Critical Mass and Other Stories

By C. Scott Davis, Joel Byers, Deneen Ansley and 2 more

This is a book about monsters.

Monsters who love us. Monsters who hate us. The monsters we nurture, and the monsters we become. They may be imperceptibly small or unimaginably vast, completely devoid of thought or filled with incomprehensible rage and hunger, but regardless of scale or motivation, they cannot be ignored.

On these pages, you will meet an artist who plays with the geometry of madness, a child who refuses to accept the rules of loss, and a mind unravelled by the forgotten touch of a cold dark world. From the illusionary safety of childhood, to the intersection of beauty and horror, corporeal prisons, and serial suicides, these stories expose the lingering echoes of forsaken lives, disturbing visions of cruel futures, and ultimately ask the question: “What do you do when faced with the unthinkable?”

Includes the complete novel “Critical Mass”, along with the following short stories:

“Come into the Light, My Darlings”
“Infernal Ratio”
“Wake”
“Killing Me Softly”
“The Angel’s Seed”
“Ice Riders”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shared Words
• Release date: Jul 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370927975

C. Scott Davis

C. Scott Davis is a writer, game designer, computer programmer, humorist (of dubious quality), musician (even more dubious) and generally interested in almost everything. He is also an Olympic class waffler and has two silver medals in procrastination. His stories have been published in 404 Ink, The Nassau Review, and several anthologies.

Book preview

Critical Mass and other stories

C. Scott Davis

Joel Byers

Deneen Ansley

R. Eric Smith

Sue Bowers

Wake

Copyright 2016 Deneen Ansley

Ice Raiders

Copyright 2016 Sue Bowers

Infernal Ratio

Copyright 2016 Joel Byers

The Angel’s Seed

Copyright 2016 R. Eric Smith

Come into the Light, My Darlings and Killing Me Softly

Copyright 2004 C. Scott Davis

Critical Mass

Copyright 2005 C. Scott Davis

cover painting The coming of Cthulhu

Copyright 1998 Jeroen van Valkenburg

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Smashwords Edition: July 2017

sharedwords.net

This eBook is licensed for your personal use only. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, and it was not purchased for you, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

CONTENTS

Short Stories

Come into the Light, My Darlings by C. Scott Davis

Infernal Ratio by Joel Byers

Wake by Deneen Ansley

Killing Me Softly by C. Scott Davis

The Angel’s Seed by R. Eric Smith

Ice Riders by Sue Bowers

Critical Mass by C. Scott Davis

Chapter 1: General Relativity

Chapter 2: Fuzzy Logic

Chapter 3: Absolute Uncertainty

Chapter 4: Transition Probability

Chapter 5: Dark Matter

Chapter 6: Zero Point

Chapter 7: Entangled Pair

Chapter 8: Strange Attractors

Chapter 9: Broken Symmetry

Chapter 10: Collapsed Wavefunction

Short Stories

COME INTO THE LIGHT, MY DARLINGS

by C. Scott Davis

Maybe there are ghosts! Jason exclaimed, his exaggerated whisper doing little to mask his obvious excitement.

No way, I scoffed, shaking my head. I was, as always, the voice of reason, or as the others sometimes called me: ‘Little Miss Wet Blanket’.

I heard it was aliens, Terra piped in.

Aliens? I laughed, causing Terra to frown and sit back down.

Yeah, she mumbled, I heard they built it as a secret base… for invasion.

Secret? I asked, pointing through the fence at the large, brightly-lit building. Does that look secret to you?

The darker the night became, the less menacing the building seemed in contrast, and it had been sadly lacking in menace to start with.

I still say it’s haunted, Jason insisted.

Don’t be stupid, I said. Haunted houses are old and creepy. They sit up on top of hills, with overgrown grass, and broken windows. They creak, and moan, and whistle in the wind.

The others sat silently. For some reason, I was generally considered to be the expert on such things, in spite of my reputation for often reining in their enthusiastic imaginations.

