He was willing to concede that it was the end of him, Sgt. Gregory Torvald. Maybe not today, but soon. His body ached all over, his eyes itched and went fuzzy at the most inconvenient moments, and the fever made him feel detached and as if time was passing far too slowly.

It was fortunate that the shivers and coughing fits only hit him once in a while. He probably would never forget that one guy, the corpsman, who started coughing one afternoon and didn’t stop for a day, not even when the blood came up and he’d torn muscles in his back and stomach.

For a dead man he was doing better than he could expect. Heck, there were times he felt pretty much okay, like now. Not healthy, really, but not like he was going to keel over right then and there.

When Greg came around the trees and saw the gas station, he held up his hand in a fist. Four people nearby stopped in their tracks and went into crouches the same time he did.

The other three guys stared at them in confusion for a few moments. Bill and Carl hesitantly crouched down, their profiles up higher than Greg like. Ed didn’t even bother, but his knees weren’t what they once were and was still too fat to crouch anyway. Well, crouch and get back up again without help, and that was just embarrassing. Ed was in the back of the scouting party, at least, and he was a good enough shot to still be useful back there.

If there were any shooting, that was. Greg prayed that there wouldn’t be.

The place was a small country convenience store a good fifteen miles from the main highway. The grass was in need of a mow and was drying out besides. Trees clustered thickly down the slope of the hill, the air filled with the old rotten smell of a marsh. This part of Georgia usually saw more rain this time of year, but the drought was just one more shitty thing for them all to deal with.

The store was basically a cinderblock box with a gaudy red-painted awning covering the ice freezers and propane canister cage. It had two pumps out in the open and an old cracked plastic sign showing gas prices that were at least three weeks out of date. There were three vehicles in the lot, none at the pumps. The Oldsmobile had a shattered back window and a completely flat tire. The Kia and the Ford truck were not in tip-top shape but didn’t show any serious signs of damage from here.

It took Greg a few minutes to unsling his binoculars and figure out why he ordered the group to stop. Bill duck-walked up behind him, and Greg tried hard not to be distracted by the too-loud rustling of grass against the man’s jacket or the slight wheeze in his breath. The light was starting to seem too bright too, and Greg squeezed them shut for a moment, hoping this wouldn’t actually end up as a migraine.

Back to work, he told himself, and put the binoculars to his face. In a couple of moments, he saw what had tickled his paranoia in the first place and pointed to the back of the building, then passed the binoculars back to Bill. “Dogs,” he said softly to the others.

Bill grunted when he spotted the shapes in the weeds, and the horde of flies around them. “Poor fuckers. I see three?”

“I counted three,” Greg confirmed, clearing his throat at the end of the sentence. “I think no one’s alive in there. Dogs starved while chained up, there’s some splatter on the back door which says to me they turned on each other. Woulda been an awful racket.”

“Folks around here love their dogs,” Bill added. Bill always added something to every conversation. He seemed to feel it was his God-given duty. “No way they’d have even left ‘em there in this heat, they had a choice about it.”

Greg stood up, mildly surprised that he didn’t feel his knees click or any light-headedness when he did so. The others followed suit. “It’s going to be pretty dire in there. Bill, please take Carl and Leroy with you back to the caravan. Tell Jillian we can get fuel here. Don’t promise food or anything until we take a look inside.”

Bill glanced around. “I’ve seen dead bodies a time or two, Sergeant.”

It was always “Sergeant” when Bill disagreed with him. “Sarge” when he was trying to be buddy-buddy. Never “Greg,” heaven forbid, not even when he’d been told it would be okay. Greg knew why, of course. Bill thought it would be too much like putting them on the same side of things if he said Greg’s name. And with Bill, the only way someone was on his side was if he was in charge.

“You sure have, Bill,” Greg agreed. The shit hit the fan just before he’d finished his mandatory twelve months of classes about resolving interpersonal conflicts peacefully, but he had paid attention and learned his lessons, mostly. He really hadn’t thought it would come in handy so quickly. “But you’re not panicky about it and a lot of the folks in the caravan are. More of you keeping them calm when they pull up, the less ruckus we’ll have while we’re doing what we need to be doing. And you don’t need to look in on them.”

Greg coughed slightly, turning his head and putting his face into his arm. Everyone stared at him a moment. Corporal Benes didn’t back away, bless him, but everyone else did. Bill chewed his lip for a second, then nodded. “Okay, boys. You heard the sergeant. We got a mile to hike!”

He set off, his hunting rifle still out and ready to use. Pvt. Sorenson took the right flank, jogging easily. Bill paused to make sure Carl was carrying his shotgun properly, and Greg sighed. The man was a prick, to be sure, but he was not stupid. One reason he pissed Greg off so much. If he hadn’t been so damn good at things, Greg could just ignore him.

“Okay,” he said to the guys who were left with him. “Ed, Joe, walk a circle around the building. Let’s see if anyone tried to get away or there’s anything interesting in the grass. Keep back from the woods. Sal, Frank, we’ve got the shit job.”

The other soldiers bitched softly as they always did and then followed orders, as they always did. Ed hawked a loogie on the ground and sauntered off after Joe, his own form of bitching.

Sal and Frank covered him as he went to the front door. The glass was fogged up and streaky and had been none too clean to begin with. Apparently, there was a sale on Twinkies and Mountain Dew. The thought of it made Greg shudder and cough a few times more. He shook his head, feeling the warning sensation that soon he would be regretting moving at all, and looked at the others. They put their gas masks on with resigned shrugs. They both were already showing symptoms of the plague, which is why they were picked for this duty. But there had been reports that there was more than one nasty bug going around and there was no reason to add to their misery. People had survived the plague, and Jillian thought it was because they’d only had to fight off one infection, not two or three.

Greg didn’t bother with his mask. No one they’d heard about had gotten better after showing all the symptoms he did. It was just a question of how much longer they’d keep moving.

The door was locked, probably against theoretical looters, and he could barely see through the glass that the magazine rack had been moved in the way. He used the lockpick gun to open the deadlock, then he put his shoulder to the door. Even with his head starting to pound, he pushed as hard as he could.

His body hurt as if he’d just been splashed with scalding water along one side, but the magazine slid back several feet and tipped over. The glass on the door cracked under the pressure, and then he was inside.

The smell was like a hammer to the front of his skull. For a moment, his entire world was nothing but awareness of the smell of rot, illness, shit, piss and overcooked hot dogs and taquitos.

The area still had electricity, apparently, because the air conditioning was blowing full blast, the TV was on showing a no-signal blue screen, and the pop machine and fridges were still humming. That probably meant that an alarm was sounding somewhere in the small town a mile or two down the road.

There was a body behind the counter. Despite the relatively frigid air, it had swollen up pretty badly. The corpse had whiskers on its face, a shotgun on the countertop and an empty bottle of Jack next to it.

Greg took a moment to be sure he wasn’t going to puke. Sad to say, this was not the most horrible thing he’d seen in the past few weeks, but it was still pretty damn bad. His stomach seemed okay – not like he’d been able to keep much down anyway. He walked around the magazine rack and poked open the doors to the bathrooms. As clean and neat as could be expected, really. Better than most gas stations. The guy behind the counter had that much pride.

The worst of the smell was coming from behind the employee door, and he steeled himself for this by spitting bile into the men’s room sink. Then he walked into the back.

Another corpse in a chair, this one with grey hair pulled back into a braid and a pistol on the ground beside her. On a mattress between boxes of pop mix was the body of a younger woman, lying in the dried mess that had been her blood, a hole in her chest. She was cradling a very small body covered in blankets. Greg swallowed once when he saw this, then shut the door again.

He marched outside into the sun – blindingly bright now – past his men and around the corner into a sliver of shade. Nausea from the incipient migraine was backstopped by nausea from what he had just seen. He barely had time to fall to his knees before losing his breakfast.

Sal was behind him when he came up for air, gas mask pushed up to his forehead. Quietly, he handed over a pepto tablet. Greg washed it down with lukewarm water from his canteen. He backed away from his mess to sit by the wall, head on the cool concrete.

“Not the worst,” Greg muttered, eyes closed.

The gloom should have at least been accompanied by a dramatic thunderstorm, lightning crashing and winds driving the rain sideways in recognition of what Anthony felt sure would be an epic battle inside Parker’s tasteful Edwardian house.

Anthony waited outside, half a block away. He was supposed to be the backup if something went wrong, or the getaway driver if Adam’s half-baked plan worked. He had his doubts, but either way, the boss would get what he wanted.

Honestly, Anthony was impressed that Adam had gotten to this point. Of all four of Anthony’s hand-picked candidates, Adam was the one who did not bother to argue against the existence of the supernatural when Anthony had spun his story about a vampire preying on women at the college — specifically, women important to each one of Anthony’s recruits.

While the other three sputtered and wanted some kind of proof, Adam had just asked basic questions all focused on the central point: “How are they killed?”

The question really shouldn’t have surprised Anthony. He had selected his recruits using all kinds of criteria, especially the potential for keeping their heads in a fight. He had looked for young men experienced with violence — ROTC cadets, martial arts students and tough guys who showed up on a police blotter for assault. Anthony kept tabs on the best dozen on his list, seeing which ones had a certain intensity about how they did things, which ones had some close personal connection that could be exploited. Someone would always be interested in that kind of thing, one day.

Anthony narrowed his list again to include only the guys with overdeveloped senses of chivalry — the sort of unenlightened men who showed every sign of believing that women had to be protected at all costs. For that sort of guy, a woman in peril was the easiest lever around. For this job, the final list of four candidates gave him three girlfriends and a twin sister to work with.

After all that, the hardest part was getting the girls into Parker’s path. But “hardest” was a relative term. He knew years ago that Parker was going to be a project down the line, and he’d built up a good profile on the man. He’d paid particular attention to how Parker hunted, where and who. It just took some time to get the girlfriends in front of Parker; the sister required some creativity, mostly to get her away from the coffee shops she preferred and into the bars Parker used.

Anthony ended up using a blind date approach, which he felt was tacky in the extreme. But it worked to get her where Parker would notice her, and soon the plan rolled along.

It rolled faster than Anthony expected, in fact. Adam tracked Parker to this house in less than week after being told who the target was — Anthony still wanted to know how he’d pulled that off — and had put together an attack plan shortly after. Anthony found this out last night; right after the usual demonstration that vampires were not just stories. He’d accomplished this demonstration with the help of a baby undead just about two days past the ghoul stage. Poor little bloodsucker also got to be the object lesson that vampires could be killed, but those were the breaks sometimes.

Besides, overcrowding would be a serious problem for everyone if concerned citizens like Anthony didn’t help nip it in the bud.

Adam had swung the blade through the vamp’s neck, actually, his lips thinning in a mix of disgust, anger and satisfaction. Anthony was rather pleased when he felt Adam’s emotions, especially the cold calculation that served as their foundation. There was a little fear in there, controlled and directed to feed the anger, not like the other three who were barely repressing panic attacks. They had all helped bring the vampire down in their ways, but they were reacting mostly out of instinct and fear for their lives. Adam had not been fighting to survive; he had been hunting his prey.

Clean-up was rough, but it also served as a bonding experience. The guys had thought maybe the body would turn to dust, or explode into a pile of blood, or something else from the movies or TV shows. Anthony corrected their assumptions, but gave them reason to think when he pointed out how quickly the corpse had decayed. That made them feel a little easier when they removed the body and cleaned up the blood, but they were still nervous.

Except for Adam, again, who set to work as if the job were no worse than scrubbing a toilet. Things like that led one to wonder just what had been in the sealed juvenile on Adam. It had been a thick enough document, but Anthony’s source in the police department didn’t let him take a look.

Despite all of these clues, Anthony was still mildly surprised when Adam pulled him aside.

“I know you said we’re going to need to work together to take the Master,” Adam said softly. “But you saw these guys. Do you think they’re going to be ready any time soon?”

“The Master” was Anthony’s little joke, since Parker was in no way at the top of his particular food chain. The ridiculous title sounded nice and ominous to easily-impressed young men who were having their entire worlds thrown askew by upsetting facts such as “magic exists” and “vampires are real.” Cliches were cliches because they worked almost at the subconscious level — sure, a title like “Master Vampire” made any thinking person roll his eyes, but it also hit right where centuries of myths had put down roots.

“I think so,” Anthony said just as softly, his voice almost a monotone. Another cliche, surely, but so far the experienced vampire hunter thing had been working on his recruits. Giving them what they expected kept them from looking too closely at what they were getting into. “Another couple of weeks, and we’ll be ready to look for the Master.”

“You sure?” That was unusual; Adam rarely spoke up, much less to challenge anything Anthony said. Someone less skilled at handling people might think he was just a dumb thug with a modest talent for violence. Even Anthony had made that mistake until after their first training session. “While Christina and the other girls have that poison in their blood? Two weeks for them to be taken again, turned completely?”

Anthony had plenty of practice at not smiling when the recruits talked about his imaginary version of a vampire’s life cycle: that a vampire’s bite left poison in the blood which would make the victim fall under his sway. More bites would then turn the victim into a vampire himself, or more importantly in this case, herself. But the thought still amused him deeply.

“We’ve got them out of the Master’s reach right now. This isn’t a cheesy romance novel where he’ll hang outside their windows calling to them through the night. As long as they get plenty of sun and stay away from blood, his hold will be weak until we can kill him.”

Adam did not reply immediately, but his intense stare caused Anthony to tilt his head in an unspoken question. Adam led Anthony back to his car, where he opened the trunk and showed him an arsenal hanging on a web harness. Freshly carved stakes, a hammer, a half-dozen small balloons filled with liquid — probably gasoline or kerosene — two tasers, a large-caliber pistol and smaller backup revolver, three flashbang grenades, and a lighter. He sheathed the machete he’d used on the baby vamp, attached it to the belt, and went about making sure everything was secure and wouldn’t make noise while he walked.

“I found the lair,” he said, while Anthony frowned at the gear. “I’ve scouted it the past three days. Security system isn’t great, I could probably get past it.”

“Could you?” Anthony asked. Those sealed juvenile records seemed more intriguing all the time. But the other three had made comments about the trouble they got into as teenagers — car theft, aggravated battery, arson. It would make sense if Adam had a similar past.

“I’ve done something like it before,” Adam confirmed. “So here’s what I’m going to do. He goes out at night until just about an hour before dawn. I’ll be hidden in his place until he’s settling in. Once he’s down for the day, I’ll move into his room, hammer a stake into him, take off his head, and set his bed — coffin, whatever — on fire.”

“Subtle,” Anthony remarked.

“Any reason I shouldn’t go for overkill?” Anthony grunted, shook his head. Adam continued, “I didn’t see signs of servants or guard dogs, but if he’s got them, tasers. Or guns. Didn’t see any shutters, just heavy drapes in most of the windows. If for some reason he wakes up, I can pull them down. Then I’ll start off with fire and work my way up to the beheading.”

“Okay,” Anthony said, thinking fast. How quickly could he contact his boss, let him know about the change in plans? “I can get the others together tomorrow night. We can go then.”

“You guys can go whenever you want,” Adam said. He put the belt into his trunk, slammed it. “But I’m going to finish this now. Tomorrow morning, your Master Vampire will be gone.”

“And you’re going to do this without backup?” Anthony asked.

“Do you think the other guys are going to be worth a damn?” Adam retorted. “Tonight was the first time this shit sunk in with them. I bet they’re all off getting drunk, trying to forget what they just saw. The’ll be ready in a couple weeks, sure. But that’s too late.”

Anthony shook his head, frowning. Adam surprised him again, with a quick grin and offering his hand. “I do want backup. What are you doing for the rest of the night?”

Now Adam was somewhere in the house. The break-in went as well as it could have: no alarms, no cops, no violence. At least, none that was visible from Anthony’s vantage point.

But the situation deteriorated from there. Parker returned much earlier than Adam had thought, a half-hour after the would-be hunter had entered the house. He was not alone; thee other men were with him, and Anthony recognized one of them. Justin, one of Constance Winter’s oldest vampires. Parker, of course, worked for Kingston, and the fact they were meeting was information Anthony’s boss would want.

Anthony waited for one of the four vampires in the house to find Adam. Many vamps had enhanced senses of smell, although that was not difficult to defeat if you knew what you were doing. There were also other senses to worry about, from being able to see in the infrared to improved hearing.

Adam avoided detection. Anthony was sure it was a tense few hours for him, though, keeping breathing under control, protecting himself while trying to remain alert to where the others were … Or maybe he had just gotten lucky. Adam could have found a great hiding spot and just curled up to sleep for a while. Clearly, the vampires were not there to find a human stowaway, and if they were not looking for him, they might have never gone near where he was hidden.

Then the rain clouds rolled in, and of course Anthony had never bothered to explain the truth about daylight and vampires. And to make things worse, there was the question of Adam’s backup, who really was still around just to see what happened next.

Finally, about half an hour before the theoretical sunrise, the other three vampires left Parker’s house. Anthony desperately wanted to follow the two unknowns and find out who they were and where they slept, but he was committed to watching the end of Adam’s hunt.

The house was built in an older style, tucked far back from any thoroughfares. Tree-lined avenues protected it on two sides, and narrow alleys separated Parker’s lot from his neighbors. It was a three-story house, with gables and gutters and a tall brick fence topped with ironwork spikes.

A balcony stretched around the corner on the second floor, with entrances to both a sitting room and the master bedroom where Parker should be sleeping. Drapes covered large windows facing the balcony, except in one spot on the east side.

Anthony saw a flash of light, and a dull thud which he thought even a human could hear from down the road. A few moments later, the drapes to the east fell.

Adam’s flashlight illuminated his expression — worried, breathless and now, a bit shocked. The drapes were his Plan B, rendered toothless by the lack of sunlight.

There was movement in the darkness of the room behind Adam. Despite his shock, he reacted instantly, ducking just before an antique loveseat flew through the space he had occupied. Wood and glass exploded, leaving a comet trail behind the loveseat as it arced over the stone balcony rail, across twenty feet of yard, and crashed through a dozen tree branches on the way. The branches stole the remaining momentum from the impromptu missile, and it fell onto the iron points of the fence. A few bits of debris continued past the sidewalk into the street.

Anthony’s car alarm went off as shards pelted his roof. He got out and stepped across the street.

Adam dropped his flashlight and spun, probably wishing now that he’d waited until the recruits were ready. His pistol was in his hand so quickly that even Anthony didn’t see him draw. He fired three times as Parker closed in on him. One shot hit Parker’s eye, making him stumble.

Even wounded, Parker was too fast for Adam to prepare himself. He managed to brace somewhat for the off-balance blow which slammed him back ten feet into the stone railing. He lost the pistol but earned himself cracked ribs at the least, and likely more serious injuries that would not be relevant during his probable remaining lifespan.

Anthony reflected on the wonders of adrenaline. Despite the damage, Adam fell to a low crouch instead of onto his face. Parker paused at the hole in the window, taking a moment to get used to his lack of bifocal vision. With no hesitation, Adam hurled a balloon in a strong sidearm throw.

Parker saw it coming too late, but his single eye caused him to misjudge its trajectory. The balloon splashed across the undamaged side of his face. He laughed for a moment at the harmless attack, until he recognized the smell: gasoline and hand soap.

Anthony could tell that Adam’s every movement cost him dearly, and he did not trust his arm a second time. Adam rose and took two long steps toward Parker, flicking his lighter with one hand. It didn’t catch. Adam tried to stop short, but he stumbled near the hole.

Parker was waiting for Adam, one large hand grabbing him by the throat, the grip unyielding. Adam grabbed the thumb on his throat and pulled with all his might. Parker’s grip did not break, but he was unable to close his fist and crush Adam’s trachea.

Snarling, Parker stepped onto the balcony, easily holding Adam off the ground with one hand. In the better light, it was possible to see a long wooden stake jutting from his chest; too close to the collarbone to hit the heart, but still a serious enough injury to keep Parker from using his left arm. Thin wires trailed from his neck; no doubt where Adam had hit him with a taser, which probably was what bought him the time to reach the drapes.

Parker’s weakened arm must have been the reason he didn’t simply rip Adam’s head from his neck right then and there.

Instead, Parker stepped out on the balcony and cocked his arm back. Adam put both hands on Parker’s wrist and brought his knee up into the other’s face with his remaining strength. The vampire roared and threw Adam blindly.

Adam arced through the air in much the same path taken by the loveseat. What few branches were in his way did not slow him significantly, and he cleared the fence with ease. Amazingly, he kept his wits enough to twist around so that he would land on his back, arms folded in, chin tucked near his chest to protect his head.

Anthony winced when Adam slammed into the top of his car. Metal crumpled and glass exploded with the impact. Adam rolled in a futile attempt to minimize the impact, and went right off the edge into the street beyond.

After a moment, Anthony saw that the poor stubborn human was still trying to fight. The son of a bitch had to have ruptured organs even if his spine had remained intact after that impact. But Adam moved his arms slowly, metal clicking as he unlatched something from his vest.

Parker landed on the abused car a moment later. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth, and his remaining eye was swollen. He was too angry to speak coherently, but Anthony could see the burning rage in his aura. It had been a long time since Parker had suffered this kind of injury, much less at the hands of a lone human.

Anthony considered intervening, but judged it too much of a risk. Parker was hurt and burning quickly through stolen life, but so far most of his injuries were superficial. Let him waste some more power venting his rage on Adam.

Besides, the human would not quit. Parker jumped to the pavement by Adam, grabbed him by the front of his harness and pulled him up. Adam did not wait to see what the vampire would do next. He pushed his hand against Parker’s face weakly. In his grip was a flashbang grenade.

It went off with blinding white light and a thundering blast that deafened both combatants and their witness. Anthony’s vision recovered enough to show him Parker had slammed himself back to the car, crushing its side panel as he batted futilely at the homemade napalm mixed with burning magnesium powder searing his face. Adam lay limp beside the light show, his right hand burned, fingers broken.

Anthony watched as his remarkable recruit slowly, deliberately, moved his left hand over his vest, fumbling around until he found what he was looking for. It was all Adam could do to lob another gasoline balloon a pitiful few feet at Parker — but that few feet was enough. More fire blossomed, and now the vampire spun, panicking. A third balloon covered Parker’s back. That effort proved to be too much. Adam could barely move enough to watch Parker burn.

Anthony moseyed toward the mess in the middle of the street, nodded at Adam briskly, and removed the last few balloons from his vest. Adam blinked slowly, his soft breathing bringing bubbles of blood to his lips. Anthony watched Parker succumb to the fire and fall to the ground, then calmly threw the balloons into the remains of his car. He turned back to Adam and took another flashbang.

“I’ve got to tell you, kid, that was one of the most impressive things I’ve seen a mortal do.” He had no idea whether Adam could even hear him, but he felt it was necessary to acknowledge the achievement. “It’s a shame, of course. If you’d waited, you might have survived all this. You’d be useful enough that we’d bring you along for the long haul. Willpower like yours, I bet you’d be hell on wheels if I chose to save you.”

Anthony considered that idea for a moment. He wouldn’t try the change right now; sun hidden or not, it was still daytime and he didn’t want to risk his own existence doing anything that complex when he was at his weakest.

Besides, there were other considerations. Anthony continued sadly, “As it is, this is not a mess that can be swept under a rug. The police will want a person to blame, and here you are, breathing your last. So feel happy that you’ve exceeded my expectations. And your lady love will be perfectly fine.”

Anthony smiled, pulled the pin on the grenade, and tossed it into the car. “Trust me.”

He walked away, ears covered until the grenade went off and began burning away any traces of his being there. Anthony glanced back just before he was out of sight, and saw that Adam rolling onto his stomach. With just his left arm and feeble kicks of his leg, he pulled himself a foot closer to the burning Parker.

Shaking his head in amazement, Anthony turned and left them behind while sirens wailed in the dismal grey morning.

I hated to admit it, but there it was. I, whose primary means of travel earned me the name “John Oldshoe”—a name known to some—didn’t want to walk any more.

The heat was partly to blame. By the end of May, Mississippi was sweltering. It was nearly impossible to tell where sweat ended and the heavy air began. My clothes were really just an arbitrary border between the two, soaked from both directions.

We should also consider how long I’d been walking and how hard I was traveling.

Five days from Jacksonville to Biloxi, which meant crossing the entire Florida panhandle and the Alabama coast as well. Now, I hitched part of the way, but no one let me ride with them for more than a few hours a time.

From Biloxi to Jackson in four days, with barely a pause to eat or sleep. After skirting the city, I went a little north and mostly west, heading into farm country away from the big roads. Highways became country roads, some of them paved, most of them not. I’d seen old rotting plantation houses, larger working farms, the occasional community. Most of these were nothing more than a gas station—the lucky ones had convenience stores—a co-op, a bar, a church, and a few houses scattered around. Not the sort of places where I could easily stop and rest.

It was hard going. I reeked of the need to get away from where I’d been. Literally, in this case. Normally I like to stay as clean as the road allows, but my last chance for a free shower had been at Hoover Lake Park outside of Jackson. Come to think of it, that was also the last place I’d slept for more than a couple hours at a time. It was only in the last day or so that I’d started to notice being hungry or tired.

So maybe the wish to stop was good. Maybe it meant I had finally put Jacksonville behind me.

My Army surplus pack, matching coat rolled and strapped to the top, was heavy on my shoulders. The whole thing weighed less than thirty pounds, lighter than I was used to, but now it dragged me down. My stride, which usually ate distance without wasting energy, was sluggish. The trees that dominated both sides of the road didn’t block the sunlight so much as focus it like a lens. Every few steps brought me into another shaft of light which blazed into my eyes and cooked me a little more. A few steps and I was in the shade, which was at best a degree or two cooler. The dazzle faded just as I’d take a step back into the sunlight. I couldn’t quite remember how long it’d been since I’d last had something cool to drink. There was a little water in my canteen, but it as warm as sweat.

Now, after hearing all those complaints, there’s something you’ve got to understand.

I normally don’t mind any of that stuff. I welcome the raw weather wherever I might be, even if it means burning sunlight and sweltering heat. Most days I would appreciate the quiet, the smell of the moss-choked trees and the dirt of the road. I am happy when the only sound other than the buzz of insects was the steady rhythm of my feet on the pavement. Even the sweat matting my hair—long and thick at the time, in the first stages of dreadlocks—and soaking my clothes was a minor irritation. It was all part of the road, and I love the road, the only constant in my life for longer than I care to say.

I mean, really, this trip wasn’t even that long for me. I’d been pushing myself, to be sure, but I’d gone harder and longer before.

But now it chafed. It was time to find a place to rest. See what I could see.

I entertained the old lie: Maybe I would stay in one place for a while. It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it? Just get off the road and never get back on. This time, I would just put it all down and let myself be part of the regular world again.

Yeah, I never really believe it either, even when I want to. But if I didn’t let myself buy into the lie, maybe I’d never stop long enough to get involved. Maybe I wouldn’t be any good to anyone, then.

Jacksonville was still dogging my footsteps, too. Every time I tried to sleep, I remembered why I’m on the road. Every time I thought I could get out of paying my price, I remembered her beside me. I remembered how she asked me to stay, her hand outstretched.

The memory spurred me to walk a bit faster. The burst of energy didn’t last.

The country road didn’t have any signs that I could see, but I knew there was a town ahead. There always was. The only question was whether I’d run into it before I ran into the Mississippi. I could almost smell the river in the air, I was so close. Probably no more than ten miles away.

That made me smile. No matter how many times I’d seen the Mississippi River, from the headwaters up in Minnesota all the way to the delta below New Orleans, the raw power impressed the hell out of me. The river swept away so much in its wake. I could feel that power coming closer with every step. It hovered in the sky, a little quiver of possibility and fate rushing along.

A mile later, I saw the bridge over a wide creek and the turn right after, train tracks a few hundred yards past that. Litter fetched up on the sides of the road.

Civilization, such as it was. Rusting barbed-wire fencing held up by crumbling wooden posts became better-maintained barriers, some supported by stone and even metal posts. A speed limit sign presented itself just before I reached the tracks, telling motorists that the time for joyriding was over and now they’d better slow down to 30 miles per hour. A dead possum lay under the sign as evidence that 30 was plenty fast enough if you were in the way. I glanced down, seeing that scavengers had already been at the poor thing.

I picked up my pace, anxious to find something to drink and then to tackle the problem of where I could clean up and sleep. I thought about the money in my pocket and the rest hidden in my jacket and pack. Enough for a motel room and some food for a few nights, but not much more. I’d need to see about some kind of work, if anyone here would hire a drifter. Small towns could be funny about that. Sometimes the townsfolk were generous and trusting, other times they were suspicious of anyone who didn’t have roots in the area going back three generations.

The road widened where the pavement started. I caught sight of a stoplight a mile away. I moved to the narrow gravel shoulder, and read the city limits sign: Gibson, Mississippi, pop. 3,670, elev. 212 feet. Someone had been at the back of the sign with red paint, swirling red unreadable graffiti.

The woods ended about two hundred yards down the road. Past that there were a few acres of fields, freshly-planted stalks of corn on one side of the road, soybeans on the other. Past the fields was a cluster of homes, probably a new development recently carved out by an ambitious Gibson city council.

I wasn’t sure why I’d paused to take this in, until I realized I was being watched. Fifty feet behind me was what I thought at first was a dog. It didn’t take long to see my first impression was wrong. It was a wolf, lean and gray like a knife.

He was sitting, tongue out, and watching me with evident interest. I took one step away. His only reaction was the twitching of an ear. The air had grown tight, a light hum in the background that most people would dismiss. There was a taste in the back of my mouth like sucking on tea leaves.

“Hi there,” I said. It was the first I’d spoken in days and my voice was dry, but clear enough. I can honestly say I felt no fear; this wasn’t the first wolf I’d seen up close. He certainly wasn’t the most threatening animal I’d ever seen. For his part, the wolf looked like he’d had better days. He was too thin, some of his fur matted with mud along the haunches, and recently-healed cuts along his muzzle. Despite that, hell, because of it the wolf roused my curiosity. I felt a lot like he looked; out of place and hard-done-by.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to see him more clearly. He looked solid enough, firmly in touch with the road, his paws leaving prints in the gravel the way it should. There were no tell-tales; no glimpses of the road visible through the shadows of his fur, no prismatic sparkle, no distortions of color or light. This all suggested that he was real, but of course the only true test would be if anyone else could see him. On the other hand, there was the hum and the taste in my mouth.

I added, “Damn hot day, isn’t it?”

“It’s not so bad when you’re out of the sun,” came the reply, a woman’s cracked voice from the woods.

To hide my surprise, I spent a few more seconds staring at the wolf. He was panting, and the sound of it helped steady me. I signed off on the wolf’s existence with minimal reservations and decided to deal with the next potential delusion. I turned to the source of the voice, nearly concealed in the thick trees and shade.

A single gap in the tree row revealed a house, although I was being generous when I used the word. The structure was covered in kudzu, and in fact might have been held up only by the greenery. The front porch was large and open, and on it a woman regarded me from a rocking chair. Her skin was so dark that I could only guess at her features, which were framed by a brightly-colored scarf over her hair. Her eyes were large and bright. When I met her gaze, she raised a tall glass of lemonade in greeting and winked.

“That’s probably true, ma’am,” I said. The man who’d given me my name had taught me a good rule for new situations; be extremely polite until you know what is what. Even if they thought they knew who you were by looking at you, they would have to give matters a second thought when you said ‘please,’ ‘thank you,’ ‘sir,’ and ‘ma’am.’

“First chance I get, I’ll get under some shade and test the theory,” I added.

I kept the wolf in the corner of my eye. His eyes were only on me, ignoring the woman. Which was a good trick, I thought, considering how powerful her presence was, even at this distance.

“Well, all right then,” she said. Her voice was mellow, rich and filled the space between us easily. It was a comforting sound, even when it was laced with sarcasm, which I suspected happened all the time.

“You look to have been on the road a bit,” she said. “I reckon you’re thirsty.”

Now those words shot right through me. I’d been thirsty, sure, but now I wanted a drink more than anything. I couldn’t really stop from moving closer. I noticed gravel under the grass in the tree line’s gap. Once this had been a driveway, long overgrown, no longer getting enough traffic to make a difference. The sides of the driveway had been decorated with tangles of leather, stones, feathers, and broken mirrors. Someone who didn’t know better might think this was just trash strewn about, or maybe a half-assed attempt at making art from found objects.

I knew better. I’d rarely seen so many charms in one place before. Or so well-made, come to that. This wasn’t work done lightly or out of superstition. Something powerful was put in place there, and for a purpose. At least there wasn’t any mystery why I was tasting bitter tea.

“That’s also true, ma’am,” I replied, still walking toward her. I closed my eyes a moment, picturing knotted ropes in my mind, and then I untied the knots. I halted just before crossing onto the property. She smiled brilliantly when I did this, as if pleased. I considered my options, but really, how could I not try to find out more about her? “I’ve got water in my canteen but I could sure go for something with ice in it. May I ask if there’s a store up this road?”

“There surely is, but there’s no reason to go that far. I’ve got a whole pitcher of lemonade right here if you’d like.” She waved her hand idly to the other chairs on the porch. I kept my place a moment to see if there was any more to the invitation. As soon as I could tell there wasn’t, I walked in, my skin prickling as I went by the charms. The hum and taste both faded, hovering in the background.

Not surprisingly, I could see more details about the property once I had entered the grounds.

The lawn had long since gone wild, giving way only in the few paths she walked. There was the skeleton of a barn in back, the wood rotted through and crumbling, and a greenhouse missing most of its windows still fought the losing battle against kudzu. One of the only areas reasonably free of the conquering vine was the backyard, dominated though it was by a herb garden that had heard the call of the jungle long ago. I noticed a rusted Ford truck, probably a ’53 or older, up on concrete blocks, half of it overtaken by the feral garden.

I reached the bottom step of the porch. The chairs on it were old but kept in good condition, with fresh cushions on the seat and back. The house’s windows were sparkling clean, in contrast to the walls, and through them I could see a front room, full of books and trinkets but apparently well-organized and as clean as the windows.

She’d invited me twice, but I felt it’d be safest if I went for the traditional three. “I’d be much obliged if I could have a glass, ma’am. My name is John.”

“Well, all right, John,” she said with a chuckle. She knew my game, and it pleased her to play it. “Come on up. I’m Gypsum.”

I studied her while she poured. Gypsum’s age was hard to judge, but she had to be in her late 40′s at least, maybe her early 50′s. She was slender but not too thin, and most of her wrinkles were laugh lines and crow’s feet. The headscarf was the most colorful part of her appearance, all bright blues, purples and reds. Her hair under it was a morass of iron-gray thin braids. She wore a simple white-and-tan dress, but she had a ring on every finger and a silver crucifix around her neck. Her eyes were a light brown, shading nearly to gold as she smiled at me.

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” I said. I shrugged off the pack and set it against the porch railing. I sat downwind of her, although in the heat and thick air that was mostly a kind notion. I noticed there was a second glass full of ice on the table beside her, but didn’t feel an urge to comment on it. I was not under the impression that this meeting was happenstance.

“And you, John,” she said. Gypsum returned my perusal frankly.

I knew the superficial details of what she saw. My deep tan spoke of the American melting pot; some Native American, at least one black buffalo soldier in the 19th century, and a long string of immigrants, the most recent arriving from Germany just before World War II. The mix suited me, I guess. Certainly, I’ve been called handsome once in a while, especially when I was able to clean up and dress in something other than traveling clothes. Right then, I had a thin scruff that was the closest I ever got to a full beard. My wild hair was black, with a few streaks of sun-bleached light brown, and I had a full-body coating of sweat and road dust. My clothes were old and worn, but at least they were in one piece.

I smiled at her easily and sat with an ankle crossed over my knee, trying not to show how grateful I was just to get off my feet.

She offered me the glass. Its cool surface was a pleasant shock, and I had to force myself not to gulp down the lemonade. It tasted like a measure of pure happiness, a sufficient reward to justify my long walk. The taste was gone too soon.

“You running from or going to?” she asked while pouring me another.

That grabbed my attention, to be sure, but she wasn’t even looking at me. She watched the road, or perhaps the woods on the other side. The wolf had not come onto her property, but I could see it sniffing at one of the trees framing her fading driveway. She gave no sign that the wolf was at all unusual. On the other hand, I was sure she could see it, whether or not it was real, so that question was still not settled.

“Sometimes one and occasionally the other,” I replied. It was as honest as I could be at the moment. “But usually I’m just walking.”

“Fair answer. Been on the road for long?”

I laughed softly. I looked at my old hiking shoes, which I’d worn over so many miles that they were practically part of my feet, then back to her. “Ever since I had a life worth remembering, I’ve been on the road.”

She nodded, satisfied. I can’t say I liked the fact that she was testing me, but I did come onto her land. I drank her lemonade. I could pay the small price she was asking of me at that moment. None of it was committing me to any other bargains.

“Most of them that lives from place to place are broken somewhere,” she commented. “Sometimes the head, sometimes the soul.”

“Some of them are, that’s true.”

“But not you?”

Her question summoned an unbidden flash of memory. A pale face under a flickering neon light, the warmth of blood on the palm of my hand.

