Short Fiction 2: Tales from the Reclamation Zone.

Tales from the Reclamation Zone.

[This takes place before the events of the Student Nationals game]

The wretched figure sits crumpled in the scant shelter of a shattered storefront, the ever-present aroma of human waste hanging heavy in the air. He’s being very still but that is likely something to do with the two guns trained on his hunched form.
‘Tell us how you know that name.’
‘Bullshit, you’ll shoot me.’
‘We won’t, but even if we do, you got nothing to lose by talking, so talk.’

The figure sits up and raise an arm to shield his vision, the wrist ending with jagged bones and poorly healed tissue, infection is almost certain.

‘It was a while back, before that thing in central station. Me and my guys, we had a good thing goin’ horded all that gas during the riots, and Larry made working flamethrowers, aint nothin’, no spook, or man was gonna mess with that much firepower.’

A low chuckle echo’s through the store, sending rats, roaches and other vermin scuttling to the shadows. ‘You’re the firemen? Shit, I thought you were all dead.’

The figure sniffs and then spits out the result at the feet of the two men standing before him. ‘Yeah, we are, we played our game y’know? People waned protecting, they had to pay. We took whatever we wanted man, we lived like kings! I could eat what I liked, fucked who I liked, didn’t matter if they wanted me or not, we’d just burn ‘um to nothin’ if they crossed us, and they knew it. Aint no worse than the others around here, we didn’t deserve what happened!’

The air remains still, the man on the floor falling silent, expecting a bullet, but nothing comes.

‘What happened?’

Now it’s his turn to laugh, a low gurgling followed by a racking cough. ‘She came… first we thought she was just another runt, short black hair, that freaky white-lookin’ eye, come in to offer her body for whatever she could get, got plenty of them around. But as soon as she got close, I knew that she wasn’t some whore. She just looked us up and down with eyes that cut right through ya, said we could hand over the gas, and walk away. That’s the best deal she’d give us.’

The pair exchange a glance ‘You laughed, huh?’

‘Damn right we did. She didn’t even have a fucking gun! Where’d she get off, we had a half dozen flamers trained on her, and there she was sayin’ she’d give us a deal.’ The slumped figure shakes his head, dislodging a spattering of dirt and insects. ‘Larry finished laughin’ and said “Rape this bitch until she forgets her name.”’
The silence falls down again, a low breeze filters through the shop, caressing half-burned mannequins and empty shelves.

‘It was the fuckin’ wrong thing to say! She jus’ starts this low screamin’ like she’s already bein’ fucked over by the guys, only now it’s not screamin’ it’s  this low crazy growlin’ and her skin just tears off like it’s paper to grow all this fuckin’ muscle and all of a sudden it’s like somethin’ out of a nightmare! All bones, blood, claws, and teeth! Larry screamin’ to us to kill ‘er and all six flamers light the bitch up like the fourth of fuckin’ july…’

The image seems to shake the trio, all of them casting nervous glances around them, the two standing men habitually letting their hands check the safeties on their weapons.

‘You don’t know what its like man, jus’ watching that thing come through the flames, all fury and fire and death. She jus… reached out and killed.’ He pauses to make a plucking gesture with his good hand. ‘Like a fuckin’ bad dream, your standin’ there pourin’ burning gas onto it and she jus’ dun’ die! She’s faster than a snake, and every time she moves there’s more blood n’ screams, tearing people in half like it’s nothin’, how’d you think I lost this damned hand!’ The mutilated wrist is brandished almost defiantly to the two men, who manage not to flinch away.

‘Like… maybe ten seconds... ten seconds of this fucking nightmare, but it felt like an hour. Watchin’ her slashin’ everyone apart. I’m lyin’ there tryin’ to not fuckin’ die wonderin’ where my hand is, and all of sudden the beast is gone, and there is jus’ this little fuckin’ girl again. She wanders over cool as you like her clothes all bloody rags now. Looks at me with that creepy eye and says that she aint got no name, and that her new one aint ever gonna be taken by guys like me.

The two men share a glance and then the taller of the two tilts his head ‘So how’d you find out her name?’

The man glares and then spits again, ‘Big fella came in and jus’ walks in, tosses her a set o’ clothes cool as you like, sayin’ “Snow, why’d you always give them a chance, you big softie.” Like it’s the most normal fuckin’ thing in the world!’ He pauses and lets out a low wheezing sigh. ‘So this is my life now, one hand, dead friends, and some crazy little bitch called “Snow”. I got nothin’ left to live for other than findin’ her and killin’ that whore for what she did. But now you’re gonna kill me aren’t you?’

