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    Bedlam Battle: An Omnibus of the One Thousand Series
    Bedlam Battle: An Omnibus of the One Thousand Series
    Bedlam Battle: An Omnibus of the One Thousand Series
    Ebook382 pages5 hours

    Bedlam Battle: An Omnibus of the One Thousand Series

    By John Walters

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    About this ebook

    Four science fiction thrillers in one volume

    The One Thousand:  Book 1

    It is the late 1960s... 

    What better place than prison to recruit psychopathic killers?  So thinks Benny, possessed by a thousand alien entities which he intends to share around with the other inmates before unleashing hell on Earth in the form of a murderous rampage.  Only William Stafford, a Vietnam War veteran unjustly convicted of killing a girlfriend, can stop him.  But to do so he has to break back into the prison he has just escaped from...

    The One Thousand:  Book 2:  Team of Seven

    A team composed of countercultural humans and benevolent aliens based out of Haight/Ashbury hunt for murderous, alien-possessed convicts with enhanced powers who have escaped from prison.  They discover that this fellowship of psychopaths is preparing an elaborate party for hippies and other street people in a remote mansion built to simulate a Medieval castle, and that they are planning to slaughter everyone who attends.  Now the seven are faced with the task of locating the mansion and stopping the killers...

    The One Thousand:  Book 3:  Black Magic Bus

    To escape pursuit, the fellowship of psychopaths has fled to Europe.  In the mountains of Italy they customize a psychedelically-colored tour bus, intending not only to pick up and murder unwary young travelers, but deliver a cargo of lethal pathogens to a major city in the East.  Only the Team of Seven composed of enhanced humans and benevolent aliens can find and stop them...

    The One Thousand: Book 4: Deconstructing the Nightmare

    Their hunt for a group of alien-possessed psychopaths intent on igniting a rampage of mass murder leads the Team of Seven to a prison in Turkey, war-ravaged Vietnam, a luxurious nuclear fallout shelter, and finally to direct confrontation with their enemies.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAstaria Books
    Release dateSep 4, 2016
    ISBN9781536581379
    Bedlam Battle: An Omnibus of the One Thousand Series
    Author

    John Walters

    John Walters recently returned to the United States after thirty-five years abroad. He lives in Seattle, Washington. He attended the 1973 Clarion West science fiction writing workshop and is a member of Science Fiction Writers of America. He writes mainstream fiction, science fiction and fantasy, and memoirs of his wanderings around the world.

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      Book preview

      Bedlam Battle - John Walters

      Bedlam Battle: An Omnibus of the One Thousand Series

      Contents

      Book One: The One Thousand

      Book Two: Team of Seven

      Book Three: Black Magic Bus

      Book Four: Deconstructing the Nightmare

      End Notes

      The One Thousand

      By

      John Walters

      Published by Astaria Books

      Copyright 2012 by John Walters

      All rights reserved.  No portion may be copied, other than brief passages for review purposes, without permission of the author.

      This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to actual persons places or events - except those in the public domain - is purely coincidental.

      The One Thousand: Book One

      Contents

      I:  In Which Benny Finds Something Nasty

      II:  In Which William Stafford Gets Busted

      III:  In Which William Stafford Enters Hell

      IV:  In Which Will Gets Empowered and Decides to Kick Some Ass

      V:  In Which Will and Benny Have a Showdown

      The One Thousand

      I:  In Which Benny Finds Something Nasty

      Rust-red late afternoon light suffused the ravine as Benny climbed down the rough trail.

      From the two-lane highway he had been plodding along he had seen a glint of metal.  Curiosity drew him to the piece of scrap, and then he caught a glimpse of the wreckage below.

      The possibility of unexpected plunder overcame his hunger and thirst; he scrabbled quickly to the bottom as if trying to outrace opponents intent on beating him to the treasure.

      Far above, a vulture circled.

      The point of impact was just ahead.  It appeared that whatever had crashed had skid briefly, then bounced up again and shattered against one granite wall and then the other.  Metallic pieces large and small littered the bases of the walls, but the main part of the debris was out of sight beyond a narrow defile.

