with a mysterious malady. Our guide is a native familiar with the land, who agreed to take us to the edge of the forest for half a Remo and some ready made Curra stew. I had heard reports that the indigineous peoples of the land had a preference for drink and food that boiled their tongues, as they believe it cleanses their souls of impurities and drives away evil spirits.

What nonsense. We all know the only cure for impurities is the sacred songs of the Midnight Choir.

Nevertheless, it amused me to encourage the poor fellow, and I joined him, on occasion, in his chants. I do admit I have not been able to mimic the sounds of the Ferras, which flies through on occasion, following behind us for any scraps of bread we may have.

Warren has been silent, and rests in the wagon most of the days, only coming out to empty his pot.

Our guide is taking us through fields, instead of by road. I shan’t complain, as this route is swifter and more direct. Still, the grassbugs have found their way into the wagon and almost ate our rations.

I suppose I cannot keep writing about how uneventful today has been, aside from the chanting.
-
May 25

We have left the horses behind, as they refuse to traverse the field. Our guide claims the field is a graveyard for the horses, and further indulged in his nonsense with some babble about an evil presence beyond the field.

I gave him two Remo to guide us up to the forest.

He protested, but eventually agreed, and we set off by foot.

The ground feels uncomfortable beneath my feet, as if I were walking on water. Warren has been keeping up, but grows weaker by the hour. His mental health has taken a toll, and all he talks of is his coming home. I have never heard him say that he once dwelled in Angmond.

Perhaps my head is swimming from all the soup.

-
June 5

My grateful guide has left me by a trail in the forest. He said it leads to town and that we are not to stray from it, or we will be trapped there. At this I told him that while I do not follow the way of the Okrai, we will follow his instructions to the letter.

He gave me a knife, and then silently departed. I heard him whisper something in his language, and he made a bizarre motion with his hands, similar to a C and an X. The ritualistic motion did help ease my nerves, as I believe he was praying to his gods to watch over me.

The forest, so far, seems empty and lifeless. The trees are an enchanting green, but there is no wildlife. The further we go in, the stronger Warren seems to be, almost as if the forest is healing him. His mental state, however, has not recovered and he has begun raving about the glory of the silence. Earlier today, he attempted to consume the vines growing by the trees. I had to force him away.

Despite my better instincts, I continue to accompany him.

-

June 9


I have left Warren at the cave entrance.

I could not venture further.

The mouth of the cave was large, almost gargantuan in size, yet no light pierced the entrance. Stranger yet, the plant life around the cave seemed to change color from blue, to purple, then green, then repeat. The sounds that came from the cave were not natural, and almost sounded, dare I say, unholy.

This time I objected, and informed Warren of my decision to return home. Warren did not object, instead pointing to the ground and reminding me to follow the path.

I hid my confusion at his comment, and ventured towards town.

God knows I deserve the rest.

-

June 11

I am lost.

I believe Warren and I strayed from the path when we ventured towards the caves, and I have lost all sense of direction.

The forest is wide, and does not hold any landmarks. The sky is pitch black, and my only light is from the lantern I brought with me. I fear that light won’t last long, as the reserves of oil are running low.

My rations won’t feed me for more than a night.

I may be losing my mind, but since yesterday I have felt something near me. It has been following me. It is silent, and there is no proof of this being’s presence, but I know it’s there.

I fear I won’t live much longer.

If anyone finds this, I beg you to return this to my wife Angie, to give her closure in knowing I have gone to the heavens.

-

June 15,

I may have been premature in my fears of death, as I woke in what I believe to be Angmond. My guess is that one of the townspeople found me in the woods and brought me to this inn where I awoke.

The innkeeper  has been kind, yet refuses to provide me even a hint as to my whereabouts. He does offer free lodging and food, so I will not pester him for anything.

The townspeople seem shy, and I have not seen any of them during my ventures through town. Perhaps my garments are too strange for their liking.

There is a torch lit in the church at night. I can see it from the window of my room. The innkeeper has told me not to go there, but will not explain why. It almost seems like he wants to, but is somehow compelled not to.

But I cannot stay here forever, and I have decided to ask the town pastor for help getting out of this bizarre town.

There is no safer place than a house of god.

----

The Tale of Chobora

In darker times, the world was made of the light and of the dark. In the light was peace and happiness, and in the dark was chaos and despair.

For a time, this was in balance, with the surface being light and beneath it, the dark.

Then O’quatra, the serpent, broke free of the dark. The first into the light was not the last, and many of his kind spewed forth, wreaking havoc on the light.

The world of light was, for a time, dimmed, as the darkness took over.

Then, out of O’quatra’s violation of Katret, the spirit of beauty, came Chobora, both of the light and the dark.

As he was born, he was witness to the desolation of Katret by the serpent O’quatra, and thusly he took vengeance, returning O’quatra to the dark. To ensure the serpent never returned, he planted holy trees around O’quatra’s prison, and brought light to the land.

This, as we know it, is the tale of Chobora, passed down from one generation to the next.

---

The museum guide, a charming, yet seemingly harmless fellow, then looked up at the class of children, who all looked at him with the expression of boredom he had expected them to. One of them looked up to their teacher and whispered, “what did the snake do to the woman?”

The teacher, who didn’t know how to respond, shushed the boy.

The stories of old never entertained quite like they used to, and the guide’s voice had diminished into a raspy semblance of its former self, likely due to the 10 cigarettes he had smoked every day since his 21st. His 66th birthday was a visit to the doctor, where the doctor informed him that he was lucky he didn’t have a tumour the size of a soccer ball, but was still in ailing health. He had definitely seen better days.

But it did seem that his story was heard by one interested listener.

A man in a grey coat, with a build that suggested an extreme weightlifting regimen, was completely focused on the guide, looking at him with an air of wisdom and intelligence that defied his appearance. His blonde hair seemed to shine into the eyes of the guide.

Once the class had wandered towards the Mayan exhibit, the man in the coat walked over, an expression of delight and intrigue on his face.

“Never, never in my years have I heard such an entertaining retelling of Chobora! My sir! You deserve only the highest praise.

The guide, who was used to hearing kind, yet false compliments, was taken aback by the sincerity of the taller, intimidating man, stuttered out a, “th-th-th-thank you. No one has ever enjoyed it quite like you have, young man!”

The man in the coat grinned, and for a second the guide thought his eyes changed color from green to blue.

“Then the wisdom of ancient tales is lost upon the dull minded new generation! Sir, you must have this gift, I insist! Only one such as yourself could appreciate what this gift means”

And with that, the man shoved a journal into the guide’s hands.

“I must be off! Time waits for no man!”

Then the man in the coat was gone.

It took the guide a full minute to realize what had happened, then, with curiosity, he looked at the journal. While age had reduced him physically, his mind was still as wise as ever, and he knew what he held was ancient, possibly an artifact. As he turned it over in his hands, parts of it seemed to change color. The binding seemed to shimmer in the bright white of the museum’s lights, and it seems to pulse from green, to blue, to purple, then back to green.

Nervously, he opened it, flipped to the first entry, and began to read it out loud.

“I am not one for the wooded land…”

As he read it, a warm sensation rushed through his body, as if he was on top of an open oven. He closed his eyes, and saw a the entrance to a cave that was pitch black, appearing to devour any light that touched it. It was then that he felt his heart stop, and he collapsed to the floor. He died clutching the journal to his body.

---

“Uncle Xavier didn’t have much when he passed away. Much that I could have used anyways.

He was kind of a boring guy.”

‘wow. No inheritance huh?’

“well, when he died he was holding some kind of old diary. The museum curator said it wasn’t anything in their catalogue, so it was probably his. I guess he liked reading at work or something.”

‘it’s probably an old porn book like the Kamasutra.’

“thanks for the mental image. It’s not a porn book. It’s a horror story about a cave and a church. Dad said it reminded him of the story my great-granddad used to tell him about our ancestor’s old town.

‘well, that’s cool, I guess.’

“it also does this thing. Like, if you hold it to the light and tilt it, it changes color.”

‘it’s probably radioactive. Maybe you’ll become a radioactive book man.’

“think I should throw it away?”

‘no. Keep it. If you keep old stuff, it builds value and you can sell it for thousands.’

“this doesn’t seem that valuable, but sure. I guess.”

---

The Blue Lights

1.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in these 43 years of life, it’s that there’s no good will.

None.

Only shades of evil.

Especially in dens of sin like the Flower Pot. Sounds like a nice enough watering hole, until you step inside. Used to be a garden shop until the Baker boys set it on fire in ‘55. The owners were inside. Cops chalked it up to an accident, probably before the Baker boys paid them off. A bar was built where the garden shop used to be, but Baker kept the name, sick b*****d.

You could still smell the burnt plastic.

There must be a god, because all I could smell was the stench of booze and tobacco. The guy next to me was high on Blue, the new drug the Baker boys were swilling, and he was twitching pretty good. Not the worst company, and between the Baker boys and the dirty cops, it was the lesser of all evils.

I was there late, and my client wasn’t even there. He hired me to snoop on his girl. Couldn’t say no, since it was Vercio who hired me. John Vercio was one of the richest men in Vela, so why a dame like Rita Tibbot would screw around on Vercio was lost to me.

Until I saw her with Baker. Maybe I should have explained this earlier, but Baker’s part of the Crown, as close to royalty as you get in Angmond, and word on the street is that Baker’s moving in on San Meda and Orcia, the two remaining Crown leaders. Baker even turned the church into their gang club after they knocked Parcha off the grid.