A brief shake of the head from the taller of the two men seems to answer, but before he can speak another voice whispers gently out of the darkness.

‘They won’t kill you, they’re saving you for me.’
And a small girl walked out of the shadows, with short black hair, and a milky white eye...

Grow hysteria in a petri dish, you get a Rape Culture

So do I believe in Rape Culture? Well the fact that you have to “believe” in it should tell you that I view it very sceptically, and would expect anyone using the term to have either a very clear idea of what it means and use it in context, or be some fear-mongering idiot who needs to have the stupid therapeutically hammered out of them with a sock full of batteries.

“Rape Culture” was a term first used in 1975 to describe the acceptance of rape as part of prison life, or indeed as part of the punishment those convicted are to endure. Which is very barbaric when you think about it, that we’re so blasé about punishments that we measure the sentences given to criminals not only in years lost being incarcerated, but also by how many times you are to endure a brutal non-consensual butt-fucking. While the definition of a “a setting that normalises and condones rape to an extent that rape is pervasive,” has not changed, the context sadly has. As a result there are people running around screaming in the faces of anyone that will listen that we currently live in a Rape Culture™.

Every time I hear somebody say it so casually a part of me dies, usually brain cells as I numb myself with another precious shot of alcohol. It’s better to do that than attempt to contradict somebody whose ideology and feelings are so all-encompassing in their life that they can’t rationally communicate outside of hysterical slogans, factoids, and clichés.

So, let’s analyse this shall we? In fact hold on, let me get a pre-emptive whisky first.

Okay, in the western world we don’t live in a rape culture, anyone who says we do is wrong/stupid/blinded by fear, and here is why:
Rapists are despised, even in prison they rank only just above child molesters (themselves also rapists) in terms of who can be beaten, stolen from, murdered or even raped themselves with little to no interference from the other convicts (and sometimes the guards). So here we have a situation where the scum and waste of society are gathered together, and at the bottom of this foul little shit-heap for everyone to persecute are the rapists. Suggesting we live in a rape culture would mean that the criminals in these places have a stronger moral compass than society at large, and if this is the case then I guess we can all look to Charles Manson for our spiritual guidance, I’m sure he’s just misunderstood.

Now let’s look at Duke Lecross, Brian Banks, “Jackie” at the UVA, and “The Mattress Girl”. All cases that took place in America.
Each one of these cases was initially publicised as a triumph against rape culture. The media wasted no time in condemning the accused rapists and hosts of the citizenry came together to shame and persecute the individuals that had been named. Responses included: banging pots and pans outside their dorms while shouting at them to confess at all hours of day and night, publishing their names, photos, and addresses to the public, locking them in prison for five years, expelling them from university, large numbers of the faculty publicly condemning them in the local newspapers, and starting a hashtag campaign to encourage hatred and harassment to those named as rapists. In a rape culture none of these things would have happened, indeed the claim of rape would be met with a simple shrugging of the shoulders and possibly another sexual assault for the lolz. After all, rape in a rape culture is normalised and accepted.

The reason I mention the above cases was because in every one the accusation was discovered to be unfounded. So let me clarify this: These individuals faced and endured persecution, expulsion, harassment, jail time, assault, and lived in fear of their lives because of an accusation of rape, an accusation that in a real rape culture would have no power. What’s more in some cases despite clear evidence of their innocence, some people continue to claim that they have somehow “got away with it” because they have been enabled by the boogieman of rape culture and persecute them to this day.

But of course some people will believe whatever helps them sleep at night, I’m looking at you Andrew Wakefield, you fuck!

So outside of a prison, where does rape culture exist? Well not in the west that is for sure, look to places where women can be stoned to death for reporting a rape because it’s classed as marriage infidelity, I’m pretty sure they need your help the most.

So why does it perpetuate?

Because it gives people control of others, that’s why.

Anyone who tells you that you should be permanently in a state of fear of 50% of the population isn’t doing so for your benefit, their doing it because people in a state of fear, emotional outrage, or anxiety are easier to control, an individual’s rational thinking is clouded and their dependence on perceived authority is heightened. Rape culture in the west is maintained as a myth not to protect anyone, but to sustain a level of fear and control that ironically is a staple of rape culture itself (according to some).

