February 28, 2007
Radioactive Nazi Zombies from Hell - Pt 1 by clone00
“Dare I say I ever believe I would end up in such a place,
end up in such a way.
What remained of our troupe lie scattered; some return. How hard it is, striking down our friends twice, three times.
The Americans do not cope well. For many of them, only their solidarity and nationalism carried them over here, but now they must fight for an altogether different, but equally nebulous reason. Mere survival has already been forgotten.”
Surveying the tracked and muddied rise, First Lieutenant Grieves walked the perimeter of the secured half-acre. A small group of ruined trees stood always over his right shoulder, the only real reminder they were still on the earth of the blasted Father-land.
Hopefully, with luck these may keep the boys grounded, he mused.
What would generously be called a company milled nervously the hill where it had remained a constant twilight for a time they could only measure yet still not believe. Thank heavens for clockwork.
“... it was then that the fog became apparent.”
As the sortie progressed and the day wore on, their shells fell from the now dug in position,
Shells fell all about their entrenchment, his platoon, 18 specialists. The rangers had been chasing artillery pieces through the hills north of the Weiser River, ambushing the limbered guns in transit.
For his seasoned Brits it was easy pickings, standard tactics: teams of riflemen supported by machine-gun cover fire. That is until they came upon their last available target of the day, a stand of hastily erected machine-gun nests within a small hilltop grove clearly engaged in pinning down most of a platoon of American Army boys at its base.
By seventeen hundred Greenwich they were charing the hill – ample supplies of small mortar fire can prove persuasive.
“...by then we had visual contact with the section of light armor, SS charing across the Eastern fields to flank our location. With heavy casualties all around we took up with the Yanks manning the German emplacements against their still walking breatheren. They took position in the drained irrigation canals, preparing to combat us from afar, barrels rising to the sky like skeletal hands, rigored joins and fingertips marking the otherwise dull, oblong silhouettes. Our radioman had be lost along with his transistors some time ago; we had had no new intelligence since eighteen hundred . Blindsided by the mobile guns we frantically set about exhausting a League of Nations of mortar rounds...”
“Grieves!” the American Lieutenant shouted.
“O'Hara! Quite the shit we're in!”
To his left, Brits launched dropped mortars down and out through the treetops – that being what O'Hara was shouting over. To the right, Americans took pot-shots with [German air-cooled mounted MG's] to their great amusement. Occasionally they hit an enemy gunnery commander.
“We've got no radioman, not a working one! There's no support! We need to withdraw! Lose them in the hills.”
The Englishman nodded passively, still barking orders at his remaining rangers.
At nineteen-forty-six hours GMT, March 8th 1945 an American atom bomb achieved areal ignition high above the streets of Berlin. By avoiding Soviet entanglement, Hitler had been able to deeply enforce his capital city – turned it into a massive bunker impervious to conventional fire-bombing, guarded by thousands of fanatics and stocked for, estimatibly, years. With the flash of countless lightning strikes the sky had turned from a brooding, coagulated purple to the pinks and greens of the Borealis. From their vantage, the Allied officers could see the massive plume rise above the northern German foothills. All fighting had ceased, the stunned Germans with their backs now to their enemy, fell silent. The ensuing pulse had destroyed all radios, all German radar, every telephone, guidance computer.
Standing like shadows against the emblazoned sky, extensions of the scorched earth beneath them, O'Hara and Grieves still stared dumbly at each other before savagely pulling on their respective gas masks and field gloves. Debris sailed above and around them, a massive wall of fire roiling and subsiding before the eyes of the brave. Men called out in wild confusion, as the officers began to wrangle their men, charging to the dell to begin organizing and capturing the surrendering and now weaponless Krauts. By Grieves' wristwatch, 65 seconds had passed since detonation, as best he could make out through the thick eyepieces of the English gas-mask that made him look not unlike some manner of insectoid apothecary.
“Over here! Get down over here!” O'Hara gestured with his Thompson as three German tank pilots trotted to the middle of a half-circle of Panzers when the second wave hit. A compression wave that blurred the air and knocked men off their feet. Dust streamed away from Berlin billowing out and around as the soldiers in possession of faster reflexes took cover behind the treads and bezels of the heavy armor. Grieves was amongst the slower and farther from cover, being enveloped in the dust cloud and thrown back several feet.
“...when finally the air settled, we all of us stood back up, and as visibility improved I saw other men already clambering to higher ground. I wiped my goggles and vaulted up upon an overturned half-track to see what they were observing – what else, I thought, could come now from Berlin. Then I saw it. The German dead picking themselves off the ground, re-setting dislocated joints and walking on shredded limbs. They had nuked the Germans, and in proper style they had risen again to take immediate, efficient revenge.
