Chapter One: Fantom (From Sanctuary, First Draft)

Author's Note: The first chapter of my upcoming novel. It's a little long and needs some tightening. Suggestions and criticisms are welcome. I can't promise I'll change everything (well, typos and stuff). There's foreshadowing in here, along with a horror-centric ending.  The end of the chapter is meant to be kind of a "wait, wtf?" moment. Fast and unforgiving, a blur almost.

The next chapter will introduce our first female character (and future harem member), Emmy. Blake will have a brief moment to collect his thoughts and reflect on what has happened to him. I didn't want to explain very much while the horror was happening because it's supposed to be fast and confusing for the main character. 

I promise this turns into a harem; there will be sex and multiple hot monster girls!

Blake Slater groaned as he filled the box with miscellaneous clothes. The final array of his items, instinctively packed from most sentimental to least, was finished. He huffed relief from the physical labor, stretching in place. That was it. That was the last of them.

He wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. The other boxes, all five of them, were shoved in the bed of his truck. Packing them felt like a video game, one of those old ones with blocks. But it was done, Blake told himself, and the time go was now. Years of biding time, twenty-three to be precise, and this was it – this was the end of his life in Undertow. And what kind of life had it been? If Blake could surmise his existence in a word, it’d be boring.

The cheap packing tape crinkled, squealed, and just barely managed to cover the seams of the cardboard box. A good blow or proper impact on any of the precarious seals and it’d be raining his underwear.

Blake ran his fingers through brown, bushy hair. He needed a trim, maybe. It was getting a little shaggy, just bordering unruly. He scratched the faint beard lining his chin. Moving to Nuroxum would revitalize him. Afterall, he’d been lazy; Blake had put on a few pounds since becoming a programmer, leaving him with pudge. Nothing unwieldy, he thought, but having a gut at all was a major disadvantage in the dating world.

At least in Undertow. The local men were all fit with sharp, chiseled jaws, biceps loaded like high-caliber weapons, and attitudes that could cut steel. Except for Blake – Blake was more reserved, less cocky, and far from the beefcakes that inhabited the town. In cradle of Nuroxum and all its Otherkind citizens, maybe the stereotypical ‘peak male body’ wouldn’t be as much of a concern. Or it’d be worse. Blake ignored his negative thoughts.

He leaned against the beige wall, its texture of faux wood panels hard on his back. The door, open as if to invite passersby, shed cool afternoon light on the barren carpet. He stared, chewing on his lip, searching for a toothpick in his front right pocket. Blake had developed the habit as an alternative to cigarettes, replacing one addiction with another. At least he wasn’t physically addicted to them. Footsteps approached from behind.

Blake turned, his landlord standing in the door’s threshold. He tilted his hat, face blank. “Afternoon, Mr. Slater.”

“You can call me Blake, Ian.”

Ian Dunning stared, spit something off into the long stretch of patio, and nodded. “Yeah. Okay, Blake. Blake, what are you doing?”

“I’m moving,” Blake replied, probing for his checkbook.

Ian nodded again. “Yeah, yeah. Yep, I knew that. I mean what are you doing?”

“Oh, this is a sort of like, existential question, isn’t it?” Blake laughed, finding his pen next.

“Existential, sure. I’m asking a smart question, but I’m expecting answer. You know everything outside of Undertow is nothing but weird.”

Blake handed him a freshly scrawled check, black ink still drying on the signature. “That’s why I want to leave. Besides, I can’t ignore a good offer. Careers pay better out there. Also, there’s rent for next month. A little kickback to say thank you.”

For a moment, he regretted giving Ian an extra thirty dollars. He could have used it, maybe, but his new gig would cover that deficit within minutes. Undertow’s only source of employment was relegated to the basics: HVAC, house wiring, and plumbing (and the pay wasn’t impressive). Blake, having spent embarrassing levels of time studying online, had finally landed something beyond air conditioners and bathroom plumbing. Unless the cost of living was astronomically higher, Nuroxum would be an improvement.

Ian seemed to ignore the payment, instead transfixed on Blake’s personal life. “You want to be out there with the freaks?” he folded the check, slipping it into a white, button-up shirt pocket.

Blake plucked the box of the carpeted floor, smiling. “The new job kind of forces to me move, Ian. You are a money guy, you should back me up on this.”

“Yeah well, I may be a money guy, maybe you’re landlord, but I’m also your friend. Sort of. You think they’ll be kind to you? Someone like you?” he asked, chewing on tobacco.

Blake shrugged. “What do you mean someone like me?”

“A human being, I mean. A full-blooded man,” Ian followed behind Blake, the sun beating down on them both.

