From: corleyj@helium.gas.uug.arizona.edu (Jason D Corley ) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Pitzar] The Last Update, Part 2 Date: 13 Oct 1993 18:40:58 GMT Message-ID: <29hi3q$sp2@organpipe.uug.arizona.edu> [ADMIN: This is the second part of a three-part post detailing Jake's last evening at the front.] ---------- The skies over Generica were blue, a deep, thick blue, cloudless, but not hot. In the tiny courtyard jammed behind the Examiner building, butting up against the wall of the alley behind it, a thin, unsmiling priest had just finished a long prayer. Nobody remembered what temple he had come from, so he was given some coins, and shown out by an imp. Old Man Heartwell stepped forward to the stained granite memorial, with the freshly-carved name stark and obvious against the mottled, lichen-encrusted rock. "Frank Ziegler was a good man," he said, "he was good and kind and fair. He was a good reporter, but more than that, he was a loyal friend, and a hard worker." Heartwell paused, and looked around at the blank faces of the employees of the Examiner. They stood in a small knot around the memorial, shifting in the shade of the stunted oak tree that twisted above them. Somewhere, out on the streets, a child shrieked, though whether in laughter or pain was impossible to tell. Heartwell lowered his head, gathered his cloak around him, and went back inside, leaving the few who remained, those who had secretly expected more, but who would never admit it, looking down at the new name on the old stone. Overhead, the sun shone brightly. ----------- Ziegler's diary was small. He had an even hand, thin and precise, like a woman's handwriting, at least at first. He had come up from Central City, towards Michael's Gulch with a "Martin", who was probably his Trarovian escort. Ziegler was meticulous, and every few pages, he methodically laid out all the leads, all the rumors he had heard, and checked them off as he confirmed them, and it was on these pages that he first started to slip. Ghouls have invaded North Carizo...check. N. infantry flanks Hinterdale...check. Battle at L., No Survivors...check. New T. gas causes open sores...check. Pension for widows raised to 3 gold...check. Slash/burn towards N....check. And a few pages later, he filled an entire leaf with just battles. The check marks became more pronounced, until, by the bottom of the page, they were slashing across the paper like knife wounds in someone's back. And at the bottom of that page, There Are No Survivors...check. No Survivors...check. And in very small, clear print... Why? There was no check mark next to that word. From then on, he seemed to fling himself into the war, absorbing everything he could, with no regard for organization or any eventual story. He had a few items on the training camps, but he didn't seem to be interested that much in them. His writing broke down, shot across the page in terrific arcing sweeps of letters, and finally, became unreadable scrawls. He filled the rest of the book with these long loops and jittery symbols. It took me all afternoon to read the book. The smell of burning got worse as the day went on. Ensign Kissling stood outside the tent, and I could see his silhouette grow taller against the red glow of the setting sun. ------------- Mr. H. I'll be finishing the last of Z.'s stories tonight, then heading back. You should have told me Z. killed himself. J. ------------- "Bellinger." Old Man Heartwell said. Dawn looked up from her desk, and squinted at the door. She rubbed her temples. "Yah." she said. "Pitzar is doing his last update tonight," Heartwell said. Her hands shivered a little bit, her head hung listlessly to one side. "Fuck this, Bellinger," Heartwell snarled, "Get out of here. This Slasher story...You won't get anywhere in the shape you're in. Go home and get some fucking sleep. Come back tonight and work if you want. Godsdamn, you've got a set of keys, use the fucking things." He slammed the door behind him. Dawn looked wearily down at the scrawled notes, and her thin, jittery hands on top of them. The parchment map in the center of the desk was marked with tiny, neat red letters, each one a story of it's own, each one a woman, each one a person with a circle of friends and customer's, each one with a stack of notes, each one a mystery. And of course, they were all the same. She picked up her quill and jabbed the metal tip into the desk. As she opened the door to leave, the sudden shift of light made the shadow of the quill slide across the map like a sundial under a demented, wild sun. --------------- I lit a candle when it got dark, and started mixing up some ink. The packet tore easily, and the familian smell of the ink powder mixed with the steamy decay as easily as old friends meeting, or brothers. Outside, I heard hoofbeats, and I thought momentarily of Andrea, Dawn and Generica, hundreds of miles away. The candle flickered, and I heard Kissling speaking indistinctly. I picked up the quill, dipped it in the inkwell. I put the tip on the parchment. -- ****************************************************************************** "Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag and begin slitting throats."---------H. L. Mencken Jason D. "corleyj@gas.uug.arizona.edu" Corley Claims Full Responsibility