Posted by Overlord at 12:22 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
February 24, 2007
Fecal Exchanger 4000 by Wang Smart
“Look. I don't care.” Strummond glares across the broad desk, pushes the tidy folder in front of him cleanly across to Langer.
“This is your deadline.” Stummond walks severely out of the room. Langer sighs for a moment before sweeping all the materials on his desk to the floor and placing a signature piece of drafting paper in the center.
“Now, gentlemen, be reasonable. This is certainly a difficult enough situation as to require creative solutions.” Langer looks at the members of the board evenly, glances at Strummond who gives him a wink. “The perks of this perfectly”--pause--”efficient”--pause--”method of producing energy are simply enormous!”
One of the Johnson's—Langer was never as good with names as with numbers—clears his throat and launches into a pedantic preamble:
“Now, Mr., ahhh, Langer, I am sure that you know your business. But at the same time—you must realize the essential nature of the business we are in. This is capitalism, Gentlemen.” Johnson clears his throat, more dramatically this time, and certain other elder members of the board glow with obvious smug support. “We are pushing product here. We have a reputation to uphold.” He pauses again and Strummond seizes upon the opportunity to butt in:
“Of course. Of course. And what better way to protect our reputation than to ensure our brand is the first to introduce a viable energy alternative?” Strummond demands of the room.
There is a general air of discomfort and the other Johnson offers his own “creative solution” to the problem at hand in the midst of much grumbling.
“I know a great guy, in PR. He might just have the touch we need.” The twinkle in his eye is commanding and unavoidable.
Strummond is next to Johnson, clapping him on the back. “Perfect! You see! Soon enough it will be back to the days of the old steel Magnates!”
Somehow this seems conclusion enough for everyone—besides Langer, who remains in the conference room with the lingering stink of corporate unease as the others pile into taxis, local bars.
Lately Langer has difficulty with phone calls.
None of his previous positions seemed to involve much personal contact. He wonders why he thought anything higher than Head Researcher would involve much lab time. Before getting too deep in his worries he gets a phone call.
“Larry, it's Jim, from Broadcasting R&D?” Langer grunts. “We need to chat about the Fecal Exchange thing.” Langer sighs into the mouthpiece and searches for the memo about the grand unveiling.
“OK, Sure. What of it.”
“Well, we're having some trouble making this appealing.”
“Look- you know how Strummond feels about this. And I agree. Besides his place in the board we just can't be holding our dicks with no options when the fuel chain drops out on us.” Langer cringes at his own crass usage.
“Yeah, Strummond's on my ass with the vague threats too. But I've got to warn you-- all this new stuff we're going to have to try—well, be careful tomorrow night. Maybe bring some shades.”
Langer frowns, asks “Shades?”
“Sunglasses. Look, I have to run. Don't forget what I said about this thing.” Langer hears a click. He is beginning to feel more has dropped out than just the carbon fuel supply chain.
Silence as the plushy curtains dropped around the stage; some "oohs" and "ahhs" start burbling up among those in the crowd as the gleaming machine was revealed. Langer fingers the pair of sunglasses in his overcoat pocket.
Many eyes travel along the graceful, dome-like shell covering the passenger area. The aging gentleman on stage begins to point out choice details of the automobile:
"While the black sheen of this vehicle affords the passenger the full comfort of privacy, you will see"—and here he flourishes a remote and suddenly the interior is revealed—"that all walls are compromised of hi-tech composite, allowing you to see outside in any direction you wish." He builds on the mounting excitement of the crowd, pointing out the automatic headlights; the touch-free stereo.
"I present to you, ladies and gentlemen, the future of personal travel—the height of scientific achievement and efficiency—the FE4000!" The emcee, some higher-up public relations type, glances expectantly around the gallery at the pleasant if befuddled faces.
"Unlike any other vehicle in the history of the United States and, indeed—mankind—the FE4000 is completely self-sufficient." He pauses, mousily opens his mouth and continues: “That's right, ladies and gentlemen—our new model of engine is 100% self-sufficient. That is, the only power required is that which you yourselves provide!” The PR man then points out the enclosed bathroom area to be featured on each vehicle of the new line, with what Langer feels is a scant amount of tact. PR lets the implications of this set in, and though he smiles as it becomes apparent the life-cycle and carbon-cycle information is becoming useful to the crowd, it is soon clear that the reaction is not quite as positive as he was expecting.
Johnson's PR man appears to be suffering minor intestinal difficulties. Langer would normally smile at the near-irony of this situation but there is a tense feeling he cannot shake tonight.
“Ladies and Gentlemen—please—let's turn our attention to this informative animated presentation we have prepared for you.” The crowd seems appeased for the moment and PR smiles widely. “Occasionally unique—circumstances—arrive; and we must all seek out creative solutions in order to pave the way for progress.” He turns on a screen that is lowering gradually around the back of the stage.
Langer puts on his glasses and puts an index finger in his right ear. He is not sure what to expect but something tells him he can never be too safe. He wonders momentarily what “safe” could be. Images of pastoral scenes begin flooding his senses.
“Is the world ready for the post-petrol era?” a soothing female voice asks, as the imagery switches to bombings, what appear to be radiation victims, Chernobyl footage.
“The future is built on sustainable growth. The future must be centered around what which mankind influences, produces, creates. Only a future centered around the power of the human race can allow the blossoming glory of capitalism and democracy to fully emerge.”
“Here at G.O. Motors,” (already the imagery is positive, the feeling of the room re-energized) “we look to the future in eager anticipation. With our new line of environmentally-friendly, completely human-powered devices, we ensure the story of mankind continues to progress and endure, well past the age of carbon.” The video presentation ends with both technological achievements such as silicon chips and the Hadron Collider and clips from recent legislative meetings about the looming energy crisis.
The crowd applauds energetically—even Langer feels too upbeat to really listen to the conclusion. But during the cocktail reception he feels himself draining.
All the faces in the hall look blank.
When Langer arrives at the office the next day he is rushed by Jim-from-Broadcasting at the elevator.
“Why, hello. Do you usually come..?” Jim cuts Langer off.
“When did you begin feeling good about the presentation last night?”
“During the video..” Langer replies unconfidentally.
“And afterwards..?” Jim looks overeager, rather harried.
“Why, the whole thing was rather trying. If you were so interested to see the reaction, why didn't you attend yourself?” Langer steps into the elevator with a pointed look at Jim.
“Why, scientists should never get involved in...” Jim trails off as the elevator door closes.
When Langer arrives to see his office being dismantled by a group of janitors he realizes that what Jim and Strummond have been saying lately suddenly seems an awful lot like warnings.
“Hello?” Langer awakens with a start and glances at his clock—3:22 AM.
“I told you we'd be back no top one way or another.” The line is quiet and Langer is not yet processing--
“What?”
“Either way, Langer, we're out of this mess. And now it's time for your half of the bargain.”
Langer's mind snaps to a scene weeks before. Strummond is looming around his desk, obviously unnerved by the only viable options for the engine project that Langer has been able to distill from his underlings. He allows himself a smirk and Strummond snaps—the chaotic mood in the room collapses into the kind of silence that would require a comfort tone, were it a product. Strummond said quietly, “The one thing you need to do is get me OUT of this mess.”
“What could I do for you now?” Langer bristles.
“I'm not respected any longer. My career is over.”
Strummond chuckles—not insincerely. “I'm sure you'll find the compensation more than fair for someone who will never work in this field again.”
Langer catches on, gives a name and number for his routing info.
“I'll be in touch.”
Strummond dangles the phone over its base for a second before dropping it with a satisfying click. He has always preferred the old style of telephone; he is sure he would prefer the old, misogyny-driven switching system, were it an option.
He fancies a future in which all calls are put through “Right away—Mr. Strummond” while waiting for the wire transfer to complete.
Posted by Overlord at 12:04 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
February 21, 2007
So today while perusing the going print rates for decent-quality stock I decided I had better add some proper rights explanation to the uploads page. You people should know what you're getting into, after all.
Basically we would like to publish previously unpublished works. Upon publishing here you are free to include the work in an anthology, novel, other zine, whatever. We would appreciate it if you named us as the place of original publication.
Eventually linguaphobous will make the transition into print. Any writer we'd like to include is free to accept or reject the contract which would include payment.
So if you're worried about horror stories like those mentioned in one of SFWA's great articles never fear, we will not hold your rights in limbo. You hold the copyright to your art, and all is as it should be in the universe.
Which brings us to the matter of publication schedule. I figure issue #1 will take a few months to really flesh itself out. I would like to see monthly happen sometime soon, but at least the constantly changing backgrounds featured in the first issue will satiate the desire for newness until things speed up a bit.
Posted by Overlord at 9:10 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 5, 2007
Everything's live and looking good. If you see any errors before I get a mailer up please write .
For now I'll just let you know about a few features that are in the works. Besides a more robust blog we've got:
- Improved printing support
- User profiles
- User zine spreads (and printing too)
- Archiving ;)
Happy reading!
Posted by Overlord at 12:07 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack