Ray Miranda is a horror writer from the Bronx whose fiction has appeared in Circuit Traces. Title graphic by Lucy A. Snyder. Dark Planet is designed and edited by Lucy A. Snyder. If you spot any errors, or if you have any comments, please contact her at lusnyde@cyberus.ca. All materials copyright 1996-1997 by their respective creators. No stories, articles, poems or images from this webzine may be posted or published without the written consent of their creator(s).

Marc Warren felt himself starting to nod. The steady rocking motion of a subway car generally had that effect on him, especially in tandem with a dime bag of dope. Through narrowed eyes he could see the other passengers staring at him with undisguised revulsion. And why not? Unkempt, unshaved, unwashed, he may as well have had the word "Junkie" tattooed across his forehead. "Let 'em stare," he mumbled. "Fuck 'em." He wondered how these judgmental assholes would react if they knew the sacrifice he had made in their behalf. