A short time back I was lucky enough to interview Julian Glover for Starburst magazine. I’ve included the first part of the interview below.

• You play Colonel Breen in Quatermass and the Pit. What are your thoughts on the character; would you, for example, describe him as the villain of the piece?

Well, he’s not a villain, is he? And, anyway, when you play baddies as I have – which I’ve quite a career of doing – you can’t possibly go in thinking I’m the baddy. Even if it’s not in the script, you’ve got to invent why he does things. Breen is not a villain: he’s not out to destroy anything or to spoil anything. He got it wrong, completely and utterly wrong. Someone described him as the idiot of the piece, but I wouldn’t put it that far. He’s just not bright enough to understand what’s gong on. He’s a military man, middle-class background, probably gone to Sandhurst. He’s used to defusing bombs and stuff like that. That’s where he did his training. And he gets this unique situation, but when you find a bomb there are certain courses of action, and he follows them. He doesn’t want to know when people like Quatermass are nosing about. He doesn’t want to know about that because he knows about defusing bombs, and he’s got it wrong. So I wouldn’t say he deserved his ending. (laughs)

• Colonel Breen has a particularly gruesome death scene. What was that like to film?

Uncomfortable. Make-up of that kind is very uncomfortable. There’s a lot of stuff stuck on your face. He had to be burnt, you may remember. I always thought it was rather a mistake for him to have his hat on. They made it sort of smoke. His face was in such a state that I think his hat would have burnt. A difference of opinion that I didn’t win on.

• How do you think the special effects of Quatermass and the Pit compare to the CGI of today’s science fiction films?

Well, they are not as good. It’s remarkable what they manage to achieve in those days without any trick photography or digital work. The appearance of the locusts was really well done. It was done with models which for those days was very satisfactory. Today not quite so much. I haven’t seen the re-mastering. Have you seen that?

• We have, yes, and thought it was very good.

I was told it’s terrific.

They didn’t get round to all this clever mastering, digital stuff until comparatively recently. Even in Indiana Jones, my death is quite a dramatic business. That took three days to film. They’d do my face, then take it away and work on it frame by frame. Each little bit was shot separately, which they don’t do now. The effects are absolutely remarkable; I mean, how did they do that! The latest Star Wars film: how did they do that! But earlier on – when I was coming up – and even as far as Indiana Jones, they were frame by frame shooting with film. So that’s the difference. But, of course, the effects are better and more spectacular. I think it’s quiet remarkable what they achieved in the older days.

I’m hoping that as a result of doing all these interviews, I’m going to be given a copy of it.

• You’ve not had a copy yet?

I’m not asking you for one! (laughs)

For the full interview follow the link.

Little Red-Cap

By

The Brothers Grimm

Once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by everyone who looked at her, but most of all by her grandmother, and there was nothing that she would not have given to the child. Once she gave her a little cap of red velvet, which suited her so well that she would never wear anything else; so she was always called ’Little Red- Cap.’

One day her mother said to her: ’Come, Little Red-Cap, here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine; take them to your grandmother, she is ill and weak, and they will do her good. Set out before it gets hot, and when you are going, walk nicely and quietly and do not run off the path, or you may fall and break the bottle, and then your grandmother will get nothing; and when you go into her room, don’t forget to say, “Good morning”, and don’t peep into every corner before you do it.’

’I will take great care,’ said Little Red-Cap to her mother, and gave her hand on it.

The grandmother lived out in the wood, half a league from the village, and just as Little Red-Cap entered the wood, a wolf met her. Red-Cap did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him.

’Good day, Little Red-Cap,’ said he.

’Thank you kindly, wolf.’

’Whither away so early, Little Red-Cap?’

’To my grandmother’s.’

’What have you got in your apron?’

’Cake and wine; yesterday was baking-day, so poor sick grandmother is to have something good, to make her stronger.’

’Where does your grandmother live, Little Red-Cap?’

’A good quarter of a league farther on in the wood; her house stands under the three large oak-trees, the nut-trees are just below; you surely must know it,’ replied Little Red-Cap.

