SCIENCE FICTION Art Posters

"With a deep “grinding” noise, the heavy granite top of the crypt was twisting open!  An ice-cold blue light shone up from inside the looming rectangle, flooding upward around the still-twisting lid!  'He’s awakening!' Joan exclaimed, horrified to be helpless, at the monster’s whim, here a billion years in the future!  Twisted now at right angles---sitting side-wise at the top of the sarcophagus, it’s ends sticking out over the sides of the huge coffin---the heavy lid stopped moving.  All was silent, save the constant, distant 'THRUM THRUM THRUM'...as bathed in the intense blue light, a figure slowly climbed up out of the coffin to imperiously stand atop the twisted lid, head held high, slowly looking around.  It was Dracula.  His long, straight hair was a gleaming white.  His full beard and mustache were also a fine, metallic silver.  'Oh no...not again,' Joan whimpered, as his unblinking, cold eyes focused themselves on her..."

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In this fast-paced sequel to Real Dracula, 311 pages in length, the consequences of Dracula's actions play out, threatening the complete extinction of the human species.  The only way this can possibly be prevented is for the few remaining humans to somehow change history---both in the future and in the past!  

To this end, a small band of humans leaps one billion years into the future, while another travels to the 19th Century.  In Elizabethan England, the second team finds and enlists the help of Bram Stoker, the author of the original Dracula book.  In the distant future, the first team encounters a star-faring civilization of evolved, intelligent insects, who are not at all happy to have their ages-long presence on earth jeopardized.  

In both situations, the "to be" and the "was" Dracula confront the human time-travelers, intent on their destruction.  To Dracula, the humans are just annoying ants---pesky creatures to be savagely swatted away.  Dracula seems beyond human thought, beyond human achievements, beyond humanity's puny power, and beyond intentional evil---the ultimate, irrevocable, inescapable "grim reaper."  

Yet one human trait seems to keep popping up, continuing to endanger Dracula's implacable purpose: unconditional love of a mother for her child.  [suggested viewing restriction:  "R"--young people under 17 requiring parental approval to read this book.]  

See below for SAMPLE.

Joan Halloway slowly walked towards the high, steel gate.  It hurt to walk.  Her body felt so heavy, awkward...It was early morning, and the omnipresent crowds of the night were gone.

Only a few people were in line in front of her, waiting to get in.

“Name, please?”

She looked down at a thin, smiling woman sitting behind an old, cracked plastic desk.

“Joan...Hall...”

“Ms. Hall.  Nice to have you at the services this morning.  Is this your first time with us?”

“Yes.”

“Go straight ahead to the cafeteria building.  Please have some breakfast.  The Bible classes don’t start tell 10:00, so you have plenty of time to eat.  Also, you might stop by the medical tent in the courtyard.”

“Medical?”

“Have you had any recent prenatal care?  It looks like you’re almost due.”        

Joan looked down at her bulging stomach. No, of course she was not due!   The baby wouldn't come for months.  She was just getting fat, was all.  

Eating too much cockroach-covered garbage...uggghhh.

In fact, that might be what drew her to the William Clinton High School this Sunday morning, so early.  She’d heard other street people talking about the good food that these “primitives” provided to those willing to sit through their boring religious rituals.  And she found that she did indeed have a yearning for some bacon and eggs, some pancakes, maybe even a pickle.

Her mouth watered...

“Thanks, I will have a bit to eat,” she nodded to the nice lady and moved on.

Waddling slowly after the line of people in front of her, she walked across the concrete towards the cafeteria.  It was easy to tell who worked here---all bright and cheerful types.  Simple clothes, but clean and neat.  The visiting street people, like her, were sullen, quiet, withdrawn---dressed in rags or bizarre styles, and stunk!  Often, they wore wigs---such that her own green hairdo (also a wig) was not too bizarre.  Just gaudy.  Come from the party at the end of the world---looking for a little rest, a bit of peace, a hot meal.  Just like all the rest.

“Good morning, Mother,” a cheerful cafeteria worker greeted her, handing her a tray.

“Morning,” she muttered, keeping in line.  The place was beginning to fill up.  Several hundred could fit into the room.  The roof was pierced, maybe by bombs.  Weak, morning sunlight fell through in shafts.  But most of the people huddled in dark shadows, avoiding the bright beams falling from the ceiling---too revealing.  After receiving her own generous portions she went to one the very darkest bench, pushing her way onto it, hunched over.        