Now that was disconcerting as you could get. Suddenly the bitter leaves overwhelmed the lingering taste of lemonade, and the hum rose in pitch like wasps moving in. My temper rose. Courtesy was important here—I had the feeling it might be vital to my well-being—but I’d be damned before I let anyone shake down my memories like that. I took a long breath, and then smiled in the glare of her intense scrutiny. In my mind I pictured a door slamming shut in her face, imagining the force of it rocking her back on her heels. I heard her sharply-indrawn breath, and her smile faltered. When she looked at me again, her expression shifted from annoyance to satisfaction.

“And you weary from the road, too,” she said softly. Damn it, I’d overplayed my hand.

I took long swallow of lemonade and weighed my options. I knew the expression on her face, recognized the tension in the air. My choices were pretty simple. I could stop there a while and take up the challenge she would eventually offer me. Or I could stand up, thank Gypsum for her hospitality and keep walking. There would always be another town down the road. Maybe the next place wouldn’t ask these things of me. Maybe somewhere else I wouldn’t have to do this, be what she was asking me to be.

Maybe it was the river that helped me decide. Maybe it was the wolf, a fellow traveler that I knew had come a long way for whatever was here. Most likely it was Gypsum herself; without words she still conveyed that she knew what she was asking and regretted it. But that regret wouldn’t stop her from asking anyway, because it had to be done.

“We’re all broken in places, ma’am,” I replied, keeping my tone level. “I like to think I know where the cracks are in myself, and I’m at peace with most of them. The ones I ain’t able to accept, well, I’ll get to them in time.”

Her faint smile faded into deep contemplation. She squinted at me and her eyes brightened into pure glittering gold. I stared back, putting a mirror behind my own eyes. Look all you want, I thought, You had your glimpse. Now all you’ll see is you.

Just like that, the moment passed, and she laughed. “You’re a one, and that’s no lie, John Oldshoe.”

Possibly she wanted me to be surprised that she knew the name I’ve earned. If so, she was disappointed. I might have been willing to see what was going on, but I was not going to dance to her tune. My only reply was to finish the lemonade and to look away. The wolf was sitting again, his eyes on mine. Almost time to start walking again, just a little distance this time. Far enough to go into town, into whatever waited for me there.

Gypsum stopped rocking in her chair and leaned forward, putting her callused palm over the back of my hand. “If you’re thinking of finding a place to stay and maybe do a little work, you’d do well to turn up Poplar Street and stop at the church. There’s a need for a handyman there, and the Mellins are known to take in those as who are looking for things.”

I wanted to brush her off, but instead I looked at her. She smiled, a little sadly, and for all the world reminded me of my grandmother the last time I saw her.

I squeezed her hand warmly, just as I had squeezed Grandma’s long before. I put the glass back on the small table before rising. I could not deny that the waiting puzzle attracted me. “Thank you for the lemonade, ma’am. If you’re willing, maybe I’ll stop by again?”

Gypsum released my hand, her eyes darkening as she nodded. “Well, all right then, John.”

Above and to the right are links to pertinent details such as my personal statement and about me. Below are samples of my academic and fiction writing in the Essays and Stories categories, which are also linked in the right-hand column.

The purpose here is to let instructors, committees and fellow students get an idea of who I am and what I’m trying to achieve. If you’ve got any questions for me, feel free to email me or leave a comment in one of the posts.

• The Magic of Reading
• Creating My Own Stories
• One Literacy to Rule Them All?

The Magic of Reading

The Wind in the Willows

I blame my parents. They insisted on reading in my presence every day. Of course, they read me children’s books, Dr. Seuss, the Wind in the Willows and the adventures of Curious George.

Yet even when they were not reading to me, they still read newspapers, magazines and big fat books full of mysterious words. My mother loved thrillers, books that usually had a rose, a gun, or a hammer and a sickle on the cover. My father’s books often had aliens, spaceships or mysterious gray-clad men in pointy hats and dragons on the cover. They didn’t share these books with me, so I knew they were keeping important magical secrets from me. If my parents could read those books for hours — which to a three-year-old child is a significant fraction of forever — then obviously there was something there I needed to discover.

The Bourne Identity, one of my mother's favorite books when I was young

I taught myself to read around the age of four. My grandmother asked me to read her a couple of sentences from the Bernstein Bears before my fourth birthday. One of my presents on that birthday was a copy of Where the Wild Things Are. I read it to my mother, only needing her help sounding out a few of the tougher words. Reading was a wonderful feeling, and I showed off my new skill at preschool. The other kids were not impressed by my nerdly aptitude.

I quickly grew tired of reading children’s books. My dad distracted me by buying comic books. I clearly remember sitting on his lap and reading an issue of Legion of Super-Heroes, wondering whether the heroes would ever escape from Asteroid X52.

Legion of Super-Heroes, the issue that I recall reading with my dad.

I devoured comics while asking my parents for “grown-up” books to read. My mother relented when I was five, giving me her much-worn copy of Frank Herbert’s Dune. I didn’t understand most of the book even with her help, but I the experience enchanted me. I held this thick book, turned pages and struggled with small print and polysyllabic words which weren’t even in English. My father gave me J.R.R. Tolkein’s the Hobbit. I made it a bit further into this book on my own, but again the labyrinthine text defeated me. With dad’s help, I was able to make some more progress, once again discovering a world hidden within words and sentences. Once more, this was magic held in my hands.

Complexity is what drove me. I’ve always loved puzzles, and reading was the ultimate puzzle. How did these words work together to make the pictures I imagined? In my head, I saw the settings and characters in the four-color style from my comic books. The things they did played out in panels drawn by my imagination. The stories created new places through arcane means I had to decipher.

Dune. My copy didn't look like this, since I'd read it so much the cover fell off.

Through elementary school I took pride in being a reader. My teachers told me that my books were too difficult for my age, whatever age I happened to be. These admonitions only encouraged me. I broke up my attempts to unlock Dune with forays into the worlds of Madeleine L’Engle or Lloyd Alexander, I always had a copy of my two mysterious novels with me.

I read so much in school that I got in trouble for reading. The Reading class was structured around index cards, color-coded by difficulty of the material. I finished each section before the other students, moving to the next before my teacher gave me permission. When I handed in my reading quiz from the violet section while everyone else was still on green, my teacher asked for a conference with my parent. While waiting for my mother to show up for the meeting, I read about Bilbo tricking Gollum in a game of riddles.

Creating My Own Stories

One of my old writing notebooks. The handwriting on display is one reason I'm happy to live in the era of computers.

Being a reader lead me to being a writer. I loved stories so much that I wanted to create them myself. Comics seemed to be the easiest, since they were just a series of pictures with the occasional word balloon. That meant I wouldn’t have to come up with as many words. My mother has a copy or two of my primitive issues of Invisible Lad fighting his nemesis Visible Kid.

When I was eight, I found a new way to create stories: role-playing games, RPGs, specifically Dungeons and Dragons. My grandmother didn’t really understand what she gave me for my birthday; she thought it was some kind of board game. Soon I was delving the deeps with my first-level Elf, Silverein, trying to avoid death by goblins.

My first copy of Dungeons and Dragons.

RPGs are essentially just tools for creating collaborative stories. At their most unsophisticated form, the stories were simple. A character wants treasure and power and will face monstrous obstacles to get them. Eventually the basic premises became unsatisfying. We developed settings for the adventures, histories for our characters, and piecing together larger plots that explained why we went from dungeon to dungeon. While playing, we came up with dialogue for our characters extemporaneously and had to decide how “the character,” as opposed to the player, would react to danger.

In middle school, I was in class for the Extended Learning Program — what we referred to as “study hall for smart kids.” A friend and I were writing a comic script based on a super-hero game we played in recently. The teacher encouraged us to instead write a short melodrama skit or two.

The entire class got involved. Other students told me what kind of characters they wanted to play and what they wanted to happen. I wrote it all down and added my own twists on the threadbare plots. It was exactly like playing RPGs, only this time girls were involved and no one was making fun of me. The skits were staged for the school at a talent show and to our great surprise, the other kids liked what we did.

I was the biggest nerd in the school by this point. I had earned my geek status by winning science and math competitions. I was mocked in general for my glasses, reading instead of talking to people — especially girls — and talking openly about comic books or games with my friends, even when other people — especially girls — might hear us.

"Drifter," my first attempt at a book. It was awful.

When it came time to write short stories in English classes, I remembered how well people reacted to my skits. I worked harder on those stories than I did on any other homework. The result: once again fellow students — especially girls, that one girl in particular — told me they liked what I had written. My teacher asked if I minded whether she used one of my stories as an example for other classes.

That was one of the greatest moments of my childhood, even better than finally understanding my favorite novels. This was praise I had earned. It wasn’t given to me because I had a reputation as a smart kid, or because math was easy, or because I could memorize facts and recite them later. I had succeeded at telling stories, something I’d been wanting to do my entire life.

I’ve been telling stories ever since. In high school this not only included publishing short works in school publications and writing columns for the paper, but in trying to write books — horrible awful awkward teenage books. In college I took several fiction writing and playwriting courses, and sent a fair number of stories to the rejection mill.

One Literacy to Rule Them All?

One of my first video games: The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Perhaps because of my love of science fiction, I always wanted to have my own computer. My family pitched in to get me a Commodore 64, with a tape drive and the text games Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Zork. I taught myself a little bit of BASIC and how to make very ugly graphics, but there wasn’t a lot more I could do with that system.

My father purchased an Apple IIe for his business a couple of years later, and I helped him learn how to use the machine. He loved computers as much as I did, and he would challenge me to all kinds of games — with real graphics! — and encouraged me to learn to type and play around when he was done with work. In school they were trying to teach us the things I had already learned on my Commodore using TSR-80s. More than once, the teacher of the class mirrored my father and asked for help from the students who had been playing with these things for years.

