Past and Present Short Stories

Memories in Green - -Wild Violet
Fall issue, '04

Love Requited --Simulacrum                                 
January issue, '05

Welcome to the Neighborhood --             
Nocturnal Ooze, April isssue, '05

Flesh Gallery -- Bloodcookies,
April                                                    issue, '05

Pied Piper -- Alien Skin, June, '05

Requiem Mass -- Fifth Dimension, June, '05

The Hollow -- Forever Underground, Oct., '05

A Gnawing Problem -- Lost Souls -- Sept., '05

Ozymandius Redux- Martian Wave, Oct., '05

The Dark at the Edge - Dawnsky #6,Nov., '05

Fire Gods - Silverthought, Nov., '05

A Taste of Wormwood - Nocturnal Ooze, Oct.,
'05

Mark of Caine  -- Aiofe's Kiss

The Hunger -- Night to Dawn, Mar. , '06

Ties That Bind -- Bondage Anthlogy, Sam's
Dot Publishing, Mar., '06

Flesh and Sympathy -- Vampires2,issue 1,
Jan., "06

Blood Dawn -- Vampires2, issue 2, Apr., '06

Cyber-whore -- Neometropolis, June, '06

Gravity Sucks -- Androids 2, July, '06

Fear Itself --Rogue Worlds Magazine, Sept., '06

Darwin's Children -- Ecotastrophe Anthology,
Sept., '06

Stars Cry, Too -- Best of Neo-Opsis
Anthology, Nov., '06

Will o'Wisp -- Fifth Dimension, Mar., '07

Blood Dawn II: Dana's Revenge, Vampires2,
Mar., '08

PSI Knight --- Alien Skin, June, '08

Welcome to My World - Neo-Opsis, 2008

Tit for Tat -- Androids2, Mar., '08

Forthcoming

Careful, Somebody's Watching  --  Red
Scream, Issue 13, Fall of  2008

Last Red Sunset -- Apocalyptic Fiction

Cuatheomac - Night til Dawn, spring, '09
Bibliography Page
Completed Novels

God Seed -- Publish America,
Dec. '05

Father Blood: Demon Spawn -
www.lulu.com, Nov, 2007

Occam's Razor

The Pools of Yarah

The Tenth Plague

Ye'iitsoh: The Blood Stone

Hell Rig

In The Works

The Children of Yarah

Intulo

True Pahaana

Hell Fire

Talos

Third Tide
Requiem Mass
and  
Ozymandius
Redux were
both nominated
for the James
Baker Award by
Sam's Dot
Publishing, but did
not win.
Read Welcome to the Neighborhood in E-Macabre
magazine. Download it free from
www.specficworld.

                                JE Gurley

                                                                               Hell Rig
                                                                               by JE Gurley

       Louisiana Gulf Coast, August 29, 2005:

       Ric Masters gazed southward into the heart of gathering darkness and knew he would never survive. He
knew there was no way he could return to the main rig before the storm hit with its full fury. A vague feeling of
uneasiness budded in his mind before blossoming into fear. He pulled his rain slicker tighter around his neck
but the sense of dread remained, slowly gnawing at him. Perhaps it was just the effect of negative ions
generated by the lightning, or the natural dread of storms passed down into his genes by generations of storm-
fearing ancestors, but to Ric Masters it was a premonition of doom.
The wind was already blowing at 40 knots and increasing steadily, turning small pieces of wood and loose
debris into deadly projectiles. He held one arm in front of his face to protect it from the flying detritus attempting
to flay him alive. He was drenched to the bone from the rain that fell not in buckets but in barrels, and the air was
so dense and humid he felt as if he were breathing water. The small platform swayed like a drunken sailor as
eight-foot waves churned by the surging wind pounded the steel supports sunk deep into the sand and silt of
the Gulf of Mexico. The entire platform shuddered and rattled menacingly with each hit.
       He was alone, seventy-five miles out in the Gulf of Mexico south of Grande Isle, Louisiana. He had managed
to shut down the injection manifold delivering salt water under pressure to the main platform’s six wellheads,
but it had taken him an hour longer than he had hoped, an hour longer than he had. Between manhandling the
ancient steel valves rusted open through disuse and forcing his way through the tangled maze of 3” pipes that
sprouted haphazardly through the deck, he was exhausted, chilled to the bone and he still had a forty-minute
trip back to Global Platform Thirteen to evacuate with the rest of the crew.
Lucky Thirteen, the crew called it, but he was not sure its luck was going to hold out for much long. Hurricane
Katrina had beaten a deadly path through the Caribbean and was now less than 100 miles away headed in their
direction. Katrina was now a Category Five hurricane and with winds in excess of 165 miles per hour, it would
likely wash away all traces of their months of work refurbishing the ancient platform, maybe even the platform
itself.
       As he stored his tools away in his toolbox, he heard the squeal of the portable radio down on his boat over
the whip snap peals of thunder.
       “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “ I knew I should have brought the damn radio with me.” He sighed, slipped
and slid down the thirty-foot metal stairs to the landing dock with his cumbersome toolkit, the salt spray stinging
his face, the wind whipping his rain slicker up and away from his body allowing the water to soak him even
more. His boat heaved and twisted like a rodeo bronco, stretching taut the rope that held it to the dock. Timing
his leap to avoid a broken bone or worse, Masters tugged on the rope, fighting against wind and current and,
just as the boat dropped and began to rise again, leaped the three feet between dock and boat. His leap was
awkward with the added weight of his toolbox and he skidded on the rain slick deck, but he managed to get
safely aboard. He dropped the toolbox and rushed to the cabin to grab the microphone.
Masters was upset at himself for having to climb back down the long flight of stairs to reach the radio. He had
deliberately left it on his boat as just one more piece of equipment he didn’t need. He took a deep breath and
keyed the mic. He figured the rig wouldn’t call without good reason.
“KT 105 to Global Platform 13. This is Masters.”
Through the crackle of static, he recognized Trey Dixon’s voice.        
“You’ve got to get back here, Ric!” Dixon’s voice screamed out from the tiny speaker. “He’s gone crazy!”
       “Calm down Trey,” Masters said, keying the mic. “What’s happening?”
       As he released the key to allow a reply, a loud burst of static pierced his ears. The air over the Gulf was
always heavy with static charge before a storm and the biggest one in years was on its way. He reached for the
squelch control knob and turned the volume down.                 Through the reduced static, he heard, “It’s Digger
Man. He’s gone crazy. He’s killing the crew!”
       Masters turned the volume back up a bit, thinking he had heard incorrectly. “Say again, Trey. Did you say
the Digger Man is killing someone?”
       “Affirmative … killing everybody! The night tour’s dead, burned like toast in their bunks. The … on fire and
Digger Man’s on a rampage.”  The wind and static were working in tandem to drown out Dixon’s words. Masters
held the radio closer and cocked his head to one side to hear better. “ … busted Ovillia’s head with a shovel …
ripped open McMann’s chest with a meat cleaver and pulled out his damn heart! …  guys were headed for the
emergency craft … don’t think they….”
       Masters’ chest pounded at Dixon’s news. If this was someone’s idea of a practical joke, he’d pound a few
