PREVIEW: ONE OF OUR ELVES IS MISSING
Continuing on, follow the adventures of Daniel and Xander across upstate New York this time, with a little supernatural twist thrown in for fun.
ONE
Israel McFadden hated the creatures he was assigned to ward over. Their very existence haunted him, mocking all he once believed and stood for. To Israel, they belonged in cages. Why he accepted the position in the first place eluded him. Never a great thinker, he was a typical upstate New Yorker trying to make a living. Lacking the splendor and opportunity of the big city, the quiet city of Newburgh left him looking for more.
That “more” came after reading the paper one day. The employment section promised menial work, but one caught Israel’s attention. Digging out his best, and only, suit, he headed across the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge and to a nondescript building perched along the Hudson River. After a perfunctory interview, he was hired—immediately then escorted down river to be fitted for uniforms and given a sidearm.
Israel never imagined being a security guard, but the pay and benefits were more than anything he was going to make elsewhere, and, despite his distaste of his current life, he enjoyed where he lived. He was close enough to head down to the City to make some noise but far enough away to live quietly. What more could a man ask for?
Once in processing finished, he was herded into a black van with tinted windows. They sped down Breakneck Rd, aptly named for those unsuspecting travelers who’d met their ends over the past few centuries and pulled into a gravel driveway.
Looking around, Israel was unsure of what needed guarded at the small cottage on the banks of the Hudson. Confused, they led him inside and down to the basement. His nerves threatened to get the best of him then as his imagination ran wild. Israel wanted to bolt and would have if not for the pair of armed guards following him.
A woman in a dark suit, long blonde hair tied back in a tight bun and bearing a severe look, waited in the small room below. She nodded at him before pushing a button beside the fireplace—Israel’s eyes widened. The wall shifted, revealing another passage.
He followed the woman down a small flight of stairs that deposited them in the mouth of a tunnel. An elongated golf cart sat, waiting.
Three years later and he had decided he hated his job.
***
Lunch clutched in an old school pail at his side, Israel stepped out of the cart after it pulled to a stop. He nodded to his counterparts on the nightshift as they stumbled past, yawning. Never the sort to make friends easy, Israel decided long ago to keep his head down and do his job. Hurrying to his locker to change, he stowed his lunch and slipped his military issue utility belt on, checking the charge on his stun gun. One last glance at the clock and he was off to start his shift.
The fact that Israel worked on Pollepel Island, or rather under the abandoned Bannerman Castle, no longer phased him. The former military surplus warehouse changed hands from the late Francis Bannerman to the state of New York over a century ago. Why the federal government bought it was a secret no one was willing to divulge. And Israel didn’t care. He never cared much for history: let the past stay there was his motto. His only concern was with the prisoners housed in the depths of the maximum security penitentiary nicknamed the “Grinder” by its employees.
Veteran wardens assured him the worst offenders in history were kept locked in their cells, far below the sun’s warm kiss. Israel found no reason for doubt. Every day he made the rounds, all occupants eager to beak free and, if promises were to be believed, wring his neck before ripping his spine out through his ass. Visuals more than enough, Israel vowed to do his best to prevent that from happening.
An alarm buzzed as the three foot thick door slid open. Israel stepped into the main passage and avoiding eye contact with any cells. Forcefields accented the steel bars securing the prisoners. Forcefields … Growing up reading campy science fiction magazines awakened an active imagination but he never supposed the government was developing such far-out technologies. Of which he could never speak a word of, lest he share the same fate as the miserable creatures arrayed before him.
“You haven’t been fired yet?”
Israel flinched at the rumbling voice as he passed the cell of a particularly nasty ogre responsible for slaughtering several herds of cattle, most of a poultry farm, and three innocent hikers in the Idaho reaches of the Rocky Mountains.
“I’ll get fired the day they release you, Ogden,” Israel retorted back.
Taunting became a daily ritual. With little else to occupy their time, these immortal creatures attempted to make the most of their incarceration by picking apart the guards. No harm in words, Israel’s mother always told him. Laughter followed him down the hall, each foul note digging into his skin. A panoply of threats trailed after him before Israel gained the presumed safety of the central guard hub. Closing the door behind him, he leaned back and exhaled.
“You still let them get to you?”
Not this again. “You can’t tell me you’re immune to it, Dawes.”
“Doesn’t matter if I am or not. I get a kick out of watching you squirm.” Grinning, the man turned away. “Sign in and make your first rounds.”
Israel was no fan of Sergeant Dawes. The sergeant was just as mean as some of the prisoners, with his leering grin and single gold tooth. Tattoos on the back of his hands offered the dichotomy of heaven and hell yet for all his bluster, Israel doubted Dawes had ever been in a real scrape. Still, the disturbed man was his superior and until word of promotion or reassignment came down through channels, the one person Israel needed to listen to.
