The Queen Song 2019 redo

Status: 1st Draft

The Queen Song 2019 redo

Status: 1st Draft

The Queen Song 2019 redo

Book by: m w mccoy


Genre: Non-Fiction

Content Summary

Special Agent Boris, a mutilated man seeking vengeance, is forced into an unsanctioned team up with Agent Yoshi, a woman seeking to free her brother from a Chinese Triad. The case leads them both
to a cult compound in Death Valley California, and the root cause of both their problems, the Alien human hybrid identified as Experiment Number 8.



Content Summary

Special Agent Boris, a mutilated man seeking vengeance, is forced into an unsanctioned team up with Agent Yoshi, a woman seeking to free her brother from a Chinese Triad. The case leads them both
to a cult compound in Death Valley California, and the root cause of both their problems, the Alien human hybrid identified as Experiment Number 8.

Author Chapter Note

Note: numbers are only written in dialogue. 'single quotes' indicate a proper noun, idea, emotion. Is the dialogue punctuation distracting? Any help would be great.

Chapter Content - ver.4

Submitted: April 07, 2019

Comments: 1

In-Line Reviews: 2

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.4

Submitted: April 07, 2019

Comments: 1

In-Line Reviews: 2



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The Queen Song

1) Scenes 1-3

Mike W McCoy


Version 4


<>1<>  They shared the same dream.


The dream started as an emotion of danger.  It permeated the primordial darkness from all directions.  The feeling breathed, pushing and pulling the hallucination deeper.  Each separate consciousness gathered within the dream was a unique awareness which had heard the same siren song echoing seamlessly.


Swift, ghostly quick shapes began to form and struggle as the surreal song slid straight into a strangulation of superior strength.  The mental illusions were becoming a shredding experience.  The dream slowly surfaced glimpses of a ‘Something’, and during struggled heartbeats, showed many ‘Somethings’.


Drowning on less and less air, the 1st dreamer felt his visions careen closer to reality.  The unwanted horrors grew brighter and bolder until suddenly he was face to face with the Alien nightmare.




The long scream started within a hallucinated scream and dropped a heart wrenching sound turning the dream into reality. 

His desperate cry at nothing visible upset the cardboard and cockroach condos of the small side street.  Several more incoherent curses crept up from the same dark fears, but they stayed subtly submerged below a thick veneer of grotesque acceptance.

Confused, crusted, and crimson rimmed eyes tried to stay open, but they could only blink fast and hard, like a dying bird's broken wing.  Now awake, old man’s shell-shocked features were bathed by a bright glow.  His isolated section of the concrete cancer had rarely felt natural sunlight, but today the Left Coast City’s soaring glass towers bounced the rising glare of daybreak inside.

A light rain had cleaned the grime of dust-blown pollution from a wide swath of the downtown sprawl.  The chrome-plated reflections off the cement and steel looked angular and familiar to him.

A soft warmness slowly radiated, beckoning like a sacred temple.  It appeared to those looking for a fix, looking for salvation, looking to end the pain.  They alone could witness this supernatural wonder.

Unsteady footsteps moved him across the street’s sparse traffic lanes. The latent dreamer no longer imaged like a stain slumped against the curb.  His costume was a crumpled chaos of rags for clothes, un-laced boots for feet, trash for treasure, and smell as a shield.  The thin man’s eyes remained transfixed towards the natural paradise while he continued, oblivious to the danger of vehicles stopping short, or the angry blaring horns.

His goal of a side-alley door was close, it looked tempting and safe.  Fumbling a moment amid his wardrobe, he withdrew a screwdriver and other clutter, some of which immediately lost to gravity.  Clutching the tool tightly, he slurred a prayer to St. Somebody, and relished the morning light once more.

Working quickly, he scurried inside like a rat, leaving the dropped pocket debris to blow as the door swung shut.  The trash and trinkets swept and swirled until only a single scrap landed right side up.  It was an expired Military Ration Receipt for the name Ace Veilleurs.




<>2<>  The visual sting pushed.

The 2nd dreamer’s experience within the same song was half full of memory, half full of Hell.  With each finite yet boundless moment the 2 certainties tugged in opposite directions, becoming a frayed rope of sanity.  Threaded throughout the dreamed song others also moved, but inside the intangible dark, all were sensing more than seeing. 

The extra sensory perception invading this older man’s skull was a pull of emotion that beckoned forever forward.  It left behind a darkness that offered only a nothingness, an oblivion of surrendered action, an end to the terror haunting his daily waking life, a way out.  Slowly a force seemed to build atop the pull forward.  It was like being trapped in a pit under a suffocating fall of debris.

‘Memory’ overlapped the dream.  The rubble felt real as the lunar cave system continued to crumble.  It made his low gravity death dance hilarious and haunting at the same time.  Hot fast breath echoed inside the pressure suit’s helmet, fogging up the view; no, not breath, blood.

The sounds of running changed.  The hard metal decks shuddered and shook until he stood still.  The dreamed song was now only felt by its absence, and in its frame ‘Memory’ had painted everything crimson.  The repellant gore tinted the view, skewing the perspective, and made the escape feel like a copy of his other tragic top secret mission. 

The shifting glimpse showed a chaotic cluster of barnacle-textured eggs blocking the straight exit path.  The trashcan sized pods appeared solid like concrete, yet flexed and bulged with life.  The tops of the outer eggs began to move, and peeled back as flowers do, and released a sticky moisture which turned into floating ice crystals.  Something inside the eggs twitched with anticipation, and a gut-clinching fear raced towards reality.