The food was terrible.  Not the bacon and eggs she remembered from what seemed ages ago...not in the least.  Just an oatmeal type mush, some limp pancakes, and a weak fruit drink.  But it was a change from her normal fair of rotting garbage.  The oatmeal tasted rancid, as if it were long-stored emergency rations.  But with a little sugar, it wasn't too bad.

“Enjoying your meal?”

Joan looked up into the face of a chubby, short, dark-skinned lady.  The lady had large brown eyes that seemed to bore into Joan’s head.

“Who are you?” Joan asked, wary.

“I’m Sister Nair, Ms. Hall.  One of our Greeters at the gate noted that you are heavy with child.  I just wanted to make sure you knew about our medical services.  We’re particularly concerned with our coming generation during this time of crisis.”        

Joan looked down at her bulging stomach that barely fit beneath the surface of the wood table.  “I’m fine,” she answered, rubbing her belly with her free hand, continuing to eat with the other.  “Mommy will take care of Baby," she said, hardly aware of the words that tumbled out.  "Mommy will protect her little baby.”        

“Well...of course you will.  We just want to be of service, if we can.”        

“I’m fine!”

“Well, if you need any...say, have we met before?”

Halloway ducked her head lower, letting the green hair of the wig fall down over her eyes.  “I don’t think so.”        

“Hmmm.  Well---”        

“Go away!  Just leave me alone!”        

The chubby woman looked startled at the response, frowned, then nodded, smiling gently.        

“As you wish, Mother,” she answered Joan.  “The Bible studies are starting soon, though.  Please don’t miss them!”        

Then the lady had moved on to others, bending down, patting them on their shoulders, visiting with them, checking on them.

Why would that chubby lady think she knew Joan?  Halloway could not remember having seen her before---though she did look a bit familiar---but then again, it was getting hard to remember anything before the streets...

“Small group discussions, everyone!  Ten minutes!” another person yelled out from the end of the hall.        

Joan was amazed that time had passed so quickly.  Her world was out of control.  Things happened in starts and fits, dragging her along.  She was being moved by forces she could not identify, propelled helplessly into the future!  Maybe she should just duck out...

She saw that others, with the same idea, were being turned back by cheerful, but well-armed guards!  “No lunch without Church!” they said with a smile while brandishing weapons.  Christ!  These ‘primitives’ were tough!  Maybe she’d get a chance to slip away later...        

Out on the long football field, she sat on the ground in a group of ten, with a facilitator guiding their conversation.

She hardly heard what the young, earnest man leading the group discussion was saying---fascinated to realize that hundreds of similar groups were all circled-up on the ground.  Beyond them, a high, electrified cyclone fence separated the football grounds from the encroaching city.  Already, vast crowds were assembling out there on the streets, preparing for another day of rampage, pillage, fighting, and death.  Inside the fence, the school compound was an oasis, a piece of safety artificially cut out of the carnage of D.C.  

Joan noticed that strong, alert contingents of armed guards patrolled the fence and strolled among the seated throng.  Clearly, these were not simple, naive religious fanatics.  The compound was well organized, well armed, and well guarded.        

“And where do your hopes center, Mother?”

Surprised, Joan focused on her group’s facilitator.  He had asked her a question.        

“Huh?”        

“We’re sharing where our hearts are centered.  Perhaps---you think of your child?”        

The fools.  Just because she was getting fat, they assumed she was ready to hatch a drooling, slobberingly-sweet baby.  Well, that was a long way off.  But she might as well humor them.        

“Yes, that’s right.  I live to protect my child.  Mommy will protect Baby!” she sarcastically spat at them, laughing inside but puzzled at the strange words that seemed to jump unbidden out of her mouth...

“Uh, yes...a worthy goal, Mother.  You heart indeed is well-centered.”        

She looked at the scarred, dirty faces in her circle, the tired eyes, the hopeless dejection and fear---and saw a twinkling, a stirring.  Somehow, the clever group leader had indeed touched them.  Perhaps by allowing them to verbalize their deepest desires.  Indeed, it did seem right what Joan had said.  It rang true that the only thing that mattered now was her future child.  Huh!  What did it mean??

If that were true, then why did she roam the cruel, savage streets of D.C.?  Why did she do terrible deeds, hide in garbage, and eat filth?

Something strange was indeed happening to her.  Something far beyond her control.

She felt fear, confusion...        