No one touches Baker though. Even San Meda won’t go after him with his cops, and Orcia’s too clever to fight head on. Something about Baker spooks everyone. No one knows his name, where he came from, or what he uses the Dead Caves for. Anyone who asks, ends up dead.

A half hour after 12, Vercio showed up. He was sweating through his sweat, and his $2500 Lamara suit reeked of it.

He pulls up next to me and orders a rum and coke. I watch him slam it down.

“do you have the photos?”

‘yeah. You’ll want to see them somewhere else.”

I handed him an envelope containing some of my best work. He quickly forks over the $5000 we agreed upon. Despite my warning, he opened the envelope. A few curious eyes darted over. I pulled up my sleeve and revealed my mark of the Crow, a necessary immunity. The eyes shifted to Vercio, who was all sorts of angry, and didn’t have immunity.

“THAT B***H! SHE FOOLS AROUND WITH SOME PUGIO BEHIND MY BACK?”

He flipped through the rest of them, and stopped at the face of Baker smiling as he plows the broad. He turned pale in a second.

“Baker? I called Baker a c**t in his bar? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I got up, signaling to the Baker boys that I’m on my way out.

‘I warned you. Not my problem. Thanks for the money.”

I heard his screams as I lit my smoke outside.

Just as I walked to the street corner, a limo pulled up. A black limo with blue tinted lights at the bottom.

It was a Baker car.

I put my cigarette out and waited for an indication of what I should do next. My immunity didn’t apply to the Crown.

The door opened. Without hesitation I went in. Inside was a mini bar, leather seats, and Baker. Baker smiled as I awkwardly stood hunched over.

“How impolite of me, take a seat.”

I slowly and respectfully took the seat furthest away from him.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

‘Probably because I took the photos of you f*****g Rita.’

He smiled, baring his pearly white teeth at me.

“Word is, you’re the best gumshoe in town. I need a gumshoe.”

‘Do I have a choice?’

“No. You’re going to watch Orcia. Follow him. Call me if he goes by my property. If your work’s good enough I might even pay you.”

‘I guess the clubhouse is the number?’

“Smart fellow. Get out. Oh, and, don’t trespass on my turf again. It’s rude.”

As I opened the door and began to take a step out, I see Baker tap the window. The limo screeched forward and I faceplanted into pavement.

I heard Baker’s cackling fading away as I picked myself up.

At least I didn’t die. Baker kills for less than snooping, the evil b*****d.
-
2
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It’s easy to find a cab in Angmond, but tough to find one that won’t rip you off.

I got Perry Hammond, the deluded former seaboy. Seaboys were the laziest military outfit this side of the Kirfa border. Easy kills in ‘Squiry and Drom.

“Evening comrade!”

He only called me comrade when he had a lousy tip night. His tip night just got worse.

‘Perry, drive me to 22nd and Schrader.’

Hammond looked over at me in confusion. He knew where this was going.

“Orcia’s turf? No. No way. You’re f*****g delusional. He’s lock down tighter than a Pi’a’n nun. His goons will mow us down.”

‘Baker’s orders. Can’t do anything else.’

“How much is he payin’ you?”

I made a zero with my fingers.

“Figures. F*****g mental and cheap. Here, you need this more than I do.”

He pulled out a makeshift pig-sticker baton and handed it over. It was a cheap generic Osiris blade and the baton had the emblem of the Angmond police force.

I pulled out a cigarette. By now we were on Schrader and 20th, my old stomping grounds. I rolled my sleeve up. The immunity would keep me alive until I got to Site 7, Orcia’s hideout.

Perry pulled up on 21st, a block away.

“you got that mark. I don’t. Careful bud.”

I stepped out of the cab and into the fire.

Schrader and 22nd was all goon territory. Orcia gave the goons housing and food along the block and they shot anyone too unfamiliar in return.

In between a row of merc filled houses was Orcia’s mansion, a much grander, and more sleazy looking set up than the pleasant suburbia homes around it.

I looked down and saw red dots on my shirt and legs. Some of the mercs were asleep.

Before you say, “wait, this isn’t how a gumshoe does things.” You’re right. It wasn’t. See, Baker in power means more junkies on the street, more Baker’s boys roaming, and less clients for me.

Plus, Baker wasn’t paying me.

“Wait! I got a mark! Orcia’s going to want to hear what I gotta say! It’s about Baker!”

A few dots disappeared, and others moved to my arm and leg joints.

Orcia’s personal goon, Sorseza, stepped out.

“He’s listening, speak!”

I dropped the baton, minus the pig sticker, to the ground as a sign of respect, and hid the blade in my pocket.

“Baker’s taking San Meda out. He sent me to keep tabs on Orcia.”

Sorseza disappeared inside the house, and came out with the thin, sticklike being known as Orcia. Orcia made everyone think he was some big, monstrous brute, but he looks more like a librarian than a monster.