      It must have been a small plane, Benny decided.  Maybe even a Lear Jet.  Owners of private aircraft were rich; there might be something worth salvaging after all.

      It didn't occur to Benny to be concerned about possible survivors.  That wasn't his way.  He hoped the passengers were all dead; it would avoid complications.  Whatever loot he found was his now, he figured, and he would protect his interests however he had to.

      At the cleft between the rock walls he paused.

      He heard something like flies around a carcass. 

      But oddly enough, there was no stench.  Usually in this heat you could smell the putrefying flesh long before you heard the flies.

      In Benny's opinion, the wreck was old.  He had been walking along the highway for a long time and had not seen the plane come down, nor were there any flames or smoke.

      In the narrow draw was some sort of fuselage, twisted and split open, but it didn't look like the fuselage of a plane.  There was no evidence of the remains of the wings, and it had no top or bottom but was cylindrical, without windows.

      The buzzing became louder.  Reflexively Benny swatted at his face, but looking around he could see no evidence of the flies he heard.

      Invisible flies?

      The first hint of foreboding struck Benny.  Still, greed caused him to press onward.

      There were no corpses or remains thereof anywhere, and the only smell was that of the hot dry rock and the bitter weeds growing in its cracks.

      Wires, circuits, and pieces of instruments spilled out of the broken fuselage like guts out of a shattered body.  The hole was big enough for Benny to crawl through.  Jagged spikes of metal cut his flesh like fangs.  Inside, though, he could find nothing worth scavenging.  In his anger and disappointment he began spewing forth expletives.

      But then he shut up.

      Those flies, or whatever they were, had followed him inside.  Their hum was so loud as to be almost deafening.  But instead of lighting on his skin as flies usually did, causing a tickling sensation, they went inside his head somehow.  It was sort of like being on acid with a group of people, and when you start peaking all the defenses break down and you feel you are somehow becoming a part of each other.  When that had happened the first time to Benny he had felt he was being violated and had lashed out with his switchblade; he'd cut three people and would have kept going if they had not all risen up and beat the crap out of him and tossed him out onto the roadside next to a set of dumpsters.  But here there was no one to cut.  Those fly things went right into his head and started playing around in there like it was party time.  He lay back in that machine, whatever it was, and let them do what they wanted, because the sensation was not unpleasant at all.  It was as if they were checking him out, calling up memories one by one and inspecting them.  Whatever they looked at became illuminated, and he saw it as clearly as they did.  He saw his father come home drunk and slap his mother around until she was black and blue and bloody; he saw himself compensate by bullying classmates, finally being expelled from school when he put one of them in the hospital.  He saw the petty thievery and then the armed robberies, culminating in the botched liquor store job where he had got caught and sent for three-to-five.  Those fly things took particular interest in his prison experience for some reason.  It had been rough and he'd had to fight for survival, and sometimes he'd won and sometimes he'd lost.  He'd been roughed up and even raped but he had never given in and become anyone's bitch.  He'd seen the virtue of being the predator and not the prey and had joined one of the largest gangs and had even maneuvered himself into a position of responsibility.  Recently released on parole, he'd gotten into a bar fight and had had to leave town fast.

      Once the memories got up to date, there was a pause.

      He almost thought those flies were trying to tell him something.  But how do you communicate with a swarm of flies?  There were a lot of them, and how could he possibly differentiate one voice from another?

      At that thought they all quieted down; the buzzing stopped.

      It was as if they were waiting for him to do something.

      And he remembered something a priest had told him once long ago; it must have been in his childhood because that was the only time he had ever set foot in a church or talked to priests.  That priest had called the Devil the Lord of the Flies.

      That was it; that was what he had been trying to remember.

      The Lord of the Flies.

      But what did that have to do with him?  He wasn't the Devil.

      Then he realized what was really happening.  He was being recruited.  And to accept the commission he had to let that swarm of flies in.  He had to listen to them and co-operate with them.  In return, he would become powerful - more powerful than he could imagine.  He would become a leader of men, not a loser like he was now.  People would obey him, because if they didn't he would be ruthless in punishing them.