heads, but Dixon didn’t sound like he was kidding. In fact, he sounded practically hysterical. Alvara Ovillia was
First Engineer, a big, 220-pound Mexican, and a former professional bull rider in his native Chihuahua, Mexico.
Charles McMann was a driller, six-foot three inches of pure meanness that loved to fight more than he loved
women. That the Digger Man could have somehow subdued either one of them was bordering on the ridiculous.
Another burst of static came over the speaker, followed by a series of loud, hysterical screams.
       “It’s Digger Man! He’s … the shack with a fire axe … break down the door! I’ve got a surprise for the bastard
… 9 mm surprise!”
       Masters knew Dixon had his Glock automatic with him. It was against the rules; firearms and natural gas and
oil don’t miss, but the lanky Texan didn’t go anywhere without it. He claimed it had saved his life once in the
Colombian oil fields and it was his good luck piece, a pearl handled rabbit’s foot with a gunpowder kick.
         “Don’t do anything stupid, Trey,” Masters warned. “Keep the door locked and call the coast guard.”
       “Power’s off. Digger Man trashed the generators … calling you on the hand set.”
       “Damn,” Masters mumbled. The field radios only had a radius of about fourteen miles on a good day. During
a storm, they were almost useless. Dixon would never reach the Coast Guard. He keyed the mic. “Okay. Bar the
door and I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
       He knew in this weather, thirty minutes meant a pounding ride.
       A crash came over the speaker. “Oh, my God! He’s through the outer door!”
       Masters knew Dixon was in his small office in the administrative shack. The doors were two-inch thick steel
with strong hinges, not easily broken down, but the inner office doors were made of wood. He heard footsteps
crossing the room; and then, “Eat this you damn bastard!” Four shots followed; then silence.
       “What’s happening, Trey?” he yelled into the radio. It was useless. Dixon had left the mic keyed on and
couldn’t hear him.
       “I think I got the bastard!” Trey called out over the static, laughing hysterically.
       Masters wasn’t sure if he was glad it was over or sad that the Digger Man was dead. He and Digger Man had
spent many nights together in New Orleans boozing it up. Over the radio, a roar in the background grew louder,
followed by a large crash. Dixon howled in pain. “He used a forklift to break in,” he moaned. “I think the bastard
broke my leg.”
       Over Dixon’s moans, he heard Digger Man’s voice. His usual slow, Cajun drawl was gone, replaced by a
deeper voice, hollow, almost sepulcher. There was an edge of barely contained hysteria to it. It hardly sounded
like the usually quiet mechanic.
       “It’s your turn to feed the Beast, Dixon,” Digger Man said.
Dixon moaned. “Please, Digger,” he pleaded. “Don’t!”
       “Not Digger,” the voice answered. “The Digger Man’s gone. You have to deal with me now.” A bloodcurdling
laugh, maniacal and echoing, as if more than one voice was laughing, filled the small shack.
       “Oh my God,” Dixon yelled, “the shadows…” His voice ended abruptly with a horrifying liquid sound.
Whacking sounds followed, as if Digger was dismembering Dixon’s body. Beads of cold sweat ran down
Masters’ forehead. His stomach lurched and threatened to bring up his lunch.
       After what to Masters seemed like forever but was only a couple of minutes, the Digger Man spoke. His voice
was distant but clear as if he was across the room. The constant background noise of the generator and the
pumps were gone. The platform was as silent as a tomb. The wind and the rain had stopped. Even the static had
subsided. Digger Man’s voice insinuated itself into Masters’ mind.
“I can’t come for you Masters,” he said. “You’re safe for now, but don’t come back or you’ll be mine.”
       The sound of footsteps and something heavy being dragged faded into the distance.
        Ric’s hands shook as he sat there in the boat still holding the useless handset. He knew he should hurry
back to the rig but felt a cold hard knot forming in his stomach and knew he would be too late. Whatever Digger
Man was doing, he had accomplished it. Still, he had to try. He checked the boat for a weapon, settling for a four-
foot crowbar, not much but the weight of the steel felt comforting in his hand.
       He cranked the engine, slipped the rope off the stanchion and raced back to the cabin. He pushed the
twenty-five foot crew boat’s twin 250-horsepower Caterpillar engines as hard as he could. The wind was blowing
from the southeast, piling up massive waves, sending shooting pains through his spine each time the boat
bounced over one. The sky was dark and gray, a rolling mass of destruction headed toward New Orleans. He
didn’t know if he could reach the rig before the storm hit. He hoped so. He didn’t feel like tackling Digger Man
alone in a damn hurricane.