“Warm blooded mammal you say?” Blake teased, arms wrapped protectively around the cardboard box, its contents fighting the cheap packing tape.

“Laugh it up. You know why Undertow was founded?”

Blake stopped at the tailgate of his truck, sliding the overstuffed box onto the black rubber liner. “Yes, I know. One of the last human cities.”

“A good one, too. A good one at that,” Ian leaned against the truck’s side.

Blake dusted off his hands, invisible dirt falling to the warm asphalt beneath him. He shut the tailgate, locking it with his weathered key. Of course, Blake knew why Undertow was founded, why it was established nearly a century ago. And of course, Blake knew that humans were generally not the type of thing to mix well with Otherkind. He slammed the rusty gate shut, locking it. Why was Undertow so terrified of everyone outside its city limits? He didn’t really understand, but maybe he didn’t want to. The anticipation of meeting a demon lady, or a fire elf, or even a gargoyle, excited him more than anything had in his entire life. He could picture introducing himself to a demoness, shaking her red, warm hand, staring deep into the lava-like, crimson eyes.

Blake opened his truck’s door. “I know, Ian. And look, it’s really peaceful here, but I don’t fit in. At all. I’ve never fit in. I don’t like farming or building brick houses. I like numbers, computer parts, video games, and spooky movies. I don’t hike, run trails, or rev my car engine. I don’t fit in, never have.”

“This is a cultural preference thing, is it?”

Blake raised a brow. “That’s all of Undertow’s culture, what’s there to choose from?”

“Yeah well… That might be true. But you could have taken another job.” Ian added.

Blake groaned, exhaled, and faced Ian. “I could have, you’re right. Do you see any women around here asking for me to be the father of their children? Any family begging me to help with their institutions, bills? Do I have any grandkids?”

“You’re twenty fuckin’ three,” Ian laughed.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Ian scratched his head. “What about the waitress up there, in that restaurant? Big breasts, really full lips. Darcy… Mary…”

“Molly,” Blake corrected him, “Molly. She’s cute, yeah, but she’s not interested, and neither am I.”

For a moment, Blake wondered exactly why he knew so much information about Molly. The two hadn’t gone beyond casual small talk at the diner, let alone exchanging information. He didn’t know her friends, never asked her on a date… and suddenly it occurred to him that Undertow was small. Too small. Any modicum of worry, any parcel of doubt, had quickly been dispatched. This was the right choice, he told himself. If it was the wrong decision, he’d crawl back to his small, narrow hometown and–

Stop it, that won’t happen!

He heard his landlord’s voice again. “You’re on one. What are you going to do anyway, just drive straight out there?” Ian’s mouth was raised on one side.

“Well, I’m going to stop by the bar. Maybe have one beer, then some water. Sit, relax, sober up a bit then find a hotel.”

“One beer, really? It takes me at least five. And then what?”

Blake pointed to the road outside of the complex’s lot. “Keep driving down that road until I’m in Nuroxum.”

“Oh lord,” Ian raised his arms in the air, “Nuroxum? That place is full of those monsters.”

Blake nodded. “Yes. What’s a matter, scared of a chick with fangs?”

Ian groaned. “You’ve never even seen one. You’re asking for it.”

“Asking for what? Have you ever met one of them?”

Ian groaned. “I don’t need to. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve seen me a couple pictures. They’ve got sharp teeth, some of ‘em anyway. Sometimes tails. Wings. You ever see woman with wings and a tail?”

“Sounds cute,” Blake said.

“Well, you just keep thinking that tell one of ‘em bites your head off.”

Blake slid into the driver’s side seat of his truck, shutting the door. He rolled the window down, a pair of sunglasses on his face. “You’re a good landlord.”

Ian shook his head, walking away. “You just be safe out there, Slater. There’s a place here open for you, should you need it. And I bet you will, you just wait. And when you do, I’ll be the one to give you free rent for a month.”

“That pumps me up,” Blake laughed.

“Be responsible,” Ian shouted from somewhere after disappearing behind one of the apartments.

Blake yelled back at him. “Always!”

With that, Blake drove to Partech Lane, the road to Nuroxum ahead. The bar approached. A cold beer sounded great. The Remington Complexes disappeared behind him, few memories coming to mind. No highlights came to mind beyond being happy to rent his first apartment. A one bedroom, though he had considered leasing a studio instead. Part of him had hoped a woman would come over – yes, told himself, I’ll have a girlfriend, a cute one who is nerdy like me. That never happened. And in Undertow, it probably wouldn’t.

He passed a range of dense, verdant trees, evergreens and oaks poking into the afternoon sky. As more of the road passed beneath and vanished in the wake of his cruising truck, Blake couldn’t help but feel giddy. What was city life like? There had to be more things to do. In Undertow, going to the diner, shooting the shit with some drunk buddies, and raising a family was about all that exists. A rodeo here or there, maybe eating out and occasionally catching an old film at the matinee.

Nothing special. Blake hugged the curb as he passed a few empty, hollowed out barns, golden fields moving like liquid waves in the breeze. Beautiful, he thought, but not worth sticking around for in any case. His gut rumbled. He was so busy packing that he’d forgotten to eat breakfast. Lunch too. He checked his phone (an archaic, simple thing with limited GPS) to see where the nearest gas station was, only to discover that he was approaching one anyway. GAS STOP EXPRESS 2000 stuck about twenty feet or so off the ground, a rusty, metal pole holding the weight of the plastic midair. It suspended itself there, vibrating in the breeze, reading to fall apart at a moment’s notice.

A strong gust or potent storm would be more than enough knock it over. Blake imagined is truck underneath it, the windows shattering when the fat letters colliding with his windshield. “Won’t be my problem soon enough,” he muttered to himself, opening his driver’s side door.

He stepped out of the truck, the sun high above, beaming in thick, golden rays. Blake stepped past the stalls, waving to a few locals before entering the gas station. It was chilly inside. A reflective flooring of white tiles refracted the florescent bulbs above. The smell chemical cleaner hit his nose. Orange citrus, lemon zest and a hint of pine stung his nostrils.

A cashier sat behind an old, rickety counter of mahogany panels and LCD registers. She looked young, hovering around the late teens. Donuts, snacks, candy, and chips lined the underside. He debated about grabbing the beef jerky, instead deciding that a bag of pretzels would be easier on his stomach. He was about to drink a beer, and beer light stomach with the leftover acids of beef jerky wouldn’t settle well with him. Eventually, after internal deliberation, Blake settled on a package of pretzels.

He paced to the cashier, feet over cold tiles, plucking the medium-sized bag of pretzels from the display. “One of these,” he said.

The cashier yawned, chewing gum, her breath sugary. “Anything else?”

“I think that’s it.”

She rung up the pretzels. “Where ya headed?”

“Up north. Leaving Undertow. Do you ask all your customers where they’re going?” Blake chuckled.

She nodded. “It’s boring here. So yeah, I do. No offense.”

“No offense taken.”

She handed him his receipt. “There you go. Up north, huh?”

Blake nodded again. “Yeah. Nuroxum.”

The cashier almost gasped. “Oh man, that’s the monster city.”

“You’re not the first person that’s told me that.” Blake ripped the pretzels open, shoving a few in his mouth, glancing around for something to drink. He settled on a water bottle from a nearby fridge.

“Why are you going there?” the young cashier asked.

He raised a brow. “I got a job out there. A promotion, nice pay. Can’t say no.”

“Working with all those monsters?”

Blake set the water on the countertop with his Mist Credit Card. “Yes.”

“Well, I can’t say I condone it one way or another,” she rung up the water, handing him the receipt, “but I hear they have big wings. And they’re also just big. Some of them fly, too.”

“Oh, they do?”

The cashier lurched forward, hands on the table. “Yes. And they have fangs, really long ones. And demon’s skin. Or purple skin. And weird, glowing eyes.”

Blake took a drink of his water, heading for the door. He smiled back at her, clicking his tongue. “Sounds fun.”

The cashier rolled her eyes and seconds later, Blake was back to his truck. He started the engine, headed toward Major Taunt for a beer.

* * *

Major Taunt was opened in September 1974. The owner, Bradley Dire, had put his entire life savings into it, so much as to bankrupt himself and destroy a marriage. Bradley, or “Big Brad” as the locals called him, had an unhealthy obsession with bar life. He was loyal to his friends, absolutely. To family, of course. But bar life took a dark toll on Brad, and that dark toll had to be paid somewhere, somehow.

The first debt was Brad’s marriage, settled by a fiery divorce. Not long after Major Taunt opened, Dire had found himself unreasonably obsessed with the bar. That paved the road to drinking. Drinking escorted Brad to conversation, conversations with women he ‘ought not to have’, according to Brad’s wife. After one affair too many, Brad’s wife left him, slicing his income in half. The house foreclosed, his savings ran dry, and all Bradley had left was a bar with cheap beer and promiscuous patrons. The bar’s income was just shy of negative, but enough to keep the place open.

Brad quickly moved into the bar’s storage shed. He knew, deep down, Major Taunt would be his new wife. He was married to it, more so than any living, warm-blooded woman on planet earth. Big Bradley Dire eventually died of catastrophic liver failure, leaving the bar to be managed by… Blake didn’t know.