      Yes, thought Benny.  Yes, yes.  I want this.  I want this power.  Come on in.

      And they did.  They came in through the gaps ripped in his skin when he had entered the fuselage.  They flowed in through his bloodstream and made themselves at home.

      II:  In Which William Stafford Gets Busted

      He'd wanted to catch the Grateful Dead at the Filmore but it hadn't worked out; somehow he'd gotten the date wrong or something, and so he ended up at a party of a friend of a friend, sipping white wine and toking on the occasional joint that passed, watching the people mix and mingle, wondering if he should take off back to the one room dump he rented in the Haight and crash out.  He wasn't really so tired though, so he hung on hoping something interesting would happen.

      Then Paula walked in, with her long dishwater-blonde hair and flared faded torn blue jeans and rainbow-colored fleece poncho under sleeveless parka.  She was obviously high but in a pleasant party way; she danced, almost floated, from one group to the next, listening, adding a comment or two, laughing, and moving on, as if she were too ethereal for anything to hold her down for long.

      Will was interested almost immediately but held back.  He had a theory that if you moved too fast you would be tagged as overanxious and hard-up; he figured all good things that were meant to would come to he who waits.

      And sure enough, once Paula had traversed the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the hallway, and the open bedroom (the other was closed for some sort of intimate activity) she got around to confronting him.

      She smiled.

      He smiled back.

      She sat on the arm of his chair, took his cigarette out of his hand, breathed in smoke, and exhaled in a long thick cloud.  So who are you? she said.

      I'm Will.

      I'm Paula.

      I know.  I've seen you around.

      Have you?

      Will's cigarette had burnt down to the filter so he offered her a fresh one, which she accepted.  He was just about to light it when the front door burst open and a very blonde, very fit young man in corduroy slacks and a San Jose State letterman's jacket entered.  Obviously inebriated, he glanced about, spotted Paula, and shouted, What the hell are you doing here?  Tromping over, he demanded, And who the hell is this guy?

      Paula answered back, It's not really your business anymore, is it?

      It's always my business.  He stood there a moment, swaying slightly, then said, I need a drink, and wandered off to the kitchen.

      Ex boyfriend, Paula said.  He's a big shot on the intercollegiate swim team and a real pain in the ass.  Give me a minute; I'll be right back.  Uh - you want a drink?

      Sure.  Tequila.

      Coming up.  Wait right here.

      When she returned a few minutes later she didn't have merely a couple of shots, but decent portions in coffee mugs.

      As she settled back onto the arm of the chair she took a good snort of tequila and said, That bastard.  We haven't gone out for months but he thinks he owns me.  I don't know what got into me.  We've got nothing in common, he and I.  Not much anyway.

      Maybe it's the jacket.

      She laughed at that.  So what's your story?

      I got back from 'Nam six months ago.  Haven't got my shit together yet.

      Damn.  So you one of those killer types?

      No, I was drafted.  I was scared shitless the whole time.

      Good.  Anyone sane would be.

      Then I'm the sanest son-of-a-bitch in the room.

      She laughed again.

      Seriously, I have nightmares.  It's hard to adjust back into things.  Unless you've been there you can't know.

      Paula leaned over closer.  Listen, I hit the asshole up for some coke.  You want some?

      Okay.

      Not here.  Anyway, that idiot in the kitchen has bummed me out.  You want to split?

      Sure.  Will chugged the last of his tequila, gasped, and reached for his coat.

      Outside the night fog had rolled in.  Arm in arm they walked down the steep sidewalk, chins down, shoulders hunched, and didn't talk much until they were on the bus.  Then they got so into chatting about inanities and idle hip gossip that they almost missed her stop.  In fact, her place was only six blocks from Will's, but it was of considerably higher quality.  It was clean, for one thing, and it had two rooms:  a living room with a big bay window that overlooked the Panhandle, and a smaller bedroom.  On the bed were a multicolored patchwork quilt and a mountain of stuffed animals.