Sensing that I had their attention, I continued, Haunted houses are not made of glass and plastic, with manicured lawns and shiny metal fences. I pointed at the building again. This is the kind of place where somebody’s Dad would work, not a lair for ghouls and zombies.

Jason and Terra sighed, muttering half-hearted sounds of agreement. Kyle, as usual, said nothing, but then I hadn’t expected him to.

Nobody spoke for several minutes.

It is evil though, Kyle said suddenly, defying my expectations of him.

All eyes turned to him, but he just sat mute, staring at the gleaming building. Kyle rarely said anything, and when he did, it was usually short, to the point, and pretty darned important.

Evil how? I asked, carefully maintaining my role as leader.

Kyle shrugged, but said nothing.

"It doesn’t look evil," Terra said, her face pressed against the fence.

I dare you to go in then! Jason taunted.

What kind of dare is that? I demanded. There’s an open gate, and a paved path right to the door, for Pete’s sake!

Well… Jason said, trying to defend his position. There’s never anybody there. That’s kind of creepy.

I just stood there, impassive and unconvinced.

I mean, nobody ever goes in or out. Ever, Jason added. By unspoken rule, he had to convince us that his dare was valid, or Terra would be off the hook, free and clear. Besides, he added, with sudden inspiration, Kyle said it’s evil.

He had me there, I had to admit. If Kyle said it was evil, then challenging Terra to go in was pretty rock solid. Fair enough, I said.

Piece of cake, Terra laughed, turning towards the gate.

What about the aliens? Jason mocked, in a spooky voice.

Terra laughed again and stood in front of the gate, waiting for us to join her there. We wouldn’t actually go inside the building with her, of course. She had been challenged, fair and square, and she was going to have to face that alone. We would go with her to the door though. We always went as far as the door.

I don’t want to go, Kyle said, surprising us all again. For all of his silence, Kyle was the ultimate follower. He’d gone with us into every broken down shack, every dank tunnel, and every musty cave. He’d even crawled out onto the old pipe that lay across Dead Man’s Gap, just because Terra had dared him to. Throughout all of our adventures, he’d always been a steadfast, silent companion.

Knowing that Kyle was scared suddenly filled me with unexpected dread. We all just stood there at the gate, waiting, and everyone was looking at me.

I looked up the asphalt driveway, bordered on each side by even rows of flowers, and shook off my fear. What? I demanded. Are you chicken?

Jason and Terra gasped and looked at Kyle. There was no way he could just leave it at that. No way.

Kyle shook his head stubbornly, and walked through the gate and up the path, not even waiting for the rest of us.

We scrambled after him, catching up just as he got to the door.

The door was silver, with huge glass panels that clearly revealed the corridor inside. In front of the door was a large, friendly welcome mat.

"This is so not scary, I said, chuckling. This is like the exact opposite of scary."

The others frowned at me. I may be the leader, but I was dangerously close to overstepping my bounds. Terra had been legitimately dared, and that was that.

Okay, okay, I said, which was as close as I was willing to get to apologising for my infraction.

How do I get in? Terra asked.

Jason pulled the handle of the door slightly, and it opened easily. Not only was it not locked, but it appeared to have no latch of any kind.

See you guys later, Terra said, pulling the door all the way open. A warm breeze leaked out, carrying with it a faintly pleasant smell, like fresh laundry or your grandmother’s kitchen.

The inside of the building was clean and white, with smooth walls and tiled floors, and I could hear soft music playing somewhere in the distance.

Terra stepped inside, and the door closed quietly behind her, abruptly cutting off the sounds and the smells.

She better at least explore a bit, Jason said, because with that glass door, she— He suddenly stopped talking, as he noticed what I had already seen.

I had been watching as the door closed. I had seen her image through the glass, as she smiled and waved and made rude gestures at Jason. The moment the door had closed completely though, she was gone. Only the empty corridor was still visible.

It’s some kind of trick glass, Jason said. It has to be.

I yanked open the door, releasing the tail-end of a lingering scream that clashed with the pleasant background music.

He was standing at the end of the hallway, holding Terra in his arms. He was tall and beautiful, like an angel or a Greek god, with unblemished skin and broad, feathered wings. He looked up, smiled warmly at us, and then resumed his meal.