II

New Orleans, August 30, 2005

       Mama Cariou stood in the small back room of her shop, swaying to the pounding of the drums coming from
the small cassette player on her end table. The room served as her bedroom and tiny kitchen, but she had
moved all the furniture to one side of the room. On the open floor were arcane symbols she had painstakingly
drawn in chalk, surrounded by a circle of scented white candles.
She was trying to summon a Loa, a Voodoo spirit.
The building shuddered as fists of wind beat savagely at the walls. The rain lashed the windows – tiny pellets of
rock hard water fired by blasts of wind. Mama Cariou knew Katrina was no normal hurricane. She had felt the evil
embedded in its winds long before the storm had swept over the city. It had suddenly dropped from a Category
Five hurricane to a Category Three. She suspected that the lost energy was not an act of nature and that it was
being used somewhere for some sinister purpose. She also suspected she knew where.
There was no electricity, no radio, but she had heard from frantic neighbors that the levees were breaking and
that parts of the city were already underwater. She knew her small shop would be next. It was twelve feet below
sea level and the water was rising rapidly, forced ashore by the hurricane’s ferocious winds.
“Loa Agwe, master of the seas,” she cried. “I summon you. Heed my call.”
The candles flickered as the wind swept down her chimney, moaning.
“Mombu Mombu, god of storms and rain, call back your winds and rain. Papa Legba, Guardian of the Gateway
between worlds, open the way for me to go through!”
The candles flickered and extinguished, leaving her in shadows. Ebony smoke poured from the candles, lifted
like fingers from the smoldering wicks and coalesced into darker, ominous shadows. The room stilled. Time
slowed. The sounds of the savage storm outside receded to a distant rumble. She stood in an empty place, a
place without life and without death, a crossroads between the two.
A man – dark, tall and gaunt – emerged from the shadows. His smile was charming, warm and bright. Two gold
teeth sparkled though there was no light. He tipped his black top hat and peered over the rims of his dark
glasses. A cigarette dangled from his lips.
“Baron Samedi,” she called, recognizing the Loa standing before her. “I beseech you! Help me save my city.”
He waggled a bony finger at her, speaking in a highly accented English accent. “I open the doorway to allow the
dead to pass or the living to return. I do not mark the dead, nor do I summon them.”
“You control the Gateway. Close it,” she implored. “There is evil here, a terrible evil. This is not a natural storm.”
He flashed his teeth in a smile. “Yes, great evil, evil beyond even your comprehension, bokor, but I am Guardian
of the Gateway only, not the ruler of the Land of the Dead. What little I can do for you, I have done.”
“Many will die,” she cried. “My city will die.”
“Yes, many will die, fewer than before, but still this evil will drink their souls, growing even stronger. Can a city
truly die?”
She fell to her knees, holding her clasped hands out to him in supplication. “What can I do?” she sobbed. She
new it was hopeless. Baron Samedi had spoken.
His voice was sweet and surprisingly soft as he spoke. “Your part in this drama is finished, old woman. You
allowed the evil to emerge from its lair. Now, others must play their parts to defeat it, if defeat it they can.”
Her heart shuddered. She was responsible? She immediately thought of Digger Man. She knew instinctively that
he was at the root of this great evil. She remembered the day she had first met him.
He had entered her little shop and stood just inside the door as if afraid or ashamed to enter. The muggy, dog
days New Orleans heat had followed him in like an animal after prey, nipping at his heels. Just inside the shop,
suspended from the ceiling by a bent coat hanger, an ancient ten-inch rotating fan did little to move the heavy
dismal air, barely affecting the drops of perspiration running down his forehead. Fluttering cobwebs gave the
only indication the fan worked at all.
He appeared a little apprehensive about being in the shop, yet the vast array of merchandise displayed on
homemade wooden shelves and hanging from hooks on the dirty, red brick walls mesmerized him like a child at
a carnival. Hardly a square inch of the little shop went without its fair share of very peculiar goods.
It was a small shop well away from the usual paths and haunts of tourists, a few blocks east of the thriving