An Apple IIe, the coolest thing ever in the early 80s.

Playing video games and talking about comics in specialty stores introduced me to the existence of bulletin board systems, BBSes, during high school. Each board would allow me to find a legion of fellow geeks who were happy to spend hours typing messages about why the Watchmen was the greatest comic ever or giving the details about our awesome fight against the red dragon last weekend. Soon I was playing games online through posts on Usenet forums in 1992. I tried to build my first web page in 1994. The page only had a section about me, a short story, and a pixelated picture of an RPG character. In 1996 I was using online services such as America Online to share stories on forums. I joined chat room games and was soon creating games for others.

Lawrence Journal-World

In 1998, a good friend got me a job updating the Lawrence Journal-World website. This job required me to stop dabbling at the edges of the World Wide Web and learn real HTML coding, the basics of web design, and learn how to manipulate javascript and cascading style sheets.

I was responsible for not only posting stories from the newspaper but to add multimedia content. At first this meant processing photos from the paper and putting them into the online text, but soon it included grabbing audio clips from interviews, incorporating video segments from 6 News, and fleshing out stories with links and documentation. I became an advocate using the website as more than a mere digital copy of the newspaper. I was one of the voices pushing the idea that the website should be the primary source for news, with its own original content that would be cherry-picked and edited for print or television later.

This led to management of the website for KMBC Channel 9, where I had to teach reporters how to be part of the new media revolution. I spent most of my day looking at how content was being presented to audiences online.

Front page for The Guild web series.

There’s a massive cultural shift happening on the web. People have been using this medium to share stories that traditional publishers would not touch. Webcomics such as Penny Arcade or Sluggy Freelance have been around for more than a decade. Many blogs are presenting experimental stories that often would not be considered for publication. There are online video series such as the Guild or Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog which have gained serious attention in Hollywood. People are creating entire mythologies on forums which lead to modern urban fantasy in the best New Weird traditions, such as the creation of the Slender Man and the related Marble Hornets video series.

Through my internet literacy, I’ve seen these developments. My love of reading and writing, inculcated by my parents and reinforced by my experiences in school, shows me that this new medium is not only the future of storytelling but its present.

Sections

• Marble Hornets
• The Guild
• References

The traditional means of producing media are starting to falter.  The ratings for over-the-air television broadcasts are dropping, and sales of print books are falling.  Creators of stories are faced with a greater challenge in finding venues to share their works.  While there are more people writing and submitting content than ever, publishers and studios are struggling to get enough revenue to continue buying and distributing content. In this fiercely competitive environment, creators are forced to look to new media to bring their stories to their audiences.

The internet has been a means to share content for years.  There are many original works that would have never found a traditional outlet, from webcomics, podcasts, homemade animations, to creative blogs in which every entry is a new chapter or short story.  This model has allowed creators to find audiences without the intervention of major publishing and distribution sources.

In this way, success could be found. According to the Alexa Traffic Ranking site – used as a standard metric which combines numbers of page views and visitors to a page, and compares these numbers against other websites – Penny-Arcade.com, one of the oldest and most successful webcomics, is the 3,396th most-visited website in the world. By comparison, the website Comics.com, which houses over 90 syndicated comics seen in newspapers across the country, has a rank of 6,489. However, traffic rankings are just one way in which the success of a product can be determined.

Most creators are happy to discover audiences in the first place.  In some cases, these audiences are larger than they would have expected, and certain prominent media critics are beginning to pay attention to these works.  There are amateur and professional works gaining attention that they would never have had if they relied on traditional media. They may not be making a great deal of money, but they are getting attention.

One area of amateur storytelling that has taken off thanks to technology that makes creating multimedia content inexpensive and simple is the web series.  A web series is a collection of videos that share a common purpose.  Many of these series are used for comedy, such the parodies of Auto-Tune the News or skits as seen in Totally Sketch.  One use of the web series is to generate ongoing narratives.  Two fascinating projects that provide complex storytelling are Marble Hornets and The Guild.

Marble Hornets

Victor Surge's first Slender Man image

Marble Hornets is an amateur project with an interesting background.  It has its roots in a creative process that is uniquely rooted in new media.  Members of the online forum Something Awful started a thread about generating new and frightening Paranormal Images.  Most of these creations features poorly-photoshopped images with “ghosts” or figures hidden in the corners of a room.  But one image stood out from the others.  It was a figure standing in the background of two photos, both featuring children – in the first image, the children seem upset about something, and in the second they are playing happily in a playground.  The unnaturally-tall image was of a faceless man in a black suit. Immediately, people responded to this image.

Other posters created their own Slender Man images and stories, generating a mythology for the figure all at once.  Some of the posters spread the idea to other forums, including 4chan and creepypasta.com.  For a little while, the interest in Slender Man grew, even appearing as a topic on the radio talk show Coast to Coast.

The second Slender Man image

Just as interest began to fade, two film students got into the act.  Troy Wagner and Joseph DeLage were members of the SomethingAwful forum who decided to work the Slender Man idea into a project of their own.   Wagner directed the series and starred as one of the two protagonists, named “Jay.” DeLage took the role as “Alex Kralie.”  Posting to the forum as the character of Jay, Wagner claimed to have seen something odd on videos left to him by his friend Alex.

In the backstory of the piece, Alex Kralie had been acting progressively more oddly while working on a student film named Marble Hornets.  Eventually, Alex gave all his tapes from the project to Jay, asked that he destroy them, and left town.  Jay began scanning through the tapes and came across unusual moments which disturbed him.  He posted these sequences to YouTube with the explanation that the tapes were given to him with no labels and completely out of sequence.  Jay said he would update the posts when he came across anything interesting.

There were follow up posts on Twitter, the Something Awful forums, and sometimes commentary in the videos.   In the story’s slow evolution, it became clear that something was hounding Alex after an encounter early on in filming.  Many people who were not aware of the backstory speculated that these were real videos – similar to the phenomenon of viral marketing for The Blair Witch Project.  Many of the clips were short and enigmatic, and others were disturbing in the best horror movie traditions.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lxsMHeOGjE]

The video series have received nearly seven and a half million views.  It has attracted attention in many corners of the internet, and has been commented on by such media critics as Roger Ebert, who posted about the series on his Twitter account.

The interest in the project has not translated into fame and fortune for Wagner or DeLage, they have demonstrated their ability to create tension and to build a narrative with an unusual structure.  The creators have made this story with cheap cameras and scripting that sometimes happened half an hour before filming began.  They have thousands of fans who are watching carefully for each new installment – even if they have to wait seven months between updates.  They receive a little income from advertising on their video pages.  When they choose to work on future projects, they will be able to point to Marble Hornets as proof of their ability.

The story is still ongoing, and the creators have started the updates for a second season of their series.

The Guild

Felicia Day and the cast of the Guild

The internet doesn’t only provide new avenues for amateurs, but for professionals such as Felicia Day, the creator of The Guild.  Day was an actress who had been a guest star on a few television shows.  Like many young actors, she was having trouble breaking into the business.  She said that she was addicted to playing World of Warcraft, a massively multiplayer online game (MMORPG).  With the help of Kim Evey, a friend she made through improvisational acting class, she developed a comedy script about a dysfunctional group whose primary social outlet is the game.

She intended the script for a television pilot, but soon decided that a comedy series about online gamers would never garner the sort of interest from a network or an audience on television to try to sell it.  Instead, she brought in more friends from the improv class and financed the first three episodes herself and posted them to YouTube.  Day then asked her audience to tell her if she should continue and set up a PayPal account.  If the audience was interested in the show, they would let her know by keeping it going.

The seven following episodes of the first season were paid for by these donations.  Due to the strong fan response and people sharing links to the videos, Microsoft became interested in the project.  They agreed to distribute the show through their Xbox Live network, allowing gamers to load the episodes directly to their gaming consoles.  They are also receiving sponsorship from Sprint.  This helps them meet their costs for their short seasons.  The first three seasons had ten episodes, each one about five to ten minutes long.   The fourth season had twelve episodes, each close to ten minutes in length.  They’ve also produced two music videos, “(Do You Want To Date) My Avatar?” and “Game On.”

The Guild cast as characters in "the game."

The show has been extremely popular on YouTube.  The uploaded videos have together received more than 55 million pageviews on YouTube alone. The series has the YouTube Series award for its first two seasons, and the Streamy online awards for 2009 and 2010.  Thanks to this success, the show has sold DVD sets and is producing other merchandise as comic book tie-ins.  The first music video has been watched more than 11 million times and is a downloadable track for the game Rock Band 2. The second video spent several weeks at the top of the iTunes best-selling video download list.

Thanks to the success of the show, Day and others from the show have been cast in several more projects.  Day has starred in an SyFy Channel original movie Red, and will guest star on several episodes of the show Eureka.  This is also leading some cable channels to try to mimic her success; SyFy launched its own web series Riese in late 2010, and some channels such as the Independent Film Channel have over a dozen series on its own site.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMrN3Rh55uM]

Other web series inspired by The Guild include The Legend of Neil, which is produced by The Guild costar Sandeep Parikh, and the extremely popular Joss Whedon musical Dr.  Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog.

These are only two of the many stories that could only have been developed and found an audience through the internet.  Marble Hornets is an example of innovative storytelling requiring a communal creation; The Guild was inspired by online gaming and its audience can only find its episodes online.