The wolf thought to himself: ’What a tender young creature! what a nice plump mouthful–she will be better to eat than the old woman. I must act craftily, so as to catch both.’ So he walked for a short time by the side of Little Red-Cap, and then he said: ’See, Little Red-Cap, how pretty the flowers are about here–why do you not look round? I believe, too, that you do not hear how sweetly the little birds are singing; you walk gravely along as if you were going to school, while everything else out here in the wood is merry.’

Little Red-Cap raised her eyes, and when she saw the sunbeams dancing here and there through the trees, and pretty flowers growing everywhere, she thought: ’Suppose I take grandmother a fresh nosegay; that would please her too. It is so early in the day that I shall still get there in good time’; and so she ran from the path into the wood to look for flowers. And whenever she had picked one, she fancied that she saw a still prettier one farther on, and ran after it, and so got deeper and deeper into the wood.

Meanwhile the wolf ran straight to the grandmother’s house and knocked at the door.

’Who is there?’

’Little Red-Cap,’ replied the wolf. ’She is bringing cake and wine; open the door.’

’Lift the latch,’ called out the grandmother, ’I am too weak, and cannot get up.’

The wolf lifted the latch, the door sprang open, and without saying a word he went straight to the grandmother’s bed, and devoured her. Then he put on her clothes, dressed himself in her cap laid himself in bed and drew the curtains.

Little Red-Cap, however, had been running about picking flowers, and when she had gathered so many that she could carry no more, she remembered her grandmother, and set out on the way to her.

She was surprised to find the cottage-door standing open, and when she went into the room, she had such a strange feeling that she said to herself: ’Oh dear! how uneasy I feel today, and at other times I like being with grandmother so much.’ She called out: ’Good morning,’ but received no answer; so she went to the bed and drew back the curtains. There lay her grandmother with her cap pulled far over her face, and looking very strange.

’Oh! grandmother,’ she said, ’what big ears you have!’

’The better to hear you with, my child,’ was the reply.

’But, grandmother, what big eyes you have!’ she said.

’The better to see you with, my dear.’

’But, grandmother, what large hands you have!’

’The better to hug you with.’

’Oh! but, grandmother, what a terrible big mouth you have!’

’The better to eat you with!’

And scarcely had the wolf said this, than with one bound he was out of bed and swallowed up Red-Cap.

When the wolf had appeased his appetite, he lay down again in the bed, fell asleep and began to snore very loud. The huntsman was just passing the house, and thought to himself: ’How the old woman is snoring! I must just see if she wants anything.’ So he went into the room, and when he came to the bed, he saw that the wolf was lying in it. ’Do I find you here, you old sinner!’ said he. ’I have long sought you!’ Then just as he was going to fire at him, it occurred to him that the wolf might have devoured the grandmother, and that she might still be saved, so he did not fire, but took a pair of scissors, and began to cut open the stomach of the sleeping wolf. When he had made two snips, he saw the little Red-Cap shining, and then he made two snips more, and the little girl sprang out, crying: ’Ah, how frightened I have been! How dark it was inside the wolf’; and after that the aged grandmother came out alive also, but scarcely able to breathe. Red-Cap, however, quickly fetched great stones with which they filled the wolf’s belly, and when he awoke, he wanted to run away, but the stones were so heavy that he collapsed at once, and fell dead.

Then all three were delighted. The huntsman drew off the wolf’s skin and went home with it; the grandmother ate the cake and drank the wine which Red-Cap had brought, and revived, but Red-Cap thought to herself: ’As long as I live, I will never by myself leave the path, to run into the wood, when my mother has forbidden me to do so.’

It also related that once when Red-Cap was again taking cakes to the old grandmother, another wolf spoke to her, and tried to entice her from the path. Red-Cap, however, was on her guard, and went straight forward on her way, and told her grandmother that she had met the wolf, and that he had said ’good morning’ to her, but with such a wicked look in his eyes, that if they had not been on the public road she was certain he would have eaten her up. ’Well,’ said the grandmother, ’we will shut the door, that he may not come in.’ Soon afterwards the wolf knocked, and cried: ’Open the door, grandmother, I am Little Red-Cap, and am bringing you some cakes.’ But they did not speak, or open the door, so the grey-beard stole twice or thrice round the house, and at last jumped on the roof, intending to wait until Red-Cap went home in the evening, and then to steal after her and devour her in the darkness. But the grandmother saw what was in his thoughts. In front of the house was a great stone trough, so she said to the child: ’Take the pail, Red-Cap; I made some sausages yesterday, so carry the water in which I boiled them to the trough.’ Red-Cap carried until the great trough was quite full. Then the smell of the sausages reached the wolf, and he sniffed and peeped down, and at last stretched out his neck so far that he could no longer keep his footing and began to slip, and slipped down from the roof straight into the great trough, and was drowned. But Red-Cap went joyously home, and no one ever did anything to harm her again.