I can already feel the “1 in 5,” or “1 in 4, women are raped!” factoids boiling up behind the collective anger of the internet (the number varies depending on how hysterical they are feeling, or how badly they want to fear-monger). So rather than attempt the impossible task of changing somebodies religious/ideological dogma, I’ll let somebody else do it for me.

Also I’ll parrot RAIIN

Rape is caused not by cultural factors but by the conscious decisions, of a small percentage of the community, to commit a violent crime.

Rapers gonna’ rape, but nothing in culture will endorse it, or somehow change a non-rapist into one. If you’re still unconvinced I have one more point to make:

Dexter is a very popular TV series about a serial killer who stalks and kills other serial killers, it’s been well received, won many awards and is generally viewed in a positive light.
Now imagine me making a show about a serial rapist, who hunts down and rapes other rapists.
I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t even get off the writers bock. And I’m also pretty sure the acceptance of Dexter as a series doesn’t mean we live in a “Murder Culture.”

Something new: A Short Fiction.

A break from the usual. This is a short fiction based on the game I will be running at next years Student Nationals in the "horror" category.

The sun rode low in the sky. Fat, orange and radiating a lazy, heavy warmth onto the dark forests and gloomy buildings.
The children sat around a low campfire, the slowly lengthening shadows of the surrounding plumb trees casing their shade over each of them as tallest boy stood up. Aside from his hight, the  other children note him for his dark eyes, dark hair and thick Barovian accent.
‘Sky is darkening, is time for us to share scary stories!’ His hands rose and his fingers wiggled in clawing motions, the toothy grin splitting his face as he mimed his attacks to the others.
The children shared grins and one of them stood up. Slender, blonde, and carrying bright green eyes he spoke with a soft and reassuring tones, the kind of voice that compels sympathy, understanding and compliance. ‘People talk sometimes of the Walking Man, all who look upon him see somebody different, and all who see him wish to avoid his gaze. Because...’ The young man trails off and begins walking around the fire, snaking his way between the other children who all turn to face him as he moves with nervous grins. 'He will mark you, in his mind, following you. You can run, you can hide, but he will always find you, it is just a matter of time.' A low breeze makes him pause, causing the fire to flicker and a few errant ashes to be caught on the breeze, carried off to the plumb fields. ‘Eventually you can no longer run, your lungs burning, your legs aching you crumple to the floor and look up to see that his steady, endless walking has brought him before you. He will reach down and help you to your feet, perhaps offer you a kind smile. “Why have you run so long? Can you not see I am your friend? Walk behind me, I’ll show you the way." It’s a reasonable request, no? Kind, Charming, and so welcome after your panicked flight from this man who you see now is only trying to help you. It is not until you step into his shadow that you find them… you see them...’  He pauses, turning his back to the children to cast his hands about to indicate the invisible masses he can see in his mind’s eye. ‘A nation of hollow slaves, all following, all trapped in his shadow, and now you are one of them. Each of them looking up to the Walking Man for the respite and compassion he promised, and unable to escape, walking with him now as he sets his eyes on another. Your tired legs march now in the time of the nation of shadows you walk with him to forever keep him company upon his endless hunt, for you feel your will is no longer your own.’
The young blond boy sits down by the fire once more, the other children dissolving into excited nervous whispers, all casting hurried glances now to the growing darkness around them, the soft crackling of the fire the only other sound as silence eventually falls. All eyes now on the twins, their brown hair and green eyes so perfectly matched. The boy and the girl together ready to tell their story, their voices working well together as if they anticipate each other’s words, the young girl starts, her voice light fragile tinted with the Borcan accents of the west.

