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    S, F & H
    S, F & H
    S, F & H
    Ebook125 pages1 hour

    S, F & H

    By Harvey Stanbrough

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    About this ebook

    This collection of ten short stories spans science fiction and science fantasy with a dash of horror tossed in for good luck.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStoneThread Publishing
    Release dateSep 20, 2016
    ISBN9781370337231
    S, F & H
    Author

    Harvey Stanbrough

    Harvey Stanbrough is an award-winning writer and poet. He’s fond of saying he was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. After 21 years in the US Marine Corps, he managed to sneak up on a BA degree at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales in 1996. Because he is unable to do otherwise, he splits his writing personality among four personas: Gervasio Arrancado writes magic realism; Nicolas Z “Nick” Porter writes spare, descriptive, Hemingway-style fiction; and Eric Stringer writes the fiction of an unapologetic neurotic. Harvey writes whatever they leave to him. You can see their full bios at HEStanbrough.com.

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      Book preview

      S, F & H - Harvey Stanbrough

      S, F & H

      Harvey Stanbrough

      the Smashwords Edition of

      a short story collection from StoneThread Publishing

      To give the reader more of a sample, I’ve moved the front matter to the end.

      Full Contents

      How It Feels to Be Water

      The target was a rebel headquarters, a three-story rock house set back fifty meters from the edge of a bluff that towered a good six hundred meters above a rocky shoreline. Electromagnetic interference had precluded the surveillance and targeting of the house, but it hadn’t precluded the insertion of Captain Jim Schofield and a two-man team.

      A Reardon plane set them down in the vicinity, pointed them in the right direction, and promised to see them in a day or two. During the almost twelve kilometer walk to the target they set up a string of communications relays. On the way in, it kept them moving toward the center of the blackout zone. Later it would serve to relay messages to and from the base.

      After a long night of moving through woods and sometimes heavy foliage in their fire-proof Frizalone envirosuits, they located the house. Schofield deployed his men and they settled into surveillance mode.

      The day was grey, overcast and with a slight drizzle. Despite the drab background, they had spotted zero activity at the house.

      Late in the afternoon, Schofield himself transmitted that message back to base. Then he awaited a response.

      It came only a few minutes later. Close it before nightfall. Reardon on the bluff, 1820 your local.

      The Reardon plane would hover into place on the bluff about ten minutes after darkness fell.

      Schofield and his men entered the building just before sunset. Night would settle a little less than a half-hour later.

      The house was exactly like the mockup where they had rehearsed a dozen times. Well, except for the hidden basements inside the house and the deep chasms outside.

      The brass thought the basements must be there, but they hadn’t been verified until today. And they were loaded with stolen munitions. Taking down this house would set the rebels back at least a year.

      The chasms were a different matter. Schofield had spotted them during their initial surveillance. One led from the east side of the house to the edge of the cliff. The other arced west-southwest away from the west side of the house to the south edge of the same cliff. It was as if the house was a massive staple that was holding the bluff to the interior land mass.

      Schofield, Sims Rodan and Ron Tresper moved expertly through the house. Per Schofield’s instruction, they set the charges for 1819 local time. They would see the place go up, then get on the Reardon and get the hell out of there. With any luck, the crew of the Reardon would be able to record the initial destruction of the headquarters.

      When they were finished, they gathered south of the house on the bluff to wait for retrieval. They took off their helmets, and were grinning and chatting as they enjoyed the cool breeze.

      But the rendezvous time came and went. The Reardon plane didn’t show.

      The initial charges caused the ledge to rumble beneath them. A moment after that, the whole mountain seemed to rock under the secondary charges. Soon heat and fumes began radiating from the house.

      Schofield looked at Rodan and Tresper. Okay, helmets. And Sims, would you mind? Signal the base every twenty seconds or so. Find out what’s going on. He put on his own combination mask and helmet and secured it with a quarter-turn to the right.

      When Rodan had secured his helmet, he used his chin to key his mic. There was a click and a slight buzz. Got it, Cap. Every twenty seconds.

      Schofield nodded. Good. He gestured with his arms for the others to crouch. Probably the Reardon was just a little late. They might as well be comfortable.

