The Stories of Merrick

Vass
By
Lewis Dowling
Veneficus: Survivor
Prologue
It falls; drifting off course as the wind buffets it.
It drops; a perfect circle in the air.
It splashes; amongst its brethren.
They shared a cloud, now they share a puddle.

Merrick opened his eyes, and stared through the sheets of rain. The
downpour was unrelenting, heavily pounding around him. Thousands of droplets
were falling, noisily crashing into the earth.
The Earth.
He still found it strange.
When he’d first arrived it had seemed bizarre. He could remember staring
up at the clouds with bewilderment, envious of the natural beauty. He’d been
shocked at the vivid blue of the sky, the way it calmed the mind. He’d never
dreamt of such elegance in a planet. It was so much more than he'd expected.
He couldn’t get enough of it.
The torrential rain beat the bare skin of his arms, struck his face, drenched
his clothes; but he relaxed, he enjoyed the sensation. A smile crept across his
features, as he closed his eyes again.
Where was it?
Up ahead was a complex, white brick, white paint, blacked out windows.
This was the place he’d come to see. This was the place he was needed. It was
far away. Desert surrounded it like a shell, encasing it, protecting it like a sandy
moat. It was deep in the heart of the Sahara Desert.
Merrick opened his eyes, and stared out across the fields. Rain still beat
around him; the storm was beginning to thunder and strike.
He was still in Italy. He had a long way to go.
It had been so long. Could he still remember life before Earth? When he’d
lived on Luna; relaxed in the orphanage; read those anonymous letters?
That was all in the past now. Hardly a dream.
His fist clenched around a note, scribbled in an aged and ancient hand.
He’d never met the woman that had written it. He never would. But he knew
every nuance; every slight; every indentation of her writing.
He shook his wet blonde hair out of his face, and glared through the
downpour. His breath was heavy, as though he’d sprinted a marathon. He always
seemed to be out of breath these days, exhausted constantly. His head ached,
his wounds stung, his blood dripped. He heaved his chest, inhaling deeply. It did
nothing to ease the pain, but it was comforting nonetheless. Nowadays he'd
learnt to accept the pain; there was no way to rid himself of it.
How had it all started? He wondered.
With a letter; with a sentence; with a word?
Orphanage.
That’s how it had started.
Chapter One
There is a glass dome. It surrounds the city, like a snow globe.
There is no snow.
There is nothing beyond the glass.
Only darkness.
The glass reflects the city lights, like a giant mirror across the horizon.
The distorted reflection stretches across the sky.
This is Luna.
This is Earth's moon.

Merrick Vass staggered across an alleyway, his legs aching and his vision
blurry. His palms still hurt, still stung from the side effects.
How had it happened?
He coughed, blood spraying against the wall. His head was thumping
vigorously in time with his heartbeat, which was unpleasantly fast. His pulse
raced, beating out a rapid tempo against his chest. Each heaving breath was
agony, sending shooting stabs through his veins.
And his shoulder still hurt, though the pain was nothing compared to his
head and chest.
He raised his fingers and touched the wound at his shoulder. It was deep.
Blood was still gushing, pouring down his top. He plucked at his t-shirt, drenched
in crimson. The pain from the wound was beginning to numb, but his head wasn't
relenting.
The ground swayed and shook, as his eyes failed to focus. His eyelids grew
heavy; his breathing laboured; his head pounded.
"Help." He managed to whisper to the air.
No one heard.
How had it happened? How had it happened, again? That was the most
confusing thing. How had he done it?
He gritted his teeth, clenched his fist, and screamed with agony.
"Help!" Merrick shouted, before he collapsed into a heap, the pain too
much to bare.
Just a few minutes ago he was fine; if a little lonely and depressed.

