Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation

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 4
^th
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.