Shallow Graves: Fiction Preview (Patreon)

The chapter fiction in Chronicles of Darkness games has long served as a way to convey the mood of the game and the kinds of stories to be told with it. In some cases, it also showcases some of the new powers and narrative tools a supplement will put at a troupe's disposal. The Shallow Graves fiction does all of this.

People Who Died

Part I

Mathias sat on the balcony of his house overlooking his pool. Beyond the tall privacy fence surrounding it stretched a small forest, and past that — just before the horizon — he could make out the Gulf of Mexico. The sun hung low over the water, not yet a sunset but the promise of a beautiful one.

He glanced to his left at the other chair. It was empty. It had been empty for years — ever since cancer took Julie. Mathias knew his wife would have enjoyed watching the sunset with him.

Gripping the arms of his chair, he hoisted himself to his feet. He was by no means old — not yet 50, with a bare pate covered by a Marlins baseball cap. His hair had been buzzed short his entire adult life, so shaving it once his hairline had begun to recede seemed an obvious choice.

Mathias picked up the empty margarita glass. There was plenty of time to get another drink. He went inside, set the glass on the beautiful granite countertop, and opened the stainless-steel finished refrigerator. He had replaced all the kitchen appliances a year ago, after a particularly lucrative consulting gig.

“Major Mathias Washington,” said a woman’s voice behind him.

He spun, brandishing a half-empty, plastic margarita bottle like a weapon. His guns were in his bedroom, locked in a gun cabinet. The front door had sturdy locks to buy time for him to get them.

If the woman framed in the doorway to his living room regarded him as a threat, she gave no sign of it. She was short and slight, with dusky features and long black hair. She looked to be in her 20s or early 30s and wore a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.

Mathias deliberately set down the bottle on the counter next to the margarita glass. And the block of kitchen knives, in case it came to that. How had she gotten into the house?

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Me? From you? Nothing.”

He placed the accent as Afghan.

“My friends, however…”

She made a small motion with one hand, and a circular hole ringed in black fire opened in the space between her and Mathias. A white man and a tall black woman, both of them in their 30s, stepped out of the portal. He didn’t bother taking in more of their appearance than that as he reached for the French chef’s knife.

“No,” said the man, and Mathias’s hand struck an invisible barrier.

“Weingarten,” the major said.

Then an unseen fist closed around Mathias, pinning his arms and legs and lifting him a foot off the floor. He wriggled futilely.

The man, who wore crooked black glasses, offered a small, cold smile. “I knew you’d remember me, Major. I certainly remember you.”

“Clarence Weingarten,” Mathias said by way of acknowledgment.

“Monty Weingarten. Clarence was my grandfather’s name.”

Mathias managed a shrug despite the bonds holding him. “Who are your friends?”

“And I knew you wouldn’t remember me,” said the black woman, stepping forward. Her right arm hung by her side, swaying slightly with the movement as though it were a dead thing. “Kenya Moses. One of your Tailored Xenetics buddies’ failed experiments. There were nine of us for every Monty.”

No recognition in the major’s eyes.

“Three hundred soldiers died, sir.” Her fury was thick despite the softness of her voice. “300 more of us ended up like this.” She gestured at her limp right arm.

“Which is why I shut the program down,” Mathias reminded them. When they didn’t immediately respond, he continued. “I assume your Afghan friend is another Tailored Xenetics success story?”

The black fire portal abruptly vanished.

“Yes,” the woman in the jeans said. “After they killed and maimed hundreds of Americans in their experiments, they killed and maimed thousands of Afghans, luring us with promises of giving us the tools we’d need to fight the Taliban. Then they sold those same tools to our enemies.”

“I had nothing to do with any of that,” Mathias told her. “And I had no idea they were in bed with the Taliban. Look, I’m not your enemy here.”

“You’re lying,” Monty cut in. “You’ve never met Zafir, but we know you’re still doing work for Tailored Xenetics.”

“I’m just a consultant,” Mathias stammered. “I know nothing about their inner workings.”

Fear. The fear of the animal as the door to the trap slams shut.

“Ah, but we know you’re working on a project with Michael Swan,” Monty told him.

“You want to know where he lives?”

“We already know that,” Kenya said.

“We want the names of his friends within the organization,” Monty clarified. “We want what you know about his handlers.”

“No one can handle Swan but you, Weingarten. I wish you’d reconsider their offer.”

Mathias grunted as the invisible fist tightened around him until he could barely breathe.

Monty’s voice shook with rage as he spoke. “We’re not doing this again.”