Almost, she blurted out her plight---then stopped.  The group was disbanding.  Now they were walking to scattered flats piled high with ancient, scarred plastic chairs, each person taking one, lining up in long, spontaneous rows.  Hundreds of rows.  Perhaps thousands of people.  All facing a raised podium.  The only thing on the podium was a single microphone stand---behind which an old, white-haired man stood, leading the congregation in a hymn.        

Joan squinted at the back of the chair in front of her.  It was a hymnslab, on the faded surface of which, in big block letters, words to a song were slowly scrolling across.

And all around her, the words rang out, croaked off-key, belted-out, whispered, shouted...        

The Old Rugged Cross...        

So despised by the world...

The emblem of suffering and shame...        

Everyone seemed to know the words and the melody.  Perhaps it was a favorite hymn of these Primitives.  Indeed, Joan had heard the song sometime in the past.  She’d been raised in a family that only attended large, cathedral-like services at Christmas and Easter, out of a feeling of obligation.  Religion was something that other people did.  Joan had never had time to give it much thought.

Yet she felt strangely, oddly moved.  In the chilly D.C. morning, with smoke from smoldering fires heavy in the air, with the distant sound of gunfire, the singing took on a life of its own.  And it was far different from the Clang concerts where the NOISE pounded into you.  And, also, it was quite distinct and different from the impressive performances she recollected in the Cathedral when she’d been forced to attend as a child.

Here there was no chorus, no piano, no organ.  Only the war-torn mass of savaged humanity, singing off-key, together, the words rolling across the football field in waves---a ragged affirmation of faith, a defiant call to the broken, bleeding city beyond the protecting cyclone fence.  She felt tears rolling down her cheeks.  The song touched her in a way she could never have predicted.  It resonated with her condition---so dirty, petty, worthless.        

Others in the crowd around her were also crying.  Some lifted up fat/scrawny/trembling/defiant arms toward the sky.        Involuntarily, she looked up.        

A few fluffy white clouds drifted across a deep blue sky.  The morning sun was beginning to warm up her neck and back.  It was actually quite beautiful.

In that old rugged cross...

Stained with blood so divine...        

A wondrous beauty I see...        

She lifted up her own voice, for the first time singing the words herself, joining in the chorus.        

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross...        

Till my trophies at last I lay down...        

I will cling to the old rugged cross...        

And exchange it some day for a crown.        

But the welcome, warming sunlight was dimming.  A storm was rolling in.  Bewildered, Joan looked up again to see dark clouds half-covering the sky.  Now a cold wind was blowing at her back.

She looked back down and was vaguely puzzled until she realized that another piece of time had passed without her awareness.  A short, chubby man in a simple suit was standing on the platform, talking into the microphone.  He spoke with a sing-song, Indian accent.  His skin was dark, his head quite bald.

Startled, she realized that she knew the man.

It was Om Nair, one of the team of scientists at the secret military base where they’d tried to unravel Dracula’s biochemical, physical, and genetic secrets.  And that kind lady in the cafeteria was his wife!  Now Halloway remembered.  Joan had met Om’s wife, chatted briefly with her, at a reception at the Pentagon---how long ago?---an eternity ago.  Major Nair---physician and anesthesiologist.  It was him that had kept Dracula sedated, trapped, supposedly safely caged as a docile lab specimen.  But Dracula had outwitted Nair and all the rest.  Dracula had brought the entire United States to its knees...        

Yet Nair, apparently, was himself unbowed.  He was speaking in a loud, passionate voice.

“I am telling you to please not be listening to me!” he appealed, holding his left hand up above his head.  “Listen to the great words from the Book of all books!  Listen to the words of God!”        

In his right hand he held, craddled, an opened, black-bound book.

She shuddered, started to stand and try to sneak out.  But somehow she could not.  A powerful weight seemed to be pressing down on her, keeping her trapped in her seat.        

Om looked down at the large black book, and began to read...        

“‘And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood;

And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casts her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind.

And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places.

And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains;  And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sits on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb:        

For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?’ Revelation 6:12-17.”        

He paused, looking out across the sea of thousands of faces.        

“My friends, I am so sad to be saying it---that day is now.”

Joan could hardly breath from the weight that pressed down on her. She felt dizzy.        

“My dear friends!  Where is it you can go to hide?  Can you hide in hash?  Can you hide in alcohol?  Can you hide in sex?  Can you hide in thievery and murder?  Let your eyes be looking around you!  Where is it that you can hide?  Can you hide in a building?  Can you hide underground?  When you are seeing the world cracking open and the stars falling down, where can you hide?”