Clipping the pen on the clipboard, he headed out the door wondering why they continued using archaic items like stun guns and bullets when they had forcefields. The constant hum of generators deep beneath the Hudson River was a boon companion these days. Winter was approaching and soon, if it got nasty enough, the river would freeze over enough it could be walked across. He’d never tried that, but he heard rumors of cadets from the United States Military Academy, located less than a mile down river, being so bold. And they were the future leaders of the nation—Israel scoffed, feeling the first bead of sweat form on his brow.
The time for bemusement ended as he entered the next section on his rounds. Israel clutched the grip of his baton. Raw power emanated from the darkest cells. He never managed a glimpse of either occupant for impenetrable darkness swathed the adjoining cells. The longer he worked at the Grinder the less inclined he was to discover whatever hid in the darkness.
Israel walked faster, ignoring the subtle whispers in the cobwebbed corners of his mind, and was soon past their corrupting influence.
Rocks walls flanked him as he plunged deeper into the prison. An odd assortment of dwarves, elves, gnomes, and trolls spit at him, flipped him off, and offered curses. A gnome threw his customary handful of scat and snarled. The small man never spoke, prompting Israel to wonder what crimes he was accused of. He wasn’t foolish enough to ask.
Of the one thousand and seventy-two souls incarcerated in the Grinder, only two treated him with any respect.
The first was a toothless old goblin with more lines on his face than a contour map and a penchant for playing chess. Hobbling with a crooked cane, the wizened creature was forty-seven wins into an unbeaten streak against Israel. Acknowledging chess wasn’t a strength, the security guard felt he improved with each defeat, humiliating as it was. The board was set up in the hall, Israel moving towards the goblin that waited.
“Good morning, Edrich,” he said.
The goblin’s eyes, dulled from centuries of use, lit up at the sound of his voice. “Young McFadden, morning already is it?”
“Same time every day,” Israel replied, smiling. “Get anything new to read overnight?”
The goblin shook his head. “Still dissecting your Bible. Fascinating book, though I don’t recall many of the actual events happening the way they are described. Perhaps one day I can finally put this to rest and start easier reading. I’ve had my eye on the Silmarillion for quite some time now.”
Israel didn’t know what that was and wasn’t interested to find out. A look down confirmed the chess board was reset. Time to begin his quest to end the losing streak.
Israel pushed the queen’s pawn forward two spaces.
“Have a nice day, Edrich,” Israel called over his shoulder as he continued down the hall a short time later.
“Mind yourself, young man. There’s a fell tide on the wind,” the goblin called after him.
Not understanding what any of that meant, Israel kept walking. He paused to return the glares of a trio of particularly angry dwarves, though his experience suggested every dwarf was angry. Perhaps it had to do with their height. Staring past their bulging muscles, Israel was reminded of old prison movies where the neo-Nazis lifted weights all day and stood around looking menacing. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine the dwarves as part of that crowd.
“Keep smiling, pretty boy. I’ll knock those fucking teeth down your throat,” one growled. “All you got to do is open the door.”
“Still don’t have stupid written on my forehead, Lars,” Israel replied. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Fuck you.”
Petty words aside, Israel was terrified of the dwarves. They promised violence on an impressive level. Should they ever get free …
The rock face gave way to reinforced titanium, signifying the start to the most dangerous inmates in the prison. He never enjoyed coming down here, so far from help should anything go wrong. Of course the thought was infantile. They were deep underground in one of the most secure locations run by the Department of Extra Species Affairs, DESA for short. The entire prison was trouble.
Israel reached the end of the hall where a single occupied cell faced him. There, sitting cross legged on his bed, was a slender elf warrior. His eyes were closed, with the backs of his hands on his knees, open palms facing up. Long, raven black hair draped over his shoulders. Sinewy and lightly muscled, he was everything Israel wasn’t. There was a quiet lethality about the elf, one inspiring fear deep within Israel’s soul. If ever a being should be called an apex predator, it was this man.
An ear rose, the pointed tip moving his hair as Israel approached. He was one of the newer prisoners. Some high-profile case with a sealed file. That alone gave Israel pause. Creatures like this weren’t meant to be entertained by mere guards. Yet whereas the other inmates offered death threats and thoroughly unrealistic sexual opportunities with his mother, this one man treated him with kindness.
Today, something felt off and Israel didn’t know why.
“Good morning, Agent McFadden,” the elf said without opening his eyes.
Israel swallowed the unexpected lump in his throat. “Good morning, Xander.”