You may not be aware, but the month of May has been handed over to the ranks of brain-munching, flesh-devouring hordes of undead.  Zombie appreciation month is the brainchild of the Zombie Rights Campaign who prefer the term: differently animated.

Not sure who the ZRC are? Here’s what they have to say:

“Since our founding, the ZRC has been a tireless advocate for the equal rights of the undead. Our organization is composed of individuals from every walk of life and every state of animation, from zombies struggling to gain recognition as persons, to the living who strive daily to help achieve that goal. You do not have to be a zombie to join the ZRC; you do not have to be undead to support its goals. You need only share our vision of a world where the violence and prejudices of today have given way to true equality for all people — whether or not they still possess working circulatory systems or need oxygen.”

http://zombierightscampaign.org/about.html

The month of May features in numerous zombie movies as the month the zombie apocalypse begins and to get involved all you have to do is have fun, watch a few classic movies, or shamble around graveyards moaning at random strangers while eating the neighbour’s cat. Whatever floats your boat; I’m not one to judge.

So to do my part, I would like to draw your attention towards Charlie bit my finger – the horror.

The short film festival held in Toronto last year, commissioned three short films based around a YouTube viral video. The tagline: Anyone can upload. Few can direct. I’ve included the original viral video to get a sense of where the inspiration comes from. Don’t worry about the – butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth – feel of the first video, the unrelenting horror of the second more than makes up for it.

Ever thought what might happen if Batman became a vampire or Spiderman turned into a flesh hungry zombie? Then look no further, and welcome to the deranged and surreal world of horror comics. Not restrained by movie budgets, moral guiding principles, or even common-sense, artists and writers have unleashed the nameless terrors their deepest subconscious can muster. And what a mind-numbing, disturbing, and laughable bunch they’ve turned out to be.

The unholy unison of horror and comics has been shambling around since just after the Second World War, but didn’t really get off the ground until they relaxed the Comics Code in 1971 with the following statement.

Scenes dealing with, or instruments associated with, walking dead or torture shall not be used. Vampires, ghouls and werewolves shall be permitted to be used when handled in the classic tradition such as Frankenstein, Dracula and other high-calibre literary works written by Edgar Allan Poe, Saki, Conan Doyle, and other respected authors whose works are read in schools around the world.

I could write a whole article on the destructive nature of the comic code authority, censorship, and its futile attempts to control dreams, visions and simple good fun. But why go on? Relaxing the code created a ‘70’s horror boom with Marvel publishing the likes of Morbius: the living Vampire, Dracula, Ghost Rider and an all-time personal favourite of mine, Man-Thing.

“Whosoever knows fear, shall burn at the Man-Thing’s touch.”

Something about the old black and white Chiller UK comics with the Man-Thing sunk into my subconscious and took root. Man-Thing was weirdly wonderful: a lump of barely sentient swamp-stuff kicking ass and getting into all kinds of weekly mischief.

Nerdy note: Man-Thing made the shelves a few months before DC’s Swamp Thing. But, in actuality, neither is an original idea with The Heap and Solomon Grundy predating both by about thirty years. But I digress.

DC jumped on the horror comic bandwagon with the likes of Swamp Thing and Weird Mystery Tales, but as with all good things by the mid- 1980’s interest had faded and the titles were cancelled, other than Len Wein’s superb Swamp-Thing which continued through four volumes until 2004 where it was eventually dropped due to low sales.

Vampires in particular have remained a constant in the world of comics. They’ve certainly held my fascination with nearly every culture having legends about them. They’ve made the leap from fable, book, and to the silver screen. Comics proved no obstacle.

Vampires Vs The Batman.