“He’s moving on San Meda? Now?”

‘Would you expect anything less from him?’

“Hm, fair. Why come to me? Why not San Meda?”

‘I’d be dead if I went to San Meda. Baker would know.’

“What do you suggest I do?”

‘Help San Meda kill Baker before he takes over Angmond.’

At this, Orcia shuffled his feet. Out of the three, he was the tactician. No one made a move against him without him being four steps ahead.

“This isn’t an action movie. Making a move against Baker takes time.”

‘I don’t want that disturbed f**k running the ‘Mond, do you?’

Orcia stared at me, an idea forming.

“You said he told you to watch me?”

‘Yeah’

“Call him. Tell him I’m taking the caves.”

Orcia motioned to the houses, and in seconds an entire army of mercenaries piled out, ready for war.

“We’re going to San Meda’s! Flanking at site!”

With a roaring of hummers, they were gone.

I ran to a payphone to call Baker, dialing the four digit number reserved for his club.

‘This number is not in serv-’

“It’s me. Orcia’s at the caves.”

A few silent seconds passed, then Baker cackled into the mouthpiece.

“What a sneaky little man. I’ll have to chew his eye out for that.”

And like that, the plan was in motion, but not for me.

My work was done.

I took out a Gran Mors cigarette, lit it and enjoyed the burn as it scourged through my body.

“Hey gumshoe!”

I turned just as something pink and fingered collided with my forehead.

----

I woke up to the smell of corpses and blood. The room I was in was full of s**t, piss, and dead bodies. There was a bump on my head where the fist met my head. The room was warmer than the tropics. My clothes were drenched in sweat, s**t, and semen.

A blood room.

Blood rooms were Baker’s creation, the corpses were a fear tactic. Baker liked reminding people not to cross him by trapping them in these four walls of nightmare fuel. How he kept them bug free was above my paygrade. The Baker boys dined on them at night in grotesque blood orgies.

Guess they liked their steaks extra rare.

Just as I got up, Baker’s voice rang through my head.

“Gumshoe, gumshoe, gumshoe, whatever will I do with you?”

Baker stepped on my leg with enough force that I felt it crack. I knew I was in for a bad time.

“I thought you’d be smart enough not to cross me. You remind me of good ol’ Elias, gods rest his soul.”

His cackling pounded on my ears like a hammer.

“These rooms, they’re not what you think they are. You think of them as food storage for my boys, but they’re actually sacrifice rooms for my legion.”

I felt something change in the air. The room was getting chilly. Too chilly. In the corner of my eyes I saw something pitch black moving.

Something big.

“This is Xenalba. He’s as old as I am, but not nearly as hungry.”

The pitch black thing that was Xenalba moved closer and I could see shiny, sharp hairs covering its body.

“Didn’t know you liked weird mutts, Baker. My cousin Frank’s got a shaved chihuahua.”

The cackle pulsed through my head again. I lifted my head to the sadistic prick.

“Gumshoe has a sense of humour! I love it! So do I, gumshoe, so do I!”

At the snap of his fingers, the door opened, and two Baker boys dragged Orcia and San Meda into the room. Orcia was still alive, San Meda probably bit the dust.

“Watch what Xenalba does to his food!”

Baker then moved to Orcia, who was trying his best not to show the several layers of pants-shitting terror he was experiencing, grabbed his arm, and effortlessly ripped it out of its socket, throwing it Xinalba’s way.

Orcia screamed as a tentacle with a mouth at the end popped out and ate the entire arm before it hit the floor, leaving behind bare bone. Baker cackled and giggled throughout.

I reached into my pocket and threw the first thing I could at Baker, watching the blade plunge into Baker’s throat.

Finally shut him up.

As he collapsed to the ground, blood spurting out of his throat, I bolted to the door and opened it to pitch black nothingness.

I looked back and saw Xinalba’s mouth reaching for me as I slammed the door behind me, hearing a sound I can only assume was pain. Then nothing, and a whole lot of it.

My lighter barely lit anything, and all I could see was the black.

I moved forward, stepping into more black. An army chant I knew was my only company.

Couldn’t tell you how long I walked, somewhere between a hundred to a thousand chants. My legs felt like raw meat by the time I saw sunlight in the distance.

My body ached all over by the time I got out.

I was at the cave entrance. Surrounding me was the dead forest, a dull, lifeless husk of a place.

If Baker survived, I’ll remember to write him a thank you note. The forest was a maze before he burned it to the ground.

As I stumbled forward into the forest, I heard something screech above me.

Something huge.

I looked up and saw a monstrous pitch black beast, wingless, with a body like a squid, flying through the air.

It took four hours to walk to my crummy apartment of a home, missing several hours of garbage television.

The next day I packed my bags and left, taking a redeye to the warm beaches in New Sanjo, never looking back on that cursed town.