French Quarter, tucked like an afterthought between a used bookstore and a one-chair barbershop complete
with a faded red and white striped barber pole standing immobile outside its window, frozen in place decades
earlier.
It was a well-known neighborhood once frequented by sailors, sea captains and gentlemen of leisure. Now, only
the poorest people remained, living in squalor amid gaped-tooth rows of rundown shotgun houses and two
story tenements. The sidewalks were a mixture of broken concrete and dirt and gravel pounded smooth by the
passing of generations of feet and the streets a mottled patchwork of seldom repaired brick and asphalt. It was
an historic neighborhood long past its prime, slowly succumbing to the urban decay afflicting most metropolitan
centers, half grave and half graven image; a remnant of the past hanging on by the will of its inhabitants and the
memory of its former glory.
Sickeningly sweet floral incense burned in a silver bowl sitting on a low table just inside the door of the shop but
could not disguise the underlying smell of age and mildew. Charms, amulets, necklaces and jars of powders and
ointments lined the walls. Many were familiar but most were exotic, imported from foreign countries. Elements of
Santeria, Catholicism and traditional Dahomean Voodoo fought for space on the shelves. In such shops as hers,
the crucifix and the dried crow’s foot hung side by side, a juxtaposition of two ancient religions melded into one
by African slaves exposed to Catholicism by their masters.
Picking up a polished stone, pale yellow with a red streak like blood running through it, she saw his eyes light
up as he felt it warm to his touch. Another stone, black as midnight, drew his gaze deep into its center almost
hypnotically. It lay upon his palm as cold as the nether regions from which it came, sending shivers through his
body.
Mama Cariou cleared her throat. The man turned toward a doorway in the rear of the shop, half hidden by a
colorful, glass-beaded curtain along the wall. She peeked from behind the curtain and smiled. “May I help you?”
she asked. Her voice was a deep contralto, musical and soft despite her years.
He looked at her and smiled briefly; then glanced down at the floor, a little embarrassed to be there. As she
walked though the curtain she felt his eyes appraise her. She was a tall, dark skinned woman of mixed Negro
and Creole blood, handsome with high cheekbones and wide, hazel eyes. She wore a plain black dress, faded
with age and was barefoot. She was older than she looked but her eyes sparkled with hidden youth and vigor. A
touch of gray streaked her tightly curled black hair, but she walked with an air of vitality that belied her age.
Finally, with a sigh, he reached inside his shirt and pulled out a small cloth bag, a homemade gris-gris, a good
luck charm.
       “I need something more for it, something to give me real protection against what may come.”
       Mama Cariou raised her eyebrows at this strange request. “Do you feel especially vulnerable?”
       He shuddered and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been offshore for several weeks and things aren’t right. I can
feel it at night when I’m in bed – eyes staring where there ain’t no eyes, voices whispering when there ain't no
wind to carry them. I came ashore to see you. I was told you could help me.” He lowered his head and paused. “I’
ve got to go back offshore tomorrow but I feel strange about this trip. I, I’m scared. Something’s coming. I can
feel it.”
       “I see,” she said softly.
He stood self-consciously as she studied him carefully, trying to judge his needs. He stood about 5’9” with a
medium build and red hair. He had the look of a worker about him with hands rough and calloused from years of
hard toil. His shoulders were strong and unbent in spite of the mental burden he carried.
“You believe in the power of Voodoo, in Bon Dieu?” she asked.
       “Yes,” he said, nodding. “I grew up with it.”
       She nodded her head approvingly. “Good. I feel something comin’, too. Something evil.”
       Ambling across the shop, she scanned the collection of objects, some extremely rare and valuable. Hers
was no French Quarter shop for the tourists. Her clientele were true believers. She did not advertise. There was
no need. Most heard of Mama Cariou through friends.
She walked past jars of small creatures pickled in alcohol – newts, bats and frogs for conjuring. Beside them