      They waited.

      Sims continued to signal the base every twenty seconds. One time he caught what he thought might be the edge of a response, and raised his hand to signal the captain. Then he lowered his hand and shook his head. Click. Buzz. Only static, Cap. I’ll keep trying.

      Almost five minutes later, with darkness descending, Schofield moved his chin to open his mic. Okay. Sims, tell them we’re going back through the house. We’ll be on the north side in the woods somewhere. Oh, and set that to repeat. Just in case.

      Click. Buzz. Got it, Cap.

      Schofield nodded. Well, let’s go. He stood.

      Click. Something dragged a nail across a rock. Static from Tresper’s mic. You sure, Cap? We’re far enough from the house here that—

      Schofield shook his head and keyed his mic. That one basement room, the one on the north side— He took a breath. If that one goes big, this whole bluff could drop off. He took another breath. I’d rather be in the woods watching than over here riding it down.

      Click. Scratch. Tresper laughed. Deal. That’s why you make the big bucks.

      Smoke already was rolling skyward through the skeleton of the roof in thick, angry black and grey clouds. In no more than a couple of hours, rebel forces would arrive to search the remains. They would be disappointed. The entire building and everything in it would be burned or melted and fused.

      But everything in it wasn’t supposed to include the firemen. Finding them would be a bonus for the rebels.

      And that’s exactly what would happen if the Reardon plane didn’t show up soon.

      * * *

      The fire raged all around the three men. Schofield was in the lead, followed by Sims and then Ron Tresper.

      In a guttural, eager, eardrum shattering wind, hot dark reds flickered and licked among scalding yellows and whirling spirals of grey smoke. Knots in wooden beams randomly exploded in hissing, sizzling pops, accompanied by the screech and moan of expanding metal. The cacophony echoed off itself, reverberating even through the mask and ear buds of Schofield’s envirosuit.

      He scrutinized the scene, keeping the panic down. Maybe Tresper was right. Maybe they should have chanced staying outside. But he was convinced the same chasms that kept them from moving around the west or east side of the house to the relative safety of the woods would release the massive rock on which the house was sitting to the river below.

      He scanned slowly, left to right, searching for a way out. The door he had seen earlier, while he was setting charges. It should lay ahead, slightly to the right. Shouldn’t it? But the interior walls were gone or skeletal. It skewed the perspective.

      There were three broad rooms— No, four. Four broad rooms and a hallway between where they had come in and the nearest exit on the north side of the house. And with all the smoke he probably wouldn’t find the doorway until he stumbled through it. At least they were crossing the width of the house instead of the length.

      Maybe he looked too fast. There was always a way out. The smoke would show the way. There was always one path that was less undesirable than the others. Look again.

      His right arm twitched, wanting to reach up to wipe the sweat tickling his brow. But his brow was behind the mask.

      Even there, trapped behind his mask, water just flowed in its simplicity.

      On their way to the mission, they flew over a waterfall. It cascaded from a river into a pool some three hundred meters below.

      Sims tapped on the window of the plane to get his attention. Then he gestured toward the waterfall. Check it out, Cap. We know fire inside and out. If flows too, but it’s frantic, always working against itself. He glanced out the window again. More quietly, he said, Maybe that’s why it’s so loud. Like it’s always in conflict.

      Then he turned back to his captain. Wonder how it would feel to be water? You know, with the whole thing happy and calm, everything flowing in the same direction. He glanced through the window again. Even falling a thousand feet, it looks calm. Even the roar at the bottom is calm I’ll bet.

      Schofield immediately thought of the flash flood he had witnessed as a boy. How violent it was, crashing along, boulders and cars and his younger brother caught up in the flow. How violent and how hateful. But he kept that to himself. You’re probably right.

      Tresper had maintained silence, but he watched the waterfall even longer than Rodan did.

      The noise certainly wasn’t calm here. It was deafening. Maybe there was something to Sims’s ramblings. And the heat— The heat was so intense, without the suit they wouldn’t even burn. They would vaporize.

      Panic pulsed at the base of his spine, began to edge up.

      To push it down, he thought of his men. Jim

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