Joan was transfixed, unable to escape the logic of his words.  Her life was an open book.  She stood naked and revealed to all the Universe.

“I am reading more to you!  Please be listening!  I know the words are painful!  But herein lies your salvation!  Listen!”        He looked back down at his book.        

Behind her, Joan heard distant thunder.  Lightning was zapping the city, moving closer...she shivered, clutching her arms together over her chest.

“‘And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit.  

And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit.        

And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth: and unto them was given power, as the scorpions of the earth have power.        

And it was commanded them that they should not hurt the grass of the earth, neither any green thing, neither any tree; but only those men which have not the seal of God in their foreheads.  

And to them it was given that they should not kill them, but that they should be tormented...’ Revelation 9:1-5.”

“Are you hearing these words, my friends!  Do you hear them!??”

Indeed, Joan heard them.  They sent waves of revulsion and fear through her.

“Are you being tormented!??  Does the smoke of this burning city rise up as from a great furnace?  Are your homes over-run with vermin!??”

“Preach on, Preacher!” someone yelled.        

Joan felt again the cockroaches each night crawling over her in the garbage she hid under.  All their little, twitching legs...        

“And in verse six!...  

‘And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.’  

Are we not now cursed with the undead!?  Do not men seek to escape through death, only to be returned as raving monsters!??”        

A great moan went up from the crowd.  

“If death itself is denied us, where can you escape!??  Where can you hide!!!??”

“Save us!  Help us!” a sobbing man at Joan’s side cried-out.

“Listen my friends!  Listen to the words!”  Om’s voice rang-out from the surrounding loudspeakers.  He looked down at the book again.  “Verse eleven---

‘And they had a king over them, which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in the Greek tongue has his name Apollyon.’  

Who is this king?  Who is this angel of the bottomless pit?  Who is it who’s name is on the tongues of the mobs which seek to destroy and defile this city and even, yes, you!?”

“Amen!  Amen!  Preach on, brother!” shouts rang out from the crowd.

“And what shall happen to those with the courage to stand against this evil?  Do you know?  Are we told in the Great Words of the Scriptures?  Yes we are!  Please be listening to Revelations 11:7-9.”        

The crowd was hushed, expectant.

“‘And when they shall have finished their testimony, the beast that ascended out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them.

And their dead bodies shall lie in the street of the great city, which spiritually is called Sodom and Egypt, where also our Lord was crucified.

And they of the people and kindreds and tongues and nations shall see their dead bodies three days and a half, and shall not allow their dead bodies to be put in graves.’”        

“Is this a time of death?  Are the righteous murdered?  Are good, ordinary folks like you subjected to murderous mobs and lawless animals!?”        

“YES...YES...YES...” rolled back from the throng.        

“Then listen to verse eleven!”

Again the crowd quieted.  Joan was fascinated to see that Om, such a quiet, gentle, soft-spoken physician---could be such a dynamic speaker!  Yet she was also repulsed, because his power came from his sincerity.  This group of un-robed, un-ornamented, un-adorned believers---these “primitives,” without pageantry or spectacle, lacking even an organ or piano, making music by only verbal sound---their words had the ring of truth.

And it scared her down to her bones...

“‘And after three days and an half the Spirit of life from God entered into them, and they stood upon their feet; and great fear fell upon them which saw them.”        

Om raised the book high above his head, looking up at the foreboding clouds above.  “The time is now, my friends!  Satan strides the earth!  The dead walk amongst us!  For the sins we have committed in and upon this world, Almighty God has allowed these things to happen!  You can not hide!  The end of the world is here!  Repent!  Repent, my friends!  Before it’s too late!  For the sake of your immortal soul, repent and be baptized!”

“REPENT...REPENT...REPENT...” roared-out from the crowd.

Om was saying more, preaching passionately on---speaking of the beautiful Lamb upon the Throne, the Great Redeemer who would conquer the Beast.  The One in which all could hide, if they’d only have faith---belief strong enough that they’d give their life to Him, come forward and be baptized into his death, that they might rise with him from the ashes of their old existence to New Life!

But Joan did not pay any more attention his words.  She was already on her feet, slowly waddling away down the isle, back towards the long cyclone fence, back to the gate, past a distracted guard caught up in the sermon---and out into the safety of the City.

The cockroaches were calling her home...

REAL DRACULA Art Posters

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