Terra had stopped screaming, but the sound of her bones crunching echoed off the walls, as he bit and chewed, and bit again.

I just stood there horrified, unable to move, while the most beautiful creature I had ever seen devoured my best friend. Her blood ran down his face and chest, and pooled in the floor, but his eyes were filled with such goodness and love, that I almost envied her, even as I watched her die, piece by piece.

Finally, he finished his gruesome meal, and wiped his mouth in an oddly human gesture. He smiled again, and held out his arms, and I suddenly felt perfectly safe and peaceful. Slowly, gracefully, he moved towards me, still beckoning. As he walked, the blood seeped away into the walls and floors, leaving the surfaces clean again.

Without even realizing it, I had started down the hallway to meet him. I was no longer aware of Jason or Kyle. I didn’t know if they were still with me, and didn’t care. Some vague part of my mind still remembered the horror I had just witnessed, but I knew it would never happen to me. He loved me. I was sure of it, like I had never been sure of anything in my life.

Suddenly, I heard a sharp, piercing scream from behind me. I looked around startled, as if waking from a dream. Jason was standing beside me, just inside, with a dazed look on his face. Kyle was outside, holding the door open, and he was the one screaming.

As soon as I looked outside, the cold terror hit me full force. In my mind, I could still see Terra’s legs twitching as that thing had eaten her. I tried to run, but my own legs felt weak and rubbery.

From behind me, I could hear a soft, sweet sound, like my mother’s voice, or innocent laughter. I wanted so badly to turn around, to surrender myself completely to certain, painful death.

Jason was already staring again, smiling stupidly. I grabbed him and charged the door. He fought me, kicking and biting, but we made it outside. Kyle was standing there, shaking, eyes red and swollen from crying.

We have to get out of here, I ordered, trying to be the leader again.

What was that thing? Jason asked, coming out of his fog. Did it really—

Yes, I said, which is why we have to GO.

From the corner of my eye, I could see the door opening, and I realised that he — it — was coming after us. It seemed to flow towards us, unhurried, as if it somehow knew that it was eventually going to catch us, and therefore felt no need to rush.

We ran down the lighted path and through the gate, and then just stood there, staring into the pitch black that lay beyond the well-lit grounds.

It’s dark, Jason said, stating the obvious.

Yes, I said, knowing that it wasn’t far behind us, and that it loved us, and that it was still hungry, but what are you more afraid of?

In silent agreement, we fought our instincts and ran into the inky darkness.

From behind us, we could still hear it calling, with a hundred soothing voices, but as the sound grew more and more distant, there was an undercurrent of sadness and loss. For some reason, it wasn’t following. Maybe it couldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t able to go past the gate. Maybe it could, but didn’t for some reason. I didn’t know.

Either way, we all made it home safely… all but Terra, of course.

* * *

Her parents reported her missing the next day. They asked us a bunch of questions, but we didn’t say anything. What were we going to say? An angel ate her?

Flyers went up, search parties went out, and eventually her picture was printed on the side of a milk carton, but no trace of her was ever found.

A few days later, Jason went missing. Kyle vanished a few weeks after that.

I know what happened. It came for them. Somehow. And I’m next.

We weren’t supposed to see; we weren’t supposed to know. All of our fears, all of our stories, are wrong.

It is lightness, and warmth, and love and every good thing we thought we knew, and it feeds on us as casually as we would eat an apple.

It won’t go in the dark though. I get that now. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.

I keep to the shadows, the dark places, the places we’ve been taught to fear, and it can’t get me there.

Sometimes it gets close, and I clamp my hands over my ears, close my eyes, and huddle in the darkness, but I can still feel it calling, deep down inside of me, and I know it’s only a matter of time.

Because when it stands there, just inside the edge of the light, and it whispers my name and sings to me, I want to go, so badly, so very badly.

INFERNAL RATIO

by Joel Byers

Are you insane! How could my bid not be accepted?! Robert Angell raged, spittle flying from his mouth as he slammed his large and powerful fists down upon the meeting room table.

Diane Williams swallowed hard. She despised dealing with artists in general and this one in particular. He was a one in a million talent and knew it, which made him even more difficult to work with than the lesser artists she normally employed. You wouldn’t guarantee the project would be finished in the time frame we required, Diane said from across the table. Sterling, Inc. is on a tight schedule and all artwork has to be completed before we can open the new tower.

Robert thrust his hands into the air and shouted at the ceiling, But ART can’t be rushed, it has to be inspired and birthed. You can’t purchase true art the same way you buy a pizza. You can’t go online to a website and click on ‘magnum opus’ as a choice and request that it be ready by next Tuesday and as a side thought to please throw in some angels, a couple of cherubs and some naked dryads because the Chairman of the Board has a fetish for naked teenage girls.

Diane clicked open her brief-case and pulled out a folder and said, It appears that James Harris believes we can, as he promised to produce the mural requested within the time period suggested and at two-thirds of the price you quoted.

Robert sank heavily in his chair and flicked his long dark hair away from his furious and angry eyes. You hire cheap and you’ll get cheap. James Harris will slap some generic commercial crap on your walls and he’ll pay some thick-fingered sub-contracted paint-by-number hourly employee to do it. In five, ten, twenty or one hundred years from now people will look at it and say ‘what kind of amateur crap is this’!

Who cares what they say, Diane replied sharply as her French-manicured fingernails tapped on the granite tabletop with a staccato rhythm with each point she made. I will have been paid, James Harris will have been paid, and those paint-by-numbers hourly employees will have been paid. And two of us will be paid very handsomely. But do you know who won’t be paid? You. You, Robert Angell, you won’t be paid.

Diane took an envelope out of her briefcase and slid it across the table to the smoldering Robert. Here is your severance pay and the amount agreed upon for not using your bid. Thank you for your time and effort, but good-day.

Robert glared at the envelope and snarled as he snatched it off the table and stormed out of the room.

Robert allowed his work-truck to coast up to his studio and cursed as he saw the black Lexus parked out front and waiting. It’s close to midnight and that son of a bitch is stalking me, Robert muttered. He left his headlights on to illuminate the high-end luxury car as he jumped out and strode with purpose and righteous indignation toward the car. The driver’s side door smoothly opened and a well-dressed tall, black man unfolded out of the car and stood calmly barring Robert’s path to the back door.

Robert glared at the tall, black man and turned his angry eyes to the tinted glass of the back door. Robert used his index finger’s knuckle to rap on the window. If you’re not man enough to get out of the car, at least lower your window, Claude, Robert snarled, careful to avoid touching Lawrence Askew, the driver and bodyguard of the man in the back seat. He’d done that once before and it hadn’t turned out well.

The window silently and efficiently lowered until a pale, fleshy face emerged. Claude Perriman had delicate features, almost feminine with full pouty lips and a small, thin nose. But his chin and cheeks were too heavy from an established diet that consisted of delicacies and wines and liquors that ordinary men never got to see, much less eat, and his attempt at butching up his appearance by growing a goatee and mustache should have been aborted like an unwanted fetus, as his red hair was too thin and sparse to stamp any masculinity to his face.

Claude ignored Robert and pulled his iPhone out of his blazer’s inner pocket and started tapping and swiping before he answered in a voice that was surprisingly deep and masculine. You said that you were meeting with Diane Williams today about your bid to paint the mural for the new residential tower going up in Buckhead. You said you were hopeful that Sterling, Inc. would accept your bid and that you would be able to pay me what you owe. Isn’t that what you said?

Robert took a step back and glowered at Claude and his bodyguard/driver, Lawrence. That’s what I said, Robert agreed. But it didn’t happen. They went with that hack Harris. He undercut my bid.

Weren’t the bids secret? Claude asked from the car as he flicked through his e-mail on his phone. And didn’t you tell me that there was no way anyone could underbid you and still make money?