      From the fridge Paula pulled a couple of bottles of Bud, levered off the caps, and took a long pull on one.  Then she sat on the small sofa (which had a knitted gold shawl draped over the back) and on the low rectangular wood coffee table unfolded a piece of notebook paper.  Within was an impressive mound of what looked like baking sugar.  Using a playing card (the seven of diamonds, Will noted) she scraped out two portions.  Then she ripped part of a cover off an issue of Zap Comix, rolled a tube, stuck it into a nostril, and snorted.

      Wide-eyed, silent, in slow motion, she leaned back on the couch and handed Will the tube.

      Will consumed his portion in a super-snort.  Oh shit! he exclaimed.  Oh shit!  He rubbed his rapidly numbing nose and said, This shit's not coke - it's smack.

      Really? 

      Paula didn't look like she gave a damn, and Will decided he didn't either.  The couch felt like a cloud.  Side by side they sat, heads back, staring at the ceiling.  Will had been planning to make a move on Paula but decided he was too stoned and had to postpone it at least for the moment.  How long they remained motionless thinking heavenly thoughts with the room spinning around them Will wasn't sure, but at some point he passed out.

      He awakened to the sound of a fist punching flesh.  When he managed to get to his feet he discovered Mr. San Jose State swimming jock in the bedroom beating the crap out of Paula.  Her face was covered in blood and she didn't seem to be moving.

      Will lunged forward, but then tripped over something - perhaps even his own feet.  As he lay on the floor semi-conscious the jock kicked him in the head.

      When he awakened again he was still on the floor; his arms were being twisted around behind his back and handcuffs were being snapped onto his wrists.  Wait, he said.  What the...?

      He's awake, is he?  Get up, asshole.

      He was jerked roughly to his feet and shoved into the bedroom.

      Paula lay on the quilt, which was no longer brightly colored but smeared dirty red with her partly-dried blood.  One of her eyes was swollen shut and the other was bloodshot and staring.  The rest of her face was swollen too, and black, purple, and red with bruises and blood.  Blood matted her tangled hair; it spread over her clothes in dark blotches; it was scattered in spatters on the floor and the furniture.

      One of the policemen said, She's dead, you son-of-a-bitch.  That's first degree murder.  Before Will could say anything the cop rammed his nightstick into Will's solar plexus, and then as he doubled over cracked him again on the left temple.

      III:  In Which William Stafford Enters Hell

      The trial didn't last long.  Of course Will tried to explain about the jock ex-boyfriend but nobody in the courtroom took him seriously, not even his own lawyer.  After all, some of the heroin had been found as well, so he was written off as a dope-crazed vet who had assaulted a poor young innocent university student.

      The only mitigating circumstance that enabled Will to avoid capital punishment was the fact that his lawyer had played the veteran angle:  young man faithfully serves his country, snaps amidst the horrors of war, upon return is haunted by visions of death and destruction, falls into drug use and thus is not completely responsible for his actions.  As it was he got thirty-to-life, and parole wouldn't be a possibility for a good many years to come.

      So it was that William Stafford, chains on his legs and cuffs on his wrists, found himself in a bus headed for a California State penitentiary in the company of a nasty-looking assortment of nefarious individuals.

      When the bus passed through the prison gate Will half-expected to see a sign, after Dante:  Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

      And indeed he did abandon his.

      The first days were as bad as he had imagined them:  he had to strip, shower, get deloused, don prison garb, endure the taunts of the inmates, fight off rape attempts, eat the swill they called food, and work long hours in the laundry.

      One of his greatest fears had been to have an insufferable cellmate, and when he first set eyes on his, he did imagine the worst.  First of all the man was black, and he was taller and obviously stronger than Will, but the man allayed Will's fears almost immediately.  My name is Jesse, the man said.  I figure if we leave each other alone we'll be all right.  I don't care that you're white.  Just don't mess with me and I won't mess with you.  Is that clear?

      Will assured him that it was.

      So he tried to get into the routine of things.  It was still hell, but Will figured even hell was easier once you got used to it.

      There was only one thing he couldn't figure out that scared him shitless.  It wasn't the guards; he soon had the guards sussed out - some you could say a word or two to or even request something from; others you walked by with your head respectfully down, not even daring to speak.  No, the guards were a manageable hazard.

