its appearance, but Differel could discern no pattern. In fact, it seemed to be the very opposite of a pattern, as if the nature of absolute and utter chaos could itself be a kind of orderly arrangement, just one no human mind could comprehend. The only thing she found inexplicable was that it was yellow instead of orange.
"I swear," the Princess intoned, "by the Yellow Sign, emblem of Lost Carcosa, on the shore of Lake Hali, in the Hyades, under the eye of Aldebaran; in the name of the Phantom of Truth and the Pallid Mask; witnessed by Hastur, Lord Of All; that I shall abide by the rules I have set forth for this, our game. If I lie: may my soul be consigned to eternal torment in the cloudy depths of dread Demhe."
She opened her eyes and dropped her hands. The sign lingered for a moment in the air, then wavered and faded away. Differel felt glad. While it remained, it had seemed as if the whole universe had grown dark, as the sign felt like a tear in the very fabric of existence. With its passing she shuddered, relieved, as if having witnessed the hairsbreadth escape of the world from Doomsday.
"Does that satisfy you, Cousin?" Her tone of voice suggested she would not accept any answer other than yes. Differel nodded, trying to get control of her haggard breathing. If the Princess had been willing to invoke Armageddon to prove her sincerity, she wasn't going to challenge it.
The Princess grinned and clapped her hands. "Ooooo, this'll be so much fun! So, this is what you do: go to the stables."
She waited for the Carcosan to say more, but she only grinned. "And what then?"
"Oh, you'll figure it out! But if you don't, or if you can't do what's needed, I win! But, I do need to make one minor change before we start." She snapped her fingers.
She felt her bosom grow warm. She raised her hands to her breasts out of reflex and felt something odd. Looking down, she jumped: they were now at least four cup sizes bigger. They didn't sag, either, but sat firm and erect like those of an anime bimbo.
"Bloody hell!"
"Don't worry, they'll revert to normal when the hour is up, though let me know if you wanna keep 'em! But you'll need them to win the game."
"Very well. Speaking of reverting, restore my people."
The Princess shook her head. "Nope, I'll need 'em, to provide obstacles for you to overcome. But when the hour's up, as I promised, win or lose, they'll be back to normal with no memory of what they did."
"I understand."
"Good. If that's all, then let the games begin! Your hour starts now. Good luck, Cousin!" She vanished with a giggle, to be replaced by a phantom stop watch beginning a sixty-minute countdown.
She looked around, wondering what to do. "Oh, bother." Obviously, she had to get out of the house, but how? There was only one--
The sound of the kick panel being opened startled her. She whirled and watched as someone pushed a box of files out of the way. She glanced at the guns in the case, but decided against arming herself. She wouldn't shoot her own people, and in their present state she doubted they would feel threatened by the sight of a weapon. If only one or two got in, maybe three, she figured she could subdue them, but if it was an entire horde she was doomed. She couldn't fight them all in the close confines of the safe's interior.
Fortunately only one person emerged; naked except for a single sock on the left foot, her same height and build, with a slightly larger bosom (before her 'enhancement'), an identical face, but with blue eyes, no glasses, and a brassy blonde short-cut. It turned out to be Magdalene Ingrid King, codenamed Miss Primary, her best, most experienced double, and manager of the Caerleon Order.
Maggie glanced at her as she stepped through stooped over, then straightened up. "Thank God I found you!" She started towards her. "I--Jesus Christ! What happened to you?" She stared at her in bug-eyed shock, her mouth twisted into a sneer of disgust.
Differel couldn't help looking down at herself. "What, the clothes or the Bristols?"
Recovering, Maggie stepped up to her. "Frankly, both, but the former I can figure out myself."
"They're a gift from the Princess in Orange."
"Is she behind all this?!"
"I'm afraid so. She and I are engaged in a game. I have to find out the cause of all this and correct it in one hour, or I become her plaything forever." She circled her breasts with a finger. "She gave me these to fix whatever the bloody hell is wrong. I also imagine you're my partner."
"What?"
"I asked for help. I was going to request Team Girl, but she said she sent them away so they wouldn't interfere. Instead it looks like she sent you. What do you remember?"
Maggie scratched her head. "Not much. I was going over some reports with Sharona, when I blanked out. I seem to recall snatches of an orgy, then chasing after you. When I snapped back to reality, I was outside your office with a bunch of other people trying to break in. I figured you needed help, whatever was happening, so I snuck off and went through the access panel in Intelligence."
"Good, because I could use your assistance."
"I don't know that I'd be any good under the circumstances."
"Giles would probably have been a better choice, but other than him, you are the best trained in unarmed combat."
"If you say so, but wouldn't a gun be better?"
She gave her a level stare. "Could you shoot one of our colleagues?"
She flashed a sheepish smile. "Stupid question; sorry. One hour, huh? Where do we begin? How can we find out what happened?"
"The Princess already told me where I need to go: to the stables. What I need to do when I get there, however; all she said was, I'd know when I arrived."
"Fat lot of good that'll do us. Still, I guess it's a start. But how do we get out of the house? The office is blocked off, and it won't be long before they remember they can get in through here. When they find us gone, they'll fan out to look for us. Even if we can evade them inside, once outside they'll spot us for sure, and then they'll be after us like a pack of hounds!"
Differel picked a spotlight equipped with a high intensity discharge lamp from the equipment locker and flicked the switch to make sure it worked. "I know a way out that no one else knows about. If we can make it, they won't know where we went and they won't be able to follow." She glanced at the phantom clock. "But we have to leave now. We have only fifty-five minutes left, and it'll take time to reach our destination, plus we'll have to come nearly all the way back."
"I beg your pardon?"
She shook her head as she walked to the panel. "No time to explain. Just follow me, everything will become clear."
"If you say so."
Find the story here: [https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/406785].
From "Pyrrhic Victory"
Lt. Richard West scanned the barricade as he stood behind the forward squad. The dead swarmed over in ever greater numbers; in a little under an hour they had gone from a mere handful to a mob, and more arrived every minute. Not for the first time, he wondered how and where they knew to come.
A tracer round flashed above him and slammed into the skull of a corpse standing on the roof of a car, the explosive bullet disintegrating the head. It came from the top of a fifteen-foot platform behind him where lay a half-dozen sharpshooters. But even as the decapitated cadaver fell back off the barricade, its seven companions leapt off the crest and charged the line of jarheads at the base. Until a short while ago, the riflemen had been enough to stop the revenants from coming over the top, but at the moment too many came too quickly; another handful followed the first lot, and the snipers had to concentrate on them. Meanwhile, he could see the heads of more appearing over the crest of the ridge of rubble and debris that closed off the cul-de-sac.
The men and women in front of him did not hesitate. They fired at will with their forty-five automatics, modified to accept special clips that held 120 rounds each, and if the cadavers came within hand-to-hand range, they used machetes. The revenants could only be stopped by severe head trauma. That made automatic rifles and submachine guns useless, especially at close range. Th
ough any form of head trauma would do the trick, a .45 caliber slug or sharp, heavy blade had proven themselves to be the most effective and efficient means.
Even as the squad cut down the last corpse, Sgt. Kaylee Summers jogged up beside him. Though she had cut her luscious honey-blonde hair down to a severe crew-cut, her close-fitting fatigues accentuated her voluptuous figure. He knew she had been a nude model before the Apocalypse, and had once posed as a Playboy Playmate. The issue had come out the same day the dead had risen; some of the men joked that she had been cause. He still kept a copy, but he hoped some day she would give him a personal showing.
He stared at her with some impatience. "What's the fucking hold up?"
"Whateley's still chanting."
He turned around. Behind him, a chain-link fence had been set up. Beyond it were half a dozen mortar pits, and behind those stood a mausoleum. In front of its closed iron doors a tall, gaunt, hoary figure dressed in soiled rags gesticulated madly as he screamed gobbledygook in a harsh, guttural language. What remained of West's platoon surrounded the old coot, and two grunts held a giant book open in front of him.
He glanced at her without turning around. "We're running out of time."
She shrugged. "He did say it could take awhile--look out!"
He spun around in time to see a couple of dozen cadavers surge over the barricade. The sharpshooters brought six down immediately and four more fell to pistol fire as they