Yes, Robert snarled. I don’t understand how he underbid me or how he could even afford to. My price was low since I was going to be the only one painting. He can’t paint, so he has to hire other people to do the work as well as hire someone to plan the mural. Also, in the time frame he promised to complete under, he’ll have to hire more people and I mean a LOT more people to get it done. I just don’t understand how he could have underbid me.

Claude looked away from his phone and smiled at Robert. I can answer that, he said. I paid Diane to tell me how much you bid and then I called James Harris up and agreed to bankroll him.

Robert roared with rage and punched Lawrence in the crotch and shoved and shouldered his way past the larger man, which dropped him heavily to the pavement. Robert grabbed Claude and yanked the fat, little man through the car window so he could rend and beat the eyes out of that hateful, hated smirking face.

Lawrence!!!! Claude screamed shrilly as Robert birthed him through the car window leaving skin and blood around the edges. Robert threw the smaller man to the ground, where Lawrence should have been, and glanced up in time to greet the even larger Lawrence’s fist with his face.

* * *

Pain woke him like most mornings and everything hurt, but this was different than his usual hangover mornings. Robert rolled his head to the side and gasped and gritted his teeth as his neck and skull ached and pounded. Every breath Robert took felt like someone was stabbing him in the side and his crotch felt like it had been beaten with a sledgehammer. He tried to recall what had happened, and then he remembered Lawrence and where he’d punched Claude’s bodyguard, and the realization of why he hurt where he did flooded back in. A low moan escaped him and he tried to open his eyes and found that only the left one worked. He cautiously looked around and found himself lying on the cement floor of his studio. He tried to pull his arms together to lever himself up and off the floor, but he discovered that his hands were bound behind his back.

A deep voice reverberated inside the large room and said, He’s awake, Mr. Perriwater. Robert lifted his head up and saw Lawrence standing next to the tubby little man who was sitting at Robert’s work station going through a stack of papers.

Claude shifted the chair and looked down at Robert and smiled. Good, you’re awake, he said. He stood and carefully walked across the cement floor to Robert, avoiding splashes and blobs of blood. He patiently waited as Lawrence brought two chairs and situated them in front of Robert. Claude primly sat in the first and tsked when he noticed blood on his slacks. Robert gasped in pain as Lawrence grabbed him by his bound arms and lifted him up and sat him on the empty chair where he could face Claude Perriwater.

Claude’s face was scratched and streaks of dried blood crawled down his face, the evidence of Robert’s rage. Robert sneered at the smaller man and sat silently waiting for him to speak.

Claude reached into his blazer and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from Robert’s right eye and stuck the now bloody cloth back into his pocket. Satisfied with his action, Claude leaned back and said, You owe me a lot of money for your failed art exhibit last Christmas.

I told you, I can make it up with some of my paintings, Robert growled.

Not enough people want your paintings, Claude replied as he sat and watched Robert. You’re not famous or even infamous. There is not a big enough market for your work.

My work, my vision, is true, Robert spat. The idiot masses just can’t see it.

Doesn’t matter, Claude said dismissively. You aren’t selling what you paint. What does matter is that you owe me over $37,000 and I want to be paid. Today.

Good luck with that, Robert curled his lip and laughed. I don’t have $37,000.

Claude nodded his agreement and grabbed a sheaf of papers that Lawrence handed over to him and waved them in front of Robert. This is our loan agreement which includes the description of all the collateral you offered to secure the loan. I’m taking possession of this studio and your tools and paints and paintings and sketches.

HAHAHAHAHA! burst painfully from Robert’s throat as he laughed acrimoniously. Idiot. There’s a lien on this property for more than it’s worth and you just told me that my paintings are worthless.

Claude said nothing for a while as Robert glared at him. He finally held up his hand and Lawrence placed a leather bound sketchpad into it. Robert’s eyes narrowed as he realized just what Claude was holding. It was the ideas and sketches he’d made for his bid to Sterling, Inc.

That’s mine, Robert leaned forward and gutturally uttered just inches away from Claude’s face, spraying it with bloody saliva. Everything in there is mine. I created it. I saw it. I drew it. It’s mine.