Not as silly as you might think. Considering it was 1939, and comics were still in their infancy. Detective Comics #31 contained DC’s first two part tale, ‘Batman Vs. The Vampire’: a nonsensical story full of gaping plot-holes and iconic imagery. Batman has to leave New York, not yet Gotham, and rescue Julie Madison, from the vampire Monk  in a series of bizarre and increasingly ridiculous encounters. By the end the reader is left reeling from the action, suspense, and plain weirdness of the story, all of which have gone a long way to making this a truly memorable issue.

A New Evil in Gotham City

Red Rain

Batman & Dracula: Red Rain continues with the vampire theme, but is approached in a wonderfully mature manner that incorporates Doug Moench’s straightforward writing style with supernatural elements. This never feels like just another vampire story, but rather as an intelligent attempt to create a structured, detailed, new take on the Batman mythos. For the record, Red Rain, absolutely delivers on all fronts.

Batman and Dracula. Two names linked to the darkness, but for different reasons. For Batman it is a means to an end, a way to scare criminals. For Dracula, it is his way of life, and a way to hunt.

When Dark Knight meets Dark Prince, all hell is unleashed, a gift (or curse) is given and the Batman becomes more Bat than Man . . .

Heroes can die. They can also rise again.

It might just be me, but my Marvel bubble popped a long time back. I think the constant resurrection of characters and the endless arcs of their archetypal heroes with no finality or creative control rammed the final nail home. Therefore it was with considerable surprise that I stumbled across Marvel Zombies.

Marvel Zombies is a rare breed: an original concept from the house of ideas. It’s a refreshing take on the MU universe and a darn good laugh to boot. The premise: Marvel superheroes . . . as flesh-eating zombies.  The name is a kind of in-joke, referencing fans that buy Marvel comics, no matter how repetitive, or rehashed the plot line.

Story-wise, there’s not much to it, superheroes become infected with a kind of sentient super-hero virus, in turn become zombies and munch upon the living. Brilliant! What more could you ask? Of course, Marvel being Marvel followed it with four sequels, having less and less to do with the original. But who cares? The first is the best. If you want to see Spiderman chow down on Mary Jane, or Ironman with his legs blown off, then this is the series for you. 

Seems to me that horror is perfectly suited to the medium of comic books, whether it’s men in tights, or for an adaption like Clive Barker’s Books of Blood. It certainly continues to catch my imagination and has me browsing back through my dusty comic book collection and remembering the monsters from my youth.

At last year’s fantasy con I caught up with Ramsey Campbell on behalf of Starburst magazine. I’ve included a small excerpt below. Enjoy!

Starburst: What are your thoughts on horror fiction? Do you think one must experience horror in order to write it?

Ramsey Campbell: I think you have to experience horror in the imagination. That’s what you dream up onto the page. On a personal level, my childhood is a case of nightmares. Someone once said I was born to write horror; I’m not too sure about that. A fair number of horror writers have a strange background. It’s not specific to the field, and I’m not certain if it’s even special to it. That said, I grew up reading adult horror. It was a very small step from reading George MacDonald to fairy tales. Victorian fairy tales were a complete nightmare that have been cut out of the later versions. They use the same kind of suggestions. What is left out is then up to my imagination, for me, that’s how much of the best horror fiction works, even today.

Read the full interview here:  http://www.starburstmagazine.com/features/feature-articles/1245-an-interview-with-ramsey-campbell

This time it’s French.

Let’s get one thing straight. Zombies are cool. Zombies are the new black. And in The Horde you get them by the bucket load.  Directed by Benjamin Rocher and Yannick Dahan, The Horde is a big budget French take on the coming zombie apocalypse.

The plot is fairly straight forward. A renegade group of cops seek revenge against the mob after one of their own is killed by a drug dealer, and while the two fractions trade blows and scrap it out in a Paris apartment block the world goes to hell in a hand basket. Pretty soon zombies start popping up every which way they turn, and the survivors have to band together, putting aside their differences, if they stand a chance of surviving the night.

If this sounds uninspired or clichéd in any way, don’t panic, that’s because it is.

The Horde unashamedly refuses to offer anything new to the sub genre; it laughs in the face of originality, stamps on the fingers of social commentary, and gives dark looks to narrative and character development. Who needs these things when you’ve got action, anyway?  And in that respect The Horde delivers with style.