Merrick walked the streets of Luna, staring up at the city's reflection. It

was night, and the general lights were off. He could almost see through the
dome that encapsulated the entire edifice. The reflection seemed to shimmer
and fade, revealing tiny pinpricks of light against the darkness.
He wished the sun was up; at least it blinded the dome with vivid light, like
a gigantic lens flare across the world. It was better than the eerie reflection that
they usually got.
Merrick stopped, clutching his shoulders and rubbing himself for warmth.
It wasn't usually cold within Luna, but Merrick's clothes were torn and thin. He
was still wearing his pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. It'd only been a few days
since he'd had to leave the orphanage.
He knew he could never go back.
Merrick shivered, his teeth chattering together. His eyes nervously darted
into parked cars, into dark alleyways, at any startlingly shadow that moved.
Luna wasn't safe at night. Too many civilians, not enough law.
 Merrick walked tenderly along the street, there was hardly any light here.
The houses around him, their plain silver walls shining, were cold and
unwelcoming.
He needed shelter, somewhere he could gather himself. He needed a
home.
"Hey, you. Ain't it a bit past your bedtime to be wanderin' the streets? Bad
things could happen." Sneered a voice. Merrick spun around, planting his back
against the smooth steel of the nearest building.
"Oh, no need to be scared. We's just here to talk." Said the voice again.
The talker was hidden in shadow, but he was slowly walking into the light.
Merrick wasn't sure he wanted to see the face.
Light crept across the speaker's features.
It was a boy, his features hardened by harsh living. Scars tore across his
cheeks, and pits dented his brow. Behind him came two others, of similar stocky
build.
He had emerald eyes, bright and piercing.
He stared at Merrick, with emerald eyes.
"Hey, you listening to me?" Said Emerald Eyes.
Merrick glanced across at the gang, and shook his head nervously.
"I'm fine, I'll just be on my way."
"You what? We's was just coming to have a chat, weren't we boys."
The boys nodded, their faces still hidden in shadow. Emerald Eyes
continued to glare at Merrick.
"Don't you's want to talk?"
"I'm fine. I'm just going."
"Ah, c'mon. It's dangerous out there. You'll run into trouble. Why don't you
come with us?" Emerald Eyes was leering, his voice thick and filled with menace.
Merrick closed his eyes, shaking with fright. What should he do?
"No. No. I must be going. I'll be fine alone." Merrick mumbled, beginning to
retreat towards the main street.
"You what? That's just not nice. Is it boys?"
"No." The boys grunted.
A blade flashed.
A heavy palm smacked into Merrick's chest, pinning him against the steel.
Merrick spluttered nervously, as a knife flicked close to his face. The tip was
pricking his nose, the palm holding him still.
"Not nice at all. We was offering a helping hand. You try and be nice to
some people."
"Try and be nice." One of the thugs repeated.
"And all you get, is a stab in the back." Emerald Eyes grinned, his knife
weaving a pattern in the air in front of Merrick's nose. Merrick stared frightenedly
at the blade. He shook, shivering with cold and fear.
"We've got a way of dealing with people like you, boy."
Emerald Eyes pulled back his arm, and plunged the knife deep into
Merrick's shoulder.

Pain, flooding from point.

Flesh tears, blood pours, lips cry.
Anger builds, teeth grit, knuckles tighten.
Fingers grasp handle, gripping tightly, vice-like.
Flame erupts, with a bellow of fury.

The fire burned quickly, engulfing Emerald Eyes' arm. The flames ate
upwards, devouring his clothes and encasing him in an inferno.
 Merrick tightened his grip on the knife, as Emerald Eyes screamed and
shook, trying desperately to release his hold. Merrick wouldn't relent. His fingers
were tight, like vices across Emerald Eyes' hand. Flames continued to spew from
Merrick's hand, constantly, unstoppably.
The boys stared wide-eyed from the shadows, before bolting into the
night; deserting their leader.
Merrick held on tight, his eyes scrunched up tight.
Emerald Eyes stopped screaming, his lungs deprived of breath. His body
grew weak, his muscles tensed against the flames.
The fire continued to burn. Flesh singed, the stench flooding the street.
Merrick held on tight, knuckles red raw against the incredible heat. His
breath was quickening, blood dripping from his ears and nose. He coughed,
spraying the flames with plasma. His head had erupted in agony, like the flames
from his fingertips. His chest ached as though he'd sprinted a marathon.
Merrick released his grip, exhausted.
Emerald Eyes' corpse, blackened from the inferno, fell rigidly to the floor.
Merrick vomited across the pavement, blood merging with the bile. The
sickened mess splattered across the ground, and Merrick dropped to his knees.
He stumbled upright and attempted to run, as far as he could manage
with his laboured breathing. His head felt as though it was split open, and his
lungs felt filled with ash.