      The problem was with some of the prisoners.  Will had dealt with evil, violent men before; there had been plenty of them in the military.  But this was different.  Some prisoners had stern, emotionless expressions and hung around together, but they didn't banter back and forth like groups of prisoners usually did.  They were sober, self-confident, but quiet.  The weirdest thing was that not only the other prisoners but even the worst of the guards avoided them.  They exuded power and authority and even superiority.  From time to time, Will noticed that prisoners that had previously been normal (if any prisoner could be called normal) would suddenly change, and would be recognizable as one of the aloof ones.

      When Will asked his cellmate Jesse about them he said, You don't want to be asking about them.  You stay away from them.

      Why?

      Didn't we have an agreement to leave each other alone?  Who said you could ask me all these questions?

      Should I ask someone else?

      You stupid shit.  How crazy are you, really?  Well, crazy enough to end up here, I guess.  Look, some things you just don't want to mess with.

      So they're dangerous?

      Jesse chuckled, though without humor.  Dangerous doesn't describe them.  Deadly, is what.  No, even worse than deadly.

      How can anything be worse than deadly?

      Jesse leaned his head over from the top bunk for a moment and looked into Will's eyes.  What did I tell you about asking me questions?  This conversation is over.

      *     *     *

      A few days later Will was sorting filthy coveralls in the laundry room when two stone-faced men came to the door and called the con he was working with, a man named Pearson.

      Will knew it was none of his business and he should stay out of it, but his curiosity got the better of his good sense and he sidled over closer to the door to see if he could eavesdrop on the conversation.

      Benny wants to see you, one of the men said, on Saturday.

      Are you in? the other man said.

      In a tremulous voice, obviously terrified, Pearson stuttered, Sure, sure.  Yeah, of course I'm in.

      Good.  We'll see you then.  Don't disappoint Benny.

      No, no, of course not.  I won't.

      And the men moved off, and Will scurried back to where he was, and Pearson got back to work as if nothing had happened.

      But his hands were shaking.

      *     *     *

      Later, as he lay on his bottom bunk and Jesse lay on the top one, Will asked, Who's Benny?

      For a moment there was no answer.  Then Jesse said, I said you were a stupid shit before, but now your stupidity has gone off the charts.  You don't want to have anything to do with Benny.

      Will remained silent, hoping he would say more, and sure enough after another pause Jesse continued.  You know what Benny did?  They found Benny at a ranch house near Twentynine Palms.  He was sitting on the porch covered with blood.  He didn't try to run or anything.  Inside they found the family:  father, mother, teenage daughter, preteen son; Benny had strung up wires all around inside the house and had hung pieces of them like in a slaughter house.  I heard that the heat that discovered the scene, a sheriff and his deputy, both puked their guts out.  Benny's here now, in this prison, in solitary.  Nobody's supposed to visit him, but some say that somehow he gets out from time to time, and that he's involved with those weird ones you were asking about before.  There was another pause, and then Jesse said, No.  You don't want to have anything to do with that dude.

      Thanks, Will said.  Thanks for telling me.

      Springs squeaked as Jesse shifted his weight.  What the hell are you in here for anyway?

      Murder, said Will.  They claimed I killed a girl I picked up at a party.

      Did you?  It don't make any difference to tell me the truth now.

      No.

      I'm in for grand theft auto.  I might have got off easier but when they spotted me I sped off and led them on a chase for fourteen miles.  Twenty-seven cars got smashed up, including three police cruisers.  No one was seriously hurt, but they were plenty pissed off.

      I can imagine.

      Yeah.  Now you listen.  This is a dangerous place and you could get yourself killed.  If you hear or see anything don't talk to anyone else.  You come to me.  I've been around a while and I know some things.  You hear me?

      *     *     *

      He had heard him all right, but on Saturday just before sunset, as most of the prisoners strolled about in the yard, or lifted weights, or huddled in groups smoking and mumbling to each other, Will saw the same two men approach Pearson and lead him away, and his curiosity got the better of his paranoia.