He’d heard the story too many times, enough to burn it in his memory like a red-hot branding iron on wet pig’s skin. And he didn’t want to remember it. Blake didn’t want to remember any of the good old days or the scandalous history of Undertow’s amenities, of Big Brad, of the liver failure. Blake Slater just wanted out.

And I will be in a couple hours.

Above, the stars glimmered. Trees swayed in the evening breeze. His truck chugged, hugging a curb. Blake turned into Major Taunt’s lot, a shoddy patchwork of gravel and asphalt testing the shocks of his truck. He killed the ignition, pulled the keys, and opened the driver’s side door, stepping onto the parking lot. After shutting the door behind him, Blake made his way inside Major Taunt, waved at a couple locals and found an empty seat at the bar.

Incandescent bulbs poked out of the ceiling, grimy and dim. The bartender approached him, a mug in hand. He held another towel in one hand, a burly kind of guy in a white stained apron, rapidly wiping the cup’s interior. “What will it be?” he asked.

Blake tapped the veneer of the aging counter. “One beer. Cheapest you got.”

“Alright,” the bartender replied.

He watched the fat, glass mug slam down in front of him, golden beer and thick foam teasing its rim. “Taking a minute?”

Blake shrugged. “Yeah. Moving,” he raised the pint, “celebrating.”

“Where to?”

For a moment, Blake considered explaining himself, but decided against it. He didn’t want to hear another anti-Nuroxum speech. He sat there, stared at the beer, then smiled and raised it again. “New home!”

The bartender nodded. “Nice. If ya need something, let me know. Peanuts down the way, juke box over on the left.”

Blake’s eyes carefully followed the hairy finger pointing at a classic juke box, complete with vinyl records and 70’s decals. “Thanks, I’ll just finish this up and probably leave. Will twenty bucks cover it?”

“Ten will cover it.”

Blake slipped a ten on the table, topping it off with pocket change. “I think that’s like 12 bucks. Keep it. Sorry I didn’t have more.”

“Hey, no problem,” the bartender scooped up the cash, “enjoy your new home.”

“I will.”

He bobbed his head to the music, early 80’s synth on the loudspeakers. A few patrons socialized somewhere in the far corners of Major Taunt. Blake sipped on his beer, smiling to himself. He imagined the hotel bed as cool, scents of linen overpowering his nose. He could see the clean, beige walls and popcorn textured ceiling.

It was over. It was finally over.

Then it was dark, really dark, blacker than pitch and eerily cold.

The outdated, incandescent bulbs flickered for a moment. People complained, Major Taunt’s power eventually returning, a slow electric hum buzzing in the air. But… something was wrong. What was wrong? Blake scanned the room. He felt his gut tighten, heart sink and chest chill. Hair stood up on the back of his neck as if trying to flee the skin. He saw his breath, hazy and thick, drifting through the air.

Blake stood, unable to comprehend what was transpiring in front of him. The patrons were coming apart. Pieces of people flew through the air, crimson aftermath raining down in buckets, splashing on the faux-wood walls. “Oh Christ! What the fuck!” someone screamed before being immediately disassembled and reduced to elementary flesh.

Blake fell back, repulsed, and horrified. A shadow that held no host danced around the room, moving from person to person, disassembling one patron after the next. It moved fast. Time stretched, the air sour in its wake. The details were blurred, an impossible smudge of missing light stealing loose ambience from the air. The screams were too much, too loud, and then… it stopped, it stopped and looked at him.

Empty sockets with no end stared. It stood, hunched over a disemboweled body, abdominal matter swaying from its endlessly-fanged mouth. It chewed and lumbered over to him, branch-like razors for fingers dragging on the bar’s floor. Its jaw unhinged. Blake felt its index finger dig into sensitive tissue, spilling organs onto the floor.

There was a flash, the smell of sulfur and smoke, then a small explosion. Blake clutched his side, watching the bartender unload several slugs into the creature’s back. It stumbled back, bits of ink-like matter misting the room.

He wasted no time. Blake dove for the door, blood pouring from his torso. Whatever pain he may have been in was silenced by a superhuman surge of adrenaline. He had to move. He had to run. To get away. He could still hear the shotgun, still hear the creature’s shadow-scream…

Blake opened the door to his truck, vomiting on the ground. Bile mixed with red liquid, burning his throat as it came up. 

Get out of here, get out of here, it's coming, it will be ripping you apart soon!

He slipped into the truck, turning the keys in the ignition, and reversing. As he drove, the sounds of the gunfire stopped.