We are offered up serving after serving of gore drenched scenes of bodily dismemberment without so much as a suggestion of realism, and even though both cops and gang members alike are armed to the teeth with guns they still find novel and interesting ways to kill the undead.

It’s in the last hour that The Horde really hits its stride with a number of fist-fights between the living and not-so-living that makes the Dawn of the Dead supermarket battle look like a handbag scuffle on the dance floor.   The tension continues to mount as the situation turns from bad to desperate leading towards a satisfying if a little predictable bleak ending.

La Horde is a slice of zombie mayhem which manages to rise above its individual set pieces to become greater than the sum of its parts. It’s also the first zombie movie to come from France and delivers one hell of a punch. For that very reason it’s ground breaking and is easily a classic, deserving of its place alongside the greats.

]]> http://neiljohnbuchanan.com/2012/04/26/la-horde/feed/ 0 neiljohnbuchanan la_horde_mb02 http://neiljohnbuchanan.com/2012/04/24/its-a-holographic-life/ http://neiljohnbuchanan.com/2012/04/24/its-a-holographic-life/#comments Tue, 24 Apr 2012 12:00:36 +0000 neiljohnbuchanan http://neiljohnbuchanan.com/?p=945 ]]>

Channel surfing the other day,  I came across a Horizon documentary concerning the somewhat dubious effects of Reality. Always keen to stretch the old grey matter,  I tuned in and encountered – for the first time – the Holographic Universe theory.

The whatnot?

The Holographic Universe theorises that life as we know it is merely a projection: the phantasmagoria of the universe. All things that are, or were, or have yet to be, don’t really exist in the comfortable, solid terms we refer to as reality. They are, in fact, outward manifestations of the universe. It’s not real, baby, at least not in the conventional sense of the word.

This bad boy of science is the brain child of Alain Aspect – real name apparently, but I’m so going to use that as a character – who in 1982 in the University of Paris discovered that under certain conditions sub-atomic particles are able to instantly communicate with each other regardless of the distance separating them. Could be a mile or one hundred billions miles apart. It makes no difference.

What does it matter to me?

Well, the problem is that instantaneous communication regardless of distance violates Einstein’s theory that no communication can travel faster than light. It means that everything in the universe is connected to everything else. The electrons spinning in your head are connected to the electrons spinning in mine, or a star a billion, billion light years away, or the cup of coffee gone cold on the table I forgot about an hour ago.

This has led others to speculate that the universe may not be quite as real as they would have preferred. It may, in fact, be a hologram.

Now, that’s quite a – some might say insane – leap of logic, and the idea should be neatly labelled as ‘wrong’ and slid onto the same shelf as ‘the earth is flat’ and ‘the world was sprouted from the eye of Odin’.

But, incredible as this might sound, evidence is rising to support this theory.

Let’s take a look.

1: The Geo600 project was designed to study gravitational waves from black holes and Neutron stars, but it also picked up interference patterns without any apparent source. Craig Hogan, The Director of the Fermilabs Center for Particle Astrophysics jumped in out of the blue and predicted Geo600 might be so sensitive it could detect evidence of a holographic universe.

“It looks like GEO600 is being buffeted by the microscopic quantum convulsions of space-time,” Hogan says. And who can blame him?

“If the GEO600 result is what I suspect it is,” New Scientist quotes Hogan, “then we are all living in a giant cosmic hologram.”

Insert Note: I know this sounds mad. I’m not saying I agree with it, but rather it’s fascinating theory.

Source: http://writertotheworld.com/evidence-and-implications-of-a-holographic-universe/

2: In the 1920s, Karl Lashley discovered that dissections of a rat’s brain made no impact on its ability to perform complex tasks it had learned prior to operation. Jump forward to the 1960s – apparently a good time for parties – and Pribram proposed that memories are imprinted in nerve impulses that spread across the brain, rather like the way a laser would cover a photo to create a hologram.

An impressive body of evidence suggests that the brain uses holographic principles to perform its operations. Pribram’s theory, in fact, has gained increasing support among neurophysiologists.