While the new media offerings are not yet able to supplement or even compete directly with traditional media in terms of audience numbers, already creators are using the internet to develop their own distribution channels.  This is only the beginning of the revolutionary era in modern storytelling.  As the technology develops, we will see even more rapid changes in who can create, and who will consume those creations.

References

Ebert, R. “Marble Hornets.” EbertChicago. Twitter. 6 Nov. 2009. Web. Retrieved from

<http://twitter.com/#!/ebertchicago/status/5495205792>
Siegler, MG. “‘Tipping Point’ Reached, Amazon Says.” TechCrunch. 19 July 2010. Web.

Retrieved from <http://techcrunch.com/2010/07/19/kindle-sales/>
Marble Hornets. YouTube. 19 Jun. 2009. Web.  Retrieved from

<http://www.youtube.com/user/MarbleHornets>
Milliot, J. “Print Declines Offset Digital Gains.” Publishers Weekly. 15 Nov. 2010. Web. Retrieved from

<http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-news/financial-reporting/article/45177-print-declines-offset-digital-gains.html>
The Nielsen Company. “Television Audience 2009.” NielsenWire. 1 Jan. 2010. PDF. Retrieved from

<http://blog.nielsen.com/nielsenwire/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/TVA_2009-for-Wire.pdf>
Noory, G. [Host] “Ghost Cats & Open Lines.” Coast to Coast AM. Coast to Coast. WLS-AM, Chicago.

6 Nov. 2009. Radio. Retrieved from <http://www.coasttocoastam.com/show/2009/11/06>
“penny-arcade.com.” Alexa the Web Information Company. Alexa, n.d. Web. Retrieved

from <http://www.alexa.com/siteinfo/penny-arcade.com>
Rich, M. “Declining Book Sales Cast Gloom at an Expo.” New York Times. 29 May 2009. Web.

Retrieved from <http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/29/business/media/29books.html>
Ryan. M. “Felicia Day slays the Internet with ‘The Guild.” The Watcher. Chicago Tribune. 13 July,

2010. Web. Retrieved from <http://featuresblogs.chicagotribune.com/entertainment_tv/2010/07/guild-felicia-day.html>
“Slender Man.” Mythical Beasts & Creatures Wiki.  Mystical Creatures Guide. n.d. Web.

Retrieved from <http://www.mythicalcreaturesguide.com/page/Slender+Man>
Victor Surge. “Create Paranormal Images.” Something Awful Forums. Something Awful. 2 Feb. 2006.

Web. Retrieved from <http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3150591&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=3#post361861415>
Watch the Guild. The Guild.  Web. 2007.  Retrieved from <http://www.watchtheguild.com/about/>

Sections

• Overview
• Original Text
• Audiobook
• Television Series
  • Storm Front Episode
• Graphic Novel
• Conclusion
• Bibliography

Where once it used to be unusual for a text to be adapted into several different forms, today there are several works appearing in varied formats. The internet provides another place for an audience to discuss and adapt works on their own. Message boards provide a forum for discussion years after initial critical response to a work is completed, emails make it easy to send thoughts to an author, and websites provide venues for the sharing of fan-created fiction and art inspired by a text.

The Dresden Files book series by Jim Butcher has been adapted multiple times. The series follows the story of Harry Dresden, the only wizard listed in the phone book, who works as a private detective and a sometimes-reluctant hero who stands between the monsters and normal people. The series currently has twelve books and a number of short stories, audiobooks, comic books (also known as graphic novels), a television series, and a role-playing game. The most adapted volume of the series is the first book, Storm Front.

These sorts of adaptations are nothing new: film and television have been adapting books almost since the creation of the media. According to the Audio Publishers Association, audiobooks have existed since 1931. Comic book historians point to adaptations such as the Classics Illustrated series which began in 1941. (Lalumière, “A Short History of American Comic Books”). Readers of texts have always adapted texts on their own; even classical artists were inspired by mythology or the Bible. Even Shakespeare adapted existing stories into his plays.

Works that are published in the speculative fiction genre lend themselves to multiple interpretations. Speculative fiction fans may have subgenres of interest and preferred media formats, such as a focus on hard science fiction and comic books, but the fan community as a whole is interconnected enough to experience multiple adaptations. It is common for people who enjoy a speculative work to seek out others with similar passions. Where once these audiences created fanzines to share their interest, the internet provides newsgroups and websites devoted to a fandom, from interest in the major properties of Star Wars or Star Trek to a variety of communities following less well-known creations such as the Dresden Files.

The Dresden Files: An Overview

Harry Dresden, Wizard, by Chris McGrath

Jim Butcher was in a graduate writing program in Oklahoma when he wrote Storm Front in 1996. The book followed a specific formula based on the noir detective genre and included fantasy elements. This was near the beginning of the urban fantasy era, a subgenre defined by the modern settings infused with magic.

Jim Butcher

Butcher’s main character has many traditional characteristics of detectives in hard-boiled crime fiction. Harry Dresden is a powerful man constrained by his circumstances. In his youth, he ran afoul of magical authorities by killing a man in a magical duel. Now he must be concerned about the judgment of the White Council, which rules over wizards. Dresden is poor, using magic as part of his career rather than a means to gather great wealth. He seeks to help others in order to balance his darker violent nature. He is surrounded by beautiful women who confuse or complicate his life. Many of his problems the result of his decisions, proving that his actions have consequences.

Rhetorically, Butcher’s goal is to create compelling plots for each book and for the series as a whole, to keep people interested in what happens next. He foreshadows events, giving Dresden an enigmatic history and showing glimpses of greater events. These techniques have convinced audiences to follow the series and anticipate new installments, no matter their format. While the initial works come in the traditional texts of a novel or short story, the books have been adapted into audio format by a known actor in the urban fantasy genre. The books have also been adapted into a single season of a television series, as graphic novels, and in the format of role-playing games, which invite audiences to explore Dresden’s world.

Storm Front in Text

Cover for Storm Front novel

The text of Storm Front begins with an introduction to the character, quickly bringing in the first person narrative, using Dresden’s cynical voice. The situation is outlined, from the “Harry Dresden, Wizard” name painted on his door, the skepticism of a mailman, and that Dresden specializes in “Lost Items Found, Paranormal Investigations.” Dresden explains that magic exists and that his sense of honor gets in the way of him making money. (Butcher, 1-3.)

The plot involves two cases. First, his initial client Monica Sells is looking for her missing husband Victor. Second, his long-term ally of Lieutenant Karrin Murphy needs his consultation in a grisly and baffling double murder. Murphy is in charge of a special unit in the Chicago Police Department devoted to sweeping up cases that don’t make sense because they involve magical creatures. She is a major figure through the series, and the tone of her initial interaction with Dresden gives an insight into one of his most important friendships – one of mutual respect, teasing interplay, and Dresden’s role as someone with esoteric knowledge.

The plot quickly becomes complex, involving mobsters who wish to suborn him and a confrontation with a vampire who may have vital information. Dresden also faces Morgan, a representative of the White Council, who fanatically distrusts Dresden’s motives and wants to prove that he is a dangerous individual who must be dealt with. Even while resenting this suspicion, he realizes it’s based on the same logic used by his police allies: “Cops looked for people who had already committed crimes before they started looking for other culprits. Morgan was just another kind of cop, as far as I was concerned. And as far as he was concerned, I was just one more dangerous con” (Butcher, 82). Eventually, Dresden solves the mysteries, fends off attacks from a shadowy assailant, ties both cases into a larger plot, and ends with a magical battle against the “missing” Victor Sells, who is behind everything.

The plot entertains rather than persuades the audience. Dresden and others speculate on morality, law, and the costs that must be paid to take a moral stand, but these moments are meant to illustrate the characters rather than educate readers. The text engages the audience’s emotions by making us feel sympathy for Dresden, tension from his conflicts, and satisfaction when he succeeds in his goal. After hundreds of pages of watching Dresden get beaten down emotionally or physically, it is only natural to cheer him on when he turns his pain into a strength: “It was like a fire in my thoughts, my concentration, burning more brightly, more pure, refining my anger, my hate into something steel-hard, steel-sharp” (Butcher, 281).

After being pushed so far, Dresden faces the classic noir detective conundrum of how far he will go to seek justice. Would he kill his enemy out of hand or attempt to capture him and present him to the authorities? After an internal debate he makes his choice: “There is no truer gauge of a man’s character than the way in which he employs his strength, his power. I was not a murderer” (Butcher, 291). Another goal is to inspire the reader to continue following Dresden’s story, so the denouement does not tie up all the loose ends.

The format is traditional, laid out in chapters with chronological progression, with occasional flashbacks to fill in history. Most of those flashbacks are descriptions rather than moments that Dresden relives. Butcher provides the words, and the reader provides everything else, imagining the characters’ appearances, how their voices sound, the pacing of events. The traditional format is one with which the readers are familiar. This familiarity allows the reader to engage with the text in a comfortable way. However, it does mean that each reader’s experience of the book is particular to their own interpretation – one reader’s mental image of Dresden will be different than another’s.

There are three major adaptations of this text to consider. The first adaptation was the audiobook, released two years after the novel and read by actor James Marsters. The second was the television series on the Sci Fi Channel, shown in 2007. The third is the ongoing comic series, released by Del Rey in 2008.

Storm Front As Audiobook

Storm Front audiobook cover

These adaptations show different priorities in presenting the story. The audiobook was intended to be another way for readers to discover the book as written. Marsters was chosen as narrator because his delivery worked for the story. It is unlikely the author directed him to read the story in a specific way. Marsters’s reading was the way it sounded in his own head, which created an interpretation from his own viewpoint.