‘Summer’s here, and with the sticky heat and the plentiful food comes the creatures who hunger for the richness of the harvest…’ Her counterpart begins a low hum, oppressive and subtle, it rises until it’s clear then noise is a hungry buzzing. ‘Flies. Fat, heavy with the fruits of the lands filling the land and skies and they swell their numbers on the richness of summer. Beady green eyes of the legion always ready, always searching to look, look, hungry, hungry, feed, feed, more more!’ Her voice raises and her brothers buzzing gets louder, deeper, more insistent. ‘Fruit is not enough! So they turn their attention to the dead. Swarms massive, hungry, big enough to blot out the sun. Coming to feast on the corpses that litter in the wake of their famine, their disease, their all-consuming greed for even more food, more flies, more hunger… but it’s not enough.’ The children’s eyes now all turn to watch the land around them, hunting for signs of insects that move harmlessly through the tall grass and green leaves. Their attention returning when they realise that the buzzing has stopped, the boy twin now apparently asleep in the grass, his sister crouched over him. ‘They wait until you sleep. Then they begin to crawl into you.’ Her little fingers begin wiggling over her brothers open mouth, as he obediently lies before her. ‘Thousands of black furry bodies wriggling and growing and breeding inside you, eating you up from the inside.’ The little brother begins to twist and writhe as if in pain, clutching his stomach and mouthing silent screams until he finally falls limp, his sister miming the exodus of swarms of flies from his slack and open mouth. ‘Until in the end, all that is left is the flies… and the... soft noise…”
Buzzzzzzzzz
The girls sits down, and the younger brother soft buzzing noise continues, his eyes still closed but a cruel grin on his face. The children look about them, but see no hordes of insects. Relived, nervous laughter begins filtering out again from the campfire.  The twins resume their seats, and briefly pretend to be flies, buzzing and tormenting one another, before the mischief dies down, as another child sands to speak.

Short, stocky and marked by the brand of Falcovnia, the boy’s piercing eyes regard each child one at a time. He speaks with the harsh tones of those marked as property of the kingfuhrer, his words clipped and measured in guttural harsh tones.

‘The children of War, are not Victory and Death. But the birds.’ He pauses as all eyes flick to the sparrows, wood pigeons, crows and ravens that littler the plumb fields. ‘The flocks of birds follow the march of an army, waiting to feast on the bodies of the slain, victor or vanquished, it means nothing to them.’ His fingers make brief plucking motions before his own face, ‘Pecking for the eyes, the tongue, the guts. The softest parts are the easiest to feed from. Better to be blind, and not see the end coming, be thankful to the children of war for their small mercies.’ The children pause and a few go a little pale at his words. One of them putting their hands protectively over his eyes with a hesitant giggle. ‘But when peace reins, the children of war go hungry. So they prey, and cry out. Their voices not a song as many think, but a plea, a bargain, a prayer to any who will listen. “Bring me battle” they shout, “Bring me death, bring me murder, my children slumber in their eggs, they will be hungry. Let others die for us!”’ The birdsong of the Barovian countryside seems to echo his sentiment as the sun settles on the horizon, a hundred different twitters and shrieks seem to herald its passing, causing the children to huddle closer to the fire. ‘And like all prayers, somebody listens. A creature is born, forged out of the prayers for bloodshed and murder, it’s skin made from boiled leather, it’s soul of hatred, and it’s feathers made from the blades of dead soldiers lost in hundreds of forgotten battlefields. The Steel Bird comes for you with eyes of madness and fire. It soars on the cusp of the coming darkness, the birdsong at the setting of the sun is the sound of prayer to him, asking that when he descends to pluck the life from the children of men, it does so close to the nest.’ He pauses and leans forwards, his hands miming with a brutal precision to accent his words. ‘The last thing you hear is the shriek of its steely wings, and the last thing you see is the sharp beak of the children of the Steel Bird come to give you their small mercy before they feed.’

The birdsong settles as the children begin giggling and throwing rocks at nearby ravens who caw indignantly before taking flight. They settle close to the fire, eyeing the welcoming doorway of the building they shelter in, the visible halo it cast now clear as night begins to claim them. As they begin to stir to move, the last of the children stands silently causing them all to hesitate and sit back down.

Willowy, androgynous, the young Lamordian regards them all with his calculating eyes, one green, one blue. He remains motionless until there is total quiet, his words so rare at the best of times, no child is willing to miss them now.
‘This is the fifteenth summer, the leaves will turn red, then brown, then fall, then die. Each of us will be fifteen, and sent out to work in these plumb fields.’ His slender fingers indicate the trees around them, uniformed in their rows, under the shadow cast by the orphanage they shelter in the lay of. Hundreds of trees covering the gentle slope of the hills. ‘None have returned from the plumb fields. We will not come home.’

The words fall flat. The Sun goes down. The delicate flickering light of the campfire gives a small comfort to the encroaching dark. The children remain there in the fragile silence as the darkness draws in.
Autumn was coming.
And it would soon be time to enter the plumb fields.