Merrick Vass staggered across an alleyway, his legs aching and his vision
blurry. His palms still hurt, still stung from the side effects.
How had it happened?
Chapter Two
Harry stood naked, water cascading around him. He preferred the old
fashioned method of showering, not all this new technology that decontaminated
him with blasts of purified air. It was like being in a hurricane.
No, better to stick with water, thank you very much.
Harry lent back, allowing the water to fill his mouth and splash across his
face. He shook his hair, sprinkling the sides of the cubical with shampoo. The
water was pleasantly hot, steaming and relaxing.
A blast of wind isn't going to wake you up like a nice, hot shower. He
rubbed the shampoo out of his hair, switched off the water jets, and began to
towel himself dry.
He could still remember the old days, when he'd had to take shivering cold
showers amongst his fellows. You had to get in early if you wanted a decent
shower in those days. How many years ago was that? Twenty? Thirty?
Harry sighed, wiping the foam from his brow, and stared into the mirror.
He was wrinkled, and weathered, like leather. His tough skin still bore
scars from when he'd been less fortunate. He shrugged, and turned sideways.
Not too bad, still got a bit of muscle there. Not like the old days though,
he'd been a machine back then. Great slabs of muscle and strength. Now he was
content just not having a bulging stomach.
He looked out the window, up into the night sky. The reflection of the glass
dome showed the entire city. Where was the blue sky of Earth, the dawn and
dusk light that stained the sky in a multicolored display? Somewhere below him,
that's where.
The city of Luna, the only city of the moon, was built on the far 'dark' side.
He was probably one of the few that still referred to it as 'the moon'. In his
eyes, it would always be the silvery disc in the night sky, made of cheese, with a
cow jumping over it.
Everyone else called it Luna.
Would he ever get to sleep tonight? Harry rubbed his eyes and wandered
downstairs idly. He'd given up trying to sleep, he knew his insomnia would
continue to poke and prod at his consciousness. What was the point trying? May
as well be alert if he was going to be awake. He was used to staying awake late,
working on little sleep.
Of course, he'd been Sergeant Wilkins back then.
A patrol, a good old-fashioned patrol. That'd be good for him; a brisk walk.
He'd take his truncheon, just in case. That'd keep him awake and alert. Just like
in the old days.
Harry stepped out of his house, the whitewashed steel walls cold to his
touch. In his left hand he held his truncheon, in his right a bottle of spirit. Just like
in the old days.
He marched along, in a steady rhythmic beat, his bottle swaying left and
right regally. He occasionally took a swig, as though saluting imaginary officers.
Nostalgia was a wonderful thing, thinking of the days before he lived on
Luna. Back before he'd been a Captain. Back before he won those medals. Those
were the times he loved; when he was a simple Sergeant, marching in line,
saluting his superiors.
 He'd march, amid the gunfire and bomb blasts. He'd ignore the shrapnel,
continue to steadily march onwards. He could remember the blasts, the cracks,
the shouts and screams.
Sergeant Harry Wilkins strode forward, holding his truncheon and an
almost empty bottle of spirit.
It wasn't long before he heard the scream.
Chapter Three
Everything hurt, ached, throbbed. He tenderly opened his eyes, to the
blinding light of a fluorescent bulb. His eyeballs stung, and he quickly closed
them again. Across his temple, stretching right across the back of his head to the
base of his spine, was in pain.
What had happened?
His eyes began to slowly peer open again, risking the bright light.
It was less unpleasant this time, but still the bulb was too harsh.
This repeated, numerous times, before a voice spoke.
"Wake up, Maggot, it's only a flesh wound." Harry sternly barked.
"Ughghwhat?" Merrick managed, his throat dry and hoarse. He felt as
though he'd travelled through a desert with no water or food.
"Patched you up nicely, if I do say so myself." Harry said loudly, in a thick
British accent. "Don't know what you’re winging about."
"Ughghwhat?" Merrick repeated.
"That wound'll be fine in a few hours. Miracle what modern science can do,
don't you know?"
"Uh?"
The room was spinning, and Merrick felt disorientated and dizzy. Where
was he? What'd happened?
Why was his head hurting?
"Sit up straight, lad. Time to wake up. You'll get plenty of sleep when