Source: http://twm.co.nz/hologram.html

3: Quantum Mechanics show that the observer influences any event or object of consciousness, the formless to form. Mind and matter are energies vibrating at different frequencies.

Now, hold on, did you just read that right? Apparently, we control reality. This means that everything that has ever happened, happened because we wanted it to. We conform to a communal law of reality entirely of our own making. That given the right tools, nothing is impossible, because simply put: time is an illusion, reality is a faker, and consciousness impacts on the material world.

Oh yes. Get in. That has to be the best theory I’ve ever heard. Even better than the one where we created the universe by attempting to measure it from the future – more on that later.

What does that mean to me?

If right, this changes mankind’s views about space-time. It may very well mean that reality is subjective. Whatever the case, it’ll be fun to follow and see if everything we’ve ever known is nothing more than a cerebral illusion or a stepping stone onto whatever comes next.

Of course if it’s wrong, I’ll sulk for a month.

You’re getting older, and you’ll see that life isn’t like your fairy tales. The world is a cruel place. And you’ll learn that, even if it hurts.

Guillermo del Toro’s 6^th film is a dark, Gothic fairy tale for adults. Set against the post-war repression of Franco’sSpain, Pan’s Labyrinth fuses the cruelty of man to the magic of one child’s imagination.

This bittersweet tragedy is shown to us through the eyes of Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) who comes to live with her Fascist stepfather, Captain Videl, (Sergi Lopez) at a remote military outpost in Spain.

Captain Videl, and his troops spend their days searching for the Spanish Marquis in the nearby woods and have no time for Ofelia or her mother, Carmen (Ariadna Gil). Videl is only interested in Ofelia’s unborn baby brother to continue his heritage and dark designs.

As the harsh reality of Videl’s reign becomes apparent, Ofelia stumbles upon a world of magic as deep and as evocative as any imagined. She is led into a labyrinth on the grounds of the outpost and meets with an ancient Faun (Doug Jones). The Faun is quick to point out that Ofelia is really the spirit of Princess Moanna, and if she is to be reunited with her father, the King, then she must complete three deadly tasks before the night of the next full moon.

Fresh from the success of Blade 2 and Hellboy, Del Toro takes the two genre extremes, magic and the horror of war, and merges them seamlessly together. Under Del Toro’s guiding hand we are treated to scenes of violence and fantasy in equal measures.

Pan’s Labyrinth is at times a bleak and desolate film, and is unrelenting in its graphic depiction of life at the military outpost. Interspaced between the tension and torture there are nods to the classical fantasies of literature and film: Ofelia is sometimes dressed as Alice in Wonderland, and her encounter with the Faun has shades of Mr. Tumnus from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The CGI is outstanding, depicting powerful pagan creatures such as fairies and the terrifying Pale Man, before turning subtle with the gruesome wounds inflicted by – and inflicted upon – Captain Videl.

Thrilling, beautiful, and inspiring – Pan’s Labyrinth is a trip back to childhood dreams where monsters and dragons once dwelt and serves as a poignant reminder of the darkness within us all. You won’t be disappointed.

 I wait anxiously for the bus to arrive, it’s late and the sun is going down. I don’t want to be out here after dark. Hell, I don’t want to be outside anywhere after dark. No one does, unless their plain crazy or bug-eyed stupid. It’s the way of life since anyone can remember. For some it’s too much. They walk from the Compound when the sun is highest and don’t return. Sure, you’d see them three nights later at the wall, calling for their loved ones, but it’s not really them. Not anymore.

It was the same for Mikhail. He hated being caged. He used to dream about flying. Said he would spread his arms like wings and fly across the dunes. I would ask what was on the other side and he would respond, ‘palladium’.  It made me cry.

The bus is coming and the sun warms my back while setting fire to the sky. If I close my eyes I can see Mikhail as he was on that last day: pale and thin, his bald scalp dry and flaky, his hands shaking as he lifts a cup to bloodless lips. The memories return unbidden and I’m powerless to resist, swept up in their pull, a hapless passenger, adrift on the ramblings of my mind.

It’s Zero Hour. The bell chimes and it’s safe. We go to mum’s marker to lay flowers and in the brilliant sunlight Mikhail says he wants to die.