The recall was jagged; a long legged slime covered spider crawled upwards, the airlock door was closing, more shadow covered eggs peeled open, and a crash of fresh crumbling ceiling a come.1

The audio of the shotgun blasts played without sound, but the visual sting pushed him closer towards reality.  The weapon created gory ragged wounds in the eggs, imaging as bowls of pea soup dropped to the floor in 1/6 Earth normal gravity. 

The shotgun blasted silently again, and again, aiming high towards the fast creature scampering across the roughhew cavern wall.  Now it resembled more of a giant crab with a snake for a tail as it slipped below the next blast.  Most of the missed buckshot ricocheted, and created a new confusing cloud of rubble.

Ducking low below the debris, the open doorway beckoned, but when only a step from freedom, Death jumped forward.  The last shotgun blast ripped half the legs off the airborne monster, but in its demise, spinning off with the speed of a clay pigeon, blood and viscera sprayed back.

Reality over-wrote the dream song, and ‘Memory’ became pain paired with a flashed visual of a melting faceplate.




The same shared scream into a scream awoke the 2nd dreamer. 

Realism assaulted, confusing angles overlapped.  The physical sensation of movement felt restrained but somehow still like falling.  Certainty slowly refocused into becoming the back row, window seat, of an old style terrestrial jumbo jet only moments from landing at the Left Coast City.

Outside, the artificial glow of the vast metropolis was defined the by the contrast of the rebuilding efforts.  The central core radiated the white and bright, while the edges groped into the darkness of the outlying Sideways City. 

The view onto this vista was only a pale smudge behind the inside reflected image of the big man sitting in that window seat.  The glass highlighted his discolored callused skin that crept down from forehead to neck like melted candle wax.  The surviving left-side profile was nearly intact with only minimal mutilation.  It was a look that would frighten even the horrors in Hell

On the seatback folding tray table, a dark laptop style computer squatted.  The small screen ran a looping slideshow; a cargo manifest from the space vessel USM AURIGA, photos of mutilated human chests, each looking as if something had burst out from the inside, a complex chemical formulae, images of blood speckled spreadsheets, and finally a world map showing the spread of something poisonous.

The complete story was there.  The space vessel’s crash had released an anhydride fungus onto the Heartland of America.  Millions had died in the first weeks. The Great Plains states became a poisoned wasteland.  Panic and fires then spread the deadly spores globally.

Now 20 plus years and billions of human lives later, only a handful of diehard crusaders still searched for the real cause of ‘the Crash’.  The cloned half-breed human/Alien mix identified primarily as Experiment Number 8.




<>3<>  Insisted itself upon all others.

The hybrid mind of Experiment Number 8 made the song more than a dream.  It was her Alien extra sensory acuity that became the voice behind the dark, the Queen Song.  From her, the limitless ethereal void was given life.  Her essence crawled along the inward curves of the darkness.  From her, a vibe of passion encircled and embraced the sweaty writhing flesh of the dreamers.  Her madness and inherent instinct insisted itself upon all others, feeding them visceral sensations of power and unity.

In the physical world outside of the fantasy, Experiment Number 8’s flushed feral face was hidden by a living mass of oily dark tangled hair.  It clung to the naked flesh of shoulders and heaving breasts.  A rancid hot breath blew hard and fast, gasping past swollen and scabbed cracked lips. 

Somehow the dream started to lose control of the otherworldly darkness.  The song began to angle sharply into reality.  Suddenly the moment changed course inside the dream.  It fed inward on itself and severed the connection between the 2 most promising male minds.




The thrice echoed sound was now a primal scream of anger.  It enforced and dictated her inherent violent action. 

Eyes still closed, and reality now dominating, Experiment Number 8 lunged forward.  She struck out with exceptionally sharp teeth into the exposed throat of the lover below her.  Then with a feral grunt, she ripped flesh up and back, tearing a hole of Death. 

The dying naked man tried to talk, but only a hiss escaped his blood covered questioning face.  Ignoring the arterial spurts, she dove back down and bit again and again.  And as her face became buried in the torn flesh, heartbeats slowed, the dream died.  The Queen Song was gone. 

A new audio agitated the air; a rhythmic atonal chanting, countered with the scratching sound of thorns on flesh.  Thrusting up violently, gory streamers of crimson death dangled and dripped from her wide smile.  Slowly the eyes began to clear, and she stepped over the spreading puddle of blood.  She used a disjointed gait, as if both legs had forgot how to work, she moved clear of the fresh male corpse.

The rising light of daybreak shined a harsh glair into the huge crumbling carcass like cavern.  In birth, the chamber had been the theater of the Grand California Resort.  But now the room’s ruins stood with jagged ceiling holes, missing walls, and a clutter of pain and hate, cross-illuminated by burning child-sized fire pits. 

The flame’s reddish orange light helped to cast the 4 mostly naked singing handmaidens into a more serpentine allure.  Their ragged ripped and unmatched summer clothes exposed sunburned flesh and fresh seeping self-mutilations.  The blank eyed gaze and joyless smiles made them appear hypnotized by the influence of an extra sensory source.

The thin ragged looking Handmaidens recovered, advanced on their queen, and began to clean away the warm blood from her naked flesh.  Ignoring them, the wild haired woman used the pause to psychogenically feel the room. 

A new male had entered the chamber.

A dozen strides away a shirtless dark skinned man, standing well over 6 feet, moved out from between twisted shadows.  Desert-dusted and aged denim added a professional beach bum look to the cunning cruel cut of his narrow jawed face.





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