you’re dead."
Merrick heard the voice through fuzzy ears, sometimes deep, sometimes
rapid and distorted. Was the light meant to be rotating?
"Come on, lad. There's nothing wrong with you. Get up."
Merrick managed to glance across at the elderly gentleman. Harry was
sitting upright in a plain wooden chair, his hair brushed and trim, his chin clean
and shaved, and his suit on backwards.
That couldn't be right.
Merrick blinked a couple of times, and raised a hand to wipe his eyes.
"Don't move it! Silly boy. You'll pull the glue apart, don't you know
anything! Look, it's started bleeding again. Oh, be quiet. Here, let me patch that
up."
Harry leant over and squeezed a tube of ointment into the wound at
Merrick's shoulder. It was cold and numbing, and spread into the furthest
reaches of the gash. Merrick dazedly looked down, and watched as it slowly set,
forming a remarkable impression of scar tissue.
"You've got to leave it, lad. Let your body accept it, then you'll be as good
as new."
Merrick blinked, and raised his other hand. The pain in his temple was
beginning to recede, and his chest was loosening. He coughed experimentally.
No blood, which was a good sign.
He could remember now, the gang, the knife, sharp emerald eyes.
What had happened?
He remembered fire. Surely not again?
"What's your name then, Maggot? Got to have a name. Where you
based?"
 "Um." Merrick began nervously. Now that his senses were beginning to
clear he noticed that Harry was still wearing his suit backwards.
"Speak up, speak up. Sound off like you've got a pair."
"Merrick Vass, sir." Merrick mumbled. "Where am I exactly?"
"First Platoon of Luna, Captain Harry Wilkins reporting for duty, sah!"
Screamed Harry. Merrick cowered from the noise; it was as though a foghorn had
decided to try speech.
"Hi, Captain Wilkins."
"Nonsense."
"Yes, I imagine it is." Merrick whispered.
"I'm only Captain Wilkins to my squad. Civilians may call me Harry."
"Hi, Harry."
Merrick noticed very quickly that Harry was crazy. He seemed pleasant
enough, but was definitely senile. Don't trust him to operate any large
machinery, but fine if you want someone to shout loudly and salute.
"I expect you’re hungry."
"Yes, famished." Merrick agreed, praying that Harry had an automatic food
dispenser.
"I'll just go make us a fry-up! Good English breakfast, do you the world of
good."
Merrick blinked. He wasn't sure what a fry-up was, but decided to nod
anyway.
"Great! Marvellous. I'll just go and grab the frying pan." Harry boomed,
before heavily patting Merrick's leg and storming out from the room in a hungry
rush. Before he closed the door he stopped, turned and dramatically pointed to
the desk beside the bed.
"Your things! Salvaged them from your clothes. Nearly drenched in blood.
Important letters I presume. Better keep them safe, lad. Never know what a
devious traitor will steal!"
With that, he slammed the metal door shut and could be heard running
swiftly down the stairs.
Merrick lay back, and rubbed his hand through his vivid blonde hair.
That'd been strange.
How had he managed to get here? Just a few days ago he'd been in the
orphanage reading his letters.
The letters!
Merrick bolted upright, nearly tearing the scar tissue again, and dived out
of the bed. His head thumped and felt as though he'd been stuck over the head
with a mallet, but he didn't care. It was cold in just his underwear, but at least he
still had dignity.
Where were they? He lifted his clothes, now crimson with blood, and
tossed them aside.
There!
He relaxed, as he saw the pile of white envelopes lying on the wooden
desk. A few had begun to stain from his blood, but they were mostly intact.
They were written in a young hand, fluid and elegant. Addressed directly
to him. It was unusual for people to handwrite their letters, most were typed.
Even more unusual to sign them 'Anonymous', and leave only a PO Box as a
return address.
Merrick picked the letters up and stumbled back to the bed, pulling the
sheets over himself for warmth.
He flicked through the pile; there were sixteen envelopes, one for every
year of his life.
 Merrick took the letters everywhere; he'd carried them around the
orphanage read them continuously until he knew ever word. He spent days,
weeks, months sometimes, thinking up a reply, jotting down every tiniest
thought into his responses. It was like having a diary that responded back.
That was before he'd had to leave the orphanage though.
He'd been reading the letters, quietly to himself, in the living room of the
orphanage.
That's when it happened.