      They led Pearson through the dark, silent carpentry shop and the interior door on the other side.  Will followed.  He watched as they traversed a long hallway with which he was unfamiliar, until they took a left at the end.  When he reached the turn, however, they were nowhere in sight.  The hall was narrower here, the walls dark with mold, the bare bulbs in the ceiling unlit.

      He heard faint footsteps, but they seemed to come from below.

      Feeling his way forward, he came to a heavy wooden door.  It was unlocked, and inside were boxes and bales thick with dust.  One set of shelves was slightly ajar, and behind it a set of stone steps spiraled downwards.  He had heard the rumors that because a century ago this building had been a military outpost as well as a jail that there were corridors below where ammunition had been stockpiled and prisoners interrogated, but he had assumed that either the rumors were myth, or that all such passages would have been long ago closed off.

      Somewhere in the darkness a faint light shone.  Still, he could barely see the steps, and he turned and crept down on all fours.  He found himself in a narrow corridor of rough concrete and stone at the end of which a miner's gas lantern burned.

      Terrified though he was, Will continued.  On either side doorways led into blackness.  When he reached the lantern, at the end of another corridor to the right he saw more light and heard low voices.

      This passageway opened up into a huge underground chamber.  Chains hung from the ceiling and the walls.  Rusting machines whose purpose Will could not determine were scattered about like shattered tanks on a battlefield.  On some of them lanterns had been placed, causing a mix of harsh light and deep shadow.

      Beyond the debris in an open space, in a rough semicircle, were about a dozen convicts.  Before them was Pearson, and facing them all was a diminutive-looking man in prison coveralls.  Though shorter than anyone else he exuded an air of authority.

      Benny?

      Will hid in darkness behind a bulk of metal and waited.

      The short man said, Carter and Ward here say that you want to join our fellowship.  Is that true?

      Pearson appeared tongue-tied.

      The man raised his voice.  I asked, is that true?

      Yes, Pearson said.  Yes, it's true.

      Are you worthy?  Are you honorable?

      I am, yes.

      We're not a social club.  We have one aim and one aim only:  to murder and destroy.  We plan to escape from here and bring down the present system through chaos.  Do you want this?

      Yeah, of course I want it.  Why not?  What has society ever done for me?

      That's right.  Are you willing to kill anyone, anytime?

      Yes.

      But will you refrain from killing until the time is right, until you are ordered to?

      Yes.

      Do you want to be one of us?

      Yes.

      Are you sure?  You want it more than anything?

      Yes, yes I do.

      Are you willing to endure pain to achieve our goal?

      Yeah, I can handle it.

      The short man nodded.

      Two of the convicts grabbed Pearson, one on each arm.  Another grabbed his head and twisted it sideways.

      The short man pulled out a switchblade, pressed it open, and cut a slash on Pearson's neck; then he cut his own palm and placed it over Pearson's wound.  To hold the struggling Pearson he put his other hand on the other side of his neck; it looked as if he were choking him.

      You still want this?  You have to want it more than anything.

      I want it; I want it.  Jesus Christ, I want it.  Let me go.

      Abruptly the short man did, as did the convicts, and Pearson slumped to the floor.  But then he got slowly to his feet, shaking his head.  He straightened, blood still trickling from the wound on his neck.  Everyone began to soberly shake his hand.

      And then suddenly, from behind, a hand covered Will's mouth; another hand grabbed his left wrist and twisted his arm behind his back until he thought it would pop out of its socket.  Whoever was behind was obviously much stronger than Will; he assumed he would be hauled in front of the crowd and the knife would then be less judiciously used on him.  Instead, he was dragged back into the corridor and turned around.

      It was Jesse, who put his finger to his lips, and motioned for Will to follow.

      At the foot of the stairs Jesse whispered, You idiot!  You son-of-a-bitch!  Come on now if you don't want to be killed.

      They didn't say another word until they were back in their cell.

      Will thought that Jesse would castigate him further, but he didn't.  Finally Will asked, Was that Benny?

      That was Benny.

      Holy shit.

      Yeah, there's some freaky stuff going on in this place.  Look, I'm not gonna warn you anymore.  You've seen for yourself.

      Okay, I admit I went where I shouldn't have.  But what were you doing there?

      "I

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