This was yours, Claude replied as he flipped through the pages. If you had paid me back last month like we agreed, you’d be getting ready to paint that huge mural at the soon to be completed Sterling Tower, instead of Harris. Claude snapped the sketchpad shut and stared straight into Robert’s good eye. But instead you failed to pay me back as agreed and insulted me and hit Lawrence. Now we have to collect on your debt. I’m claiming this building and everything in it. Everything. And Harris will be using your sketches to paint the mural and all those art critics will be impressed and fawning over his vision and talent, instead of yours.

Robert launched himself forward and tried to head-butt Claude, but Lawrence’s large hand slammed into his chest and effortlessly held him in place, leaving him impotent except for his cursing and incoherent screaming. Claude stood up and walked away from the frothing and ranting Robert and told Lawrence, Put him in his truck and drive him to his apartment and leave him there. Someone will find him and set him free.

Claude stopped and looked back before saying, Also make sure that all the money that was in his envelope is still there. We’re collecting on a debt. We’re not thieves. And call the real estate agent and let him know I’ve secured the property.

You could claim that money as part of his debt, Lawrence said as he lifted Robert up and slung him over his shoulder.

Claude was already headed back to the table, but he did stop and his light blue eyes examined Lawrence’s face before he answered. Always plan two to three steps ahead. A small theft at a moment of convenience has ruined many a plan. Robert keeps his money that Diane paid him. All of it. I’ve got what I came for and there is no need to be greedy like a low-rent pickpocket. Do you understand?

Lawrence shook his head and said, No. But everything you’ve said and done before has panned out, even when I thought it was crazy or stupid. I’m smart enough to listen to the goose that lays the golden eggs.

I’m not the goose, Lawrence, Claude said with disdain. I’m the farmer that keeps them alive and healthy until they no longer produce and then I eat them. Take that goose home now.

I’m no goddamned goose! Robert screamed from Lawrence’s shoulder. Lawrence frowned and quickly spun on his heel, slamming Robert’s face into the concrete wall of his forfeited studio, violently shutting the man up.

I trust he’s still alive, Claude said from his seat at the table as he was examining the bills and documents of Robert’s art studio.

He’s breathing, Lawrence said as he carried the now unconscious man outside.

* * *

The early morning sun warmed his face and Robert slowly regained consciousness. He found himself prone on the bench-seat in his truck. Painfully, with every muscle and bone voicing their complaint, Robert pushed himself upright and found himself parked in front of his apartment. Next to him was the envelope that Diane Williams had paid him with yesterday. He opened it and slowly counted the $2,200 inside. No more, no less than yesterday. Robert looked into his rear-view mirror and carefully examined his face. His teeth were unbroken, but his nose was not as lucky; two black eyes and bruises and cuts everywhere. Doctor or lawyer, he thought. Which one first? He flipped an imaginary coin and said out loud, Lawyer it is.

* * *

I’m not taking your money, Robert, was what Ed Beecham said, but what he wanted to say was get-out.

Ed, they beat the shit out of me, took my studio, all of my art, art supplies and, most importantly, my sketch pad, Robert complained from across the table.

When Robert drove up and forced his way into his friend’s office, Ed’s secretary rushed him straight to the office lavatory and helped him scrub the blood off his face and try to clean his shirt. Robert was now sitting across from Ed, semi-clean and holding a bag of ice on his face, moving it around to all the bruises and bumps. I need that sketchpad back. It has all of my ideas and future projects.

Ed glared skyward and hissed, I told you not to do business with that little worm. You never pay your debts and he always collects more than what you think you’ll have to pay. Count yourself lucky that all you lost was the studio and your sketchpad.

I want my pad back! Robert roared.

You’re not getting it, Ed yelled back. And you should have been more concerned about the studio.

Why, Robert said, unconcerned. I had a lien on it that’s worth twice what the property is worth.

Really? Ed said as he leaned forward over his paper-strewn desk. Claude Perriman just sold it this morning for over $750,000. Did you have a lien of $750,000 on it that I wasn’t aware of?

Robert’s face went dead as he felt his