were boxes of powders for potions, elixirs and gris-gris like this customer’s. She glanced briefly at a row of
polished crystals, picked one up and stared at it; then shook her head and set it back down. She stopped before
a row of small unlabeled jars and shut her eyes. She mumbled a few words and sang a short prayer. Satisfied,
she picked up one jar, opened it and removed a small bundle of hair bound with a silver thread. She carefully
resealed the jar and placed it back on the shelf. She held out the bundle of hair to him.
“These are the hairs of Papa Melon, a very strong Voodoo priest.”
He nodded. “I’ve heard of him.” He looked at the tuft of hairs, feeling a touch of revulsion when he saw a small
flap of dried scalp attached.
“They are strong magic, maybe too strong for you,” she warned. “You must be strong.”
“No, no, I want them,” he begged. He stared at the hairs as if he could see the power flowing from the hairs,
nestling her hand in a shimmering aura.
She relented. “Hand me your gris-gris.”
He slipped it from his neck, opened it and handed it to her. She dropped the hairs in the bag and closed it. Inside,
she saw a small silver coin, some powder and a few dried herbs. “Here. Remember, it is strong magic. It will
attract the Loas. You must be careful to keep your thoughts pure or you invite possession.”
He grabbed the pouch. “I’ll remember.” His face broke into a wide grin. “Thank you Mama Cariou. You saved my
life.”
“Be careful, Mr.- ” She waited for him to give his name. She would not demand it because she knew names held
power. He would have to volunteer it.
“Digger, John Digger, but everyone calls me the Digger Man.”
The name roared at her as if short from a cannon, hitting her in the chest. Mama Cariou swooned and stumbled
backwards as she clutched her heart. There was so much power in his name. Was it power for evil or good? She
looked at John Digger and waved a finger at him. “You be especially careful, you hear me, Digger Man?”
John nodded but watched Mama Cariou curiously as if unsure her swoon was real or part of her act. He opened
his wallet and tossed a stack of bills on the counter. Mama Cariou saw that is was more than enough for the hair
but not so much he would feel she was taking advantage of his fear. She nodded her approval. He walked from
the shop with his gris-gris around his neck feeling invulnerable.
After he had left, Mama Cariou sat down hard on the stool behind the counter. She still felt dizzy and drained, as
if something was sucking the life from her. The air in the little shop felt thin and cold. She could hardly suck
enough of it into her lungs. She was afraid she had made a terrible mistake. He had looked like a strong man on
the outside; it would take a strong man to handle the power she had given him, but something in his eyes
frightened her. He had dabbled with the dark powers maybe, or was marked by them in some way. It could be his
downfall.
The door of the shop banged open and slammed shut again, but no one was there. A strong breeze rushed
across the shop, rustling items. It whispered a name, a name not usually associated with evil or darkness,
Damballah Wedo, father of all Loas. A bad wind was coming soon. A tear rolled down her cheek. She felt sorry
for her lovely city. A bad wind was coming quick, hungry like a wild beast. It was going to devour everything in
its path. It was going to sweep her city from the face of the earth and she could do nothing to stop it.
She snapped back to the present with the knowledge of her sin. “Can I do nothing more?”
Baron Samedi shook his head. “Nothing. Your time is almost at an end.” He cupped his hand to an ear. “Listen,”
he said, smiling. “I hear your death coming with the sea.”
The floor began to shake. Dust flew from the rafters as pictures fell from the walls. The sound of breaking glass
and falling shelves came through the beaded curtain leading to her shop. The rumble of a thousand trains bore
down on her.
“Take my hand. I will ease your crossing, Mama Cariou.”
She reached out, grasped his cold, bony hand and shivered. “Is death as cold as your touch?”
“All will be revealed, soon.”
The walls shuddered and sagged and the windows exploded inward under the tremendous pressure of tons of
water, sending shards of glass like tiny knives digging into her flesh, but she felt no pain, not even the coldness
of Baron Samedi’s grip.
“Come,” he whispered and she left with him, walking into the shadows, leaving her broken body to the fury of
the storm and the creatures of the sea.