“It won’t be an end if I walk past Dead Man’s Trail.” Mikhail leans in close as he speaks; his voice barely above a whisper.  “I saw a maple tree there once, split near clean in half by lightning. I could stand in its shadow. I wouldn’t have to wait long before they came. Then I’d be safe.”

“You’d be dead.”

He gives a small smile and kneels down to the marker. The act sends a flash of pain across his pale features. He no longer tries to hide his discomfort.  He traces the inscription in the weathered stone with a long thin finger, the nail cracked and broken. His eyes are clear and focused as he speaks. “I can’t end up like mum; blinking out of existence, gone as if I never was. I won’t choose that fate.” He stands with difficulty; a smile lingers. “If you’re honest, you don’t want that either.”

“Don’t leave me, Mikhail. You’re all I have left.”

“If I stay, it won’t be for long. There’s nothing they can do. Don’t deny me the dignity of choice,” he places a finger to my lips. “There’ll come a time when you’ll need this as well.”

“Never,” I push his hand away, desperate to make him understand, but he no longer listens.

I try to argue, to cajole, even bully, but his mind is made up. In the end, I have no choice but to kiss him upon the cheek and let him go. Mikhail walks out to the hills without a backwards glance; he disappears into shadow and is gone. I am alone.

Three nights later the border patrol informs me Mikhail was seen digging in the pits of Harmony Hill. My brother has got his wish.  Does the thing that wears Mikhail’s face understand that? Do the memories of the man he was remain? Or is he a savage beast: immortal, immoral and uncaring?

The bus is coming. I can hear its engine; feel the vibration through the soft earth. The number 46 glows pink neon in the half–light. Up close I see its dented steel plating, the barrels of machine guns though the roof, the faded cross of Christ painted upon its side. Red stains that might be blood mar its surface. It rolls to a stop, its engine a deep murmur and the doors creak open. A priest in armour regards me, his face lost behind a dark visor.

“A new life waits,” he states mechanically. “You’ll work the caverns, it won’t be easy, but if you survive, you’ll be rewarded.”

I look down the bus at its passengers: men mostly, young boys desperate to get away or old men escaping the inevitable. They seem alone, lost in their troubles.

“Are they all like that?”

He grunts as if he’s heard it all before. “Son, they’re breathing. Isn’t that enough?”

I look away to the horizon; the sun is now a small slice of brilliant orange. “I heard they dig on Harmony Hill. Together in groups. That they talk and it isn’t all bad.”

The priest sighs. “Nothing living on that Hill. Or rather, nothing that has a right to life anymore. You’d best forget it. It isn’t good to think about them.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Take a seat, there’s a long way to go. It’s near dark and we can expect trouble before it’s over.”

I hesitate and catch the glance of a passenger. His eyes are pools of unfettered horror, his face a dark smudge. I wonder what he’s running from. Is it the same as me?  Would I always be running?

“No. I’ve changed my mind,” I step away from the bus, aware the machine guns rotate to fix upon me.

“You’ll never make the compound wall before nightfall. They’ll find you,” the priest explains with a weary tone, as if he’s said the same thing a hundred times before.

“I know.”

“Let him go,” the priest shakes his head, “he’s no good to anyone, he wouldn’t last a day in the caverns anyhow.” The doors slam shut and the bus rolls away into the dark.

It’s night now. I wonder if I’ll find Mikhail on Harmony Hill or whether they’ll find me and I’ll serve another purpose. A breeze stirs the sand and I hear laughter, high pitched and child like. In the end I don’t have to wait long. Mikhail stands by my side, his cold hands in mine and I am no longer alone.

http://themiskatonicarchive.com/lovecraftian/steampunk/exhibits/eliza-gauger/

Say, Hi, David.

If you missed it the first time, this is Peter Weyland at TED 2023, and if you indulge him he would like to change the world.

This is the trailer.

And this is the extended, far better, trailer. Enjoy!

Official Synopsis:

Ridley Scott, director of ‘Alien’ and ‘Blade Runner,’ returns to the genre he helped define. With PROMETHEUS, he creates a groundbreaking mythology, in which a team of explorers discover a clue to the origins of mankind on Earth, leading them on a thrilling journey to the darkest corners of the universe. There, they must fight a terrifying battle to save the future of the human race.

Prometheus will be released on June 1st