The most important rhetorical decision was the choice of James Marsters as the narrator. At the time, Marsters was most well-known for his role as the vampire Spike in the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a popular example of the urban fantasy genre. Marsters, an American, spoke with a British accent when portraying Spike. It came as a surprise to some of his fans that he read the audiobook with a standard Midwestern accent, which fit Dresden’s history of being raised in Missouri and living in Chicago.

The text was not altered, although Marsters infused the lines with world-weariness and cynicism. The jokes told by Dresden were not said sharply but rather as reactions to being pushed by others. Other modifications came from occasional reading errors, such as transposing the words “once spoke” to “spoke once” (Butcher, 44).

Where the text reads quickly, the audiobook is slower and more contemplative. Marsters used a deliberate pace, lingering on scenes that might have been skimmed over. This pacing emphasized the character and his thoughts. While it was possible to lose track of the actual events taking place while listening to the story, the sense of who Dresden was remained strong. The reader still has to create everything else in his mind, but Marsters provides such a powerful narrative voice that some of the work is done for him; Dresden is someone who sounds like Marsters, and when things happen, he reacts as Marsters did. This allows the reader to devote more attention to creating the rest of the world and imagining how the plot unfolds.

This strong voice allows the reader to quickly decide whether Marsters’ understanding of the character matches his own. Even if the initial reading of the text varied strongly from that of Marsters, some members of the audience will then hear the actor’s voice even when reading the text. This can make reading the original into a “performance” of the audiobook, imagining Marsters’ voice whenever reading the words.

Dresden Files As A Television Show

Promo image for the Dresden Files series

The adaptation to television had several purposes: to appeal to fans; to make money; to tell stories that appealed to wider audiences. Decisions were made about the presentation of characters and setting in order to make budget or to draw in people who were not familiar with the books. Stories needed to be conveyed in a short period of time, rather than challenge audiences with multiple layers of complexity. The use of magic was limited by budget concerns and the question of whether a television audience would accept a wizard-as-detective. This adaptation was the farthest from the original, which modified many of the rhetorical devices that made the books so popular.

The television show was a more controversial adaptation from the beginning. Fans of the show debated rumors about casting and changes from the text. Murphy, a small blond woman in the book, was to be played by a medium-height Latina. The actress may have given the strongest performance, but the physical difference was distracting. Dresden’s magical advisor Bob was changed from a spirit bound into a skull to the ghost of a warlock, so that audiences would have a more “human” sidekick for the main character to interact with. This also gave a place for Dresden’s internal dialogue, such a major part of the texts, to be seen in the show, with debates between Dresden and Bob. Other changes included Dresden’s apartment and office, his magical tools, and the structure of the White Council (now High Council) and how he worked with it.

The series received mixed reaction from critics and fans. It did not often draw on the plots of the books, and every character was different. Dresden was more successful in his career and had better luck with women. He had one-night stands where the textual character had two close relationships during the course of the series. His magic was less prominent, making Dresden into a private detective who had a different technique for solving crimes rather than a man straddling a line between the supernatural and mundane worlds. These changes were efforts to draw in audiences who might be unfamiliar with urban fantasy by providing a more typical detective-show framework to latch onto.

Storm Front On Television

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vmyf835DiEE]

The show had two episodes that adapted the books. The first, “Hair of the Dog,” was based on the second novel, Fool Moon, with several major changes in plot and details.

The second episode was a recut version of the pilot episode, which adapted Storm Front. Due to time constraints, many secondary plots and details were removed. The television version of the story did not give Dresden two cases which ended up being two sides of the same problem. Instead, Dresden worked only for the police and encountered the Monica Sells character (renamed Monica Cutler) from another angle. The plot involved three young friends becoming involved with a vampire – another character from the book given a different role – and falling into prostitution, drugs, or black magic as a result.

The plot of the book hinged on Victor Sells using magic to create a mystically-enhanced drug and wage a gangland war. In the show, Victor Cutler was the grief-ridden father of a dead girl. He used magic to seek revenge on those he blamed for her death. He was betrayed by a demonic familiar. The resolution involved a brief magical battle, a hapless victim for Dresden to save, and a last-minute save from Morgan when Dresden could not protect himself. It also removed agency from the antagonist, who was no longer entirely responsible for his actions. The complex layers of mystery and intrigue had been simplified so the plot could be resolved in forty minutes.

Fans of the books were not satisfied. Audiences tuned out, and the show was canceled after twelve episodes. Despite the lackluster reaction, Butcher initially showed support for the show. In later interviews and public appearances, he has been more ambivalent about the experience as a whole. On his website forum Jim-Butcher.com, he wrote, “I AM NOT TAKING THE SHOW INTO CONSIDERATION FOR THE BOOKS, EVEN A LITTLE. I mean jeez. Those guys didn’t even send me a comp copy of the DVD. And when a friend gave me a copy of the DVD set, I popped it onto a shelf and there it has stayed, unopened.”

The show was a disappointing adaptation that failed to last an entire season. On several message boards, audience members said that the show failed to capture the appeal of the books. Dresden is not interesting because of the details of his circumstances, but because of his willingness to face insurmountable challenges. The character has power and he believes that conveys a responsibility to help people without that power. In the show, the weaker, less-competent Dresden had fewer moral dilemmas: he was already doing everything he could. In the books, Dresden could always turn away from the path he’d chosen and abuse his power. Audiences also noted that the acting was stilted and the plots were simplistic.

Storm Front As Graphic Novel

First issue of the Storm Front comic

The graphic novel is a closer adaptation that works on a level the book could not provide: it is a solid visual representation of the setting. Casting, setting, monsters and magical effects are not limited to budgetary concerns. The only question of what can be show is due to the limits of the artist and the need to make a deadline. The story is the same that originally appealed to audiences, and the characters were not changed. The comic was the second-best seller for its publisher in the year of its release.

In his introduction to the first volume of the Storm Front graphic novel, Butcher wrote, “Harry Dresden, in my head, had always been a comic book hero. The biggest scenes and confrontations in The Dresden Files almost always crystallize into a single image in my imagination, and that image becomes the basis for the scene around it.”

The story in this volume hewed closely to the novel. Dresden and his supporting cast were based on the descriptions in the books with additional input from Butcher. The story was compressed: Dresden starts the book already on his way to the crime scene and planning to meet Monica Sells. The narrative uses images to present reactions or detailed passages, such as when he peers into the soul of the gangster John Marcone.

This adaptation presented a slightly modified story. While events happened in the same order as in the book, they happened with different emphasis. The comic was able to use a single graphic image where the book took pages to describe the disturbing state of the murder victims. Action happens in a panel or a page rather than occupying most of a chapter.

The ethos of the comics is much stronger for fans of the books; they can immediately recognize the adaptation as being more faithful than the television show. Dresden has not been given a different backstory or relationships to deal with. Readers can anticipate the events, but still enjoy the subtle alterations and enjoy the thrill of seeing Dresden as he might appear in their minds’ eyes.

The comic adaptation was well received by Butcher’s readers who are also familiar with the graphic novel format. Contemporaries of Butcher grew up in a time when many early reading experiences could come through comic books. They were trained to picture events and characters performing great feats in comic panels. Readers of comic books have visceral reactions when Dresden stands between a helpless person and a fearsome demon: a confrontations that is strong in text, but is even more powerful when shown as an image. The books is able to convey more insight into the characters and events around them, but the comics provide a useful additional perspective on the original work.

In Conclusion

Dresden Files role-playing game

And what of fan adaptations? These can be seen on websites such as DeviantART.com or Renderosity.com which display our own imagined Dresdens and his cast of characters. Fans can write stories which will never be published, and share them with other fans on FanFiction.net. Or they can play the roleplaying game and imagine themselves as characters sharing the stage with Harry Dresden and Lieutenant Murphy.

Despite the varying quality of Storm Front‘s adaptations, there is something about the series that calls to an audience. Other creators are inspired to put their own spin on the story. The fact that there have been so many different adaptations indicates that there is enough interest in the series for audiences to ask for new formats. Even now, there are discussions for even more adaptations; on his message board, Jim Butcher has said he’s waiting to regain the film rights in order to pursue either a feature film or another television series. The comic series is ongoing, covering his books in order. This series is a text that affects so many people strongly that they have a desire to see more of the story in any given format. This can only be defined as a rhetorical success.

Bibliography

Audio Publishers Association. (APA) Fact Sheet. 2005. PDF file.

Beimler, Hans, & Wolfe, Robert Hewitt (Producers). (2007). The Dresden Files [Television series]. Toronto: Sci Fi Channel.

Butcher, Jim. (2000). Storm Front. New York: Penguin Books.

Butcher, Jim. (2008). Introduction. The Dresden Files: Storm Front Volume One: The Gathering Storm. Adaptation by Mark Powers. 2008. New York: Del Rey.

Hibbs, Brian. “Looking at BookScan: 2008.” Tilting at Windmills: Comic Book Resources. Comic Book Resources, 19 Feb. 2009. Web. 17 Oct. 2010. <http://www.comicbookresources.com/page=article&id=20119>

Jim-Butcher.com. Jim Butcher, Fred Hicks, 2004. Web. 16 Oct. 2010.

Lalumière, Claude. “A Short History of American Comic Books.” January Magazine. January Magazine, April 2000. Web. 17 Oct. 2010. <http://januarymagazine.com/features/comix.html>.

Marsters, James. Storm Front. Buzzy Multimedia Publishing Corp. 1 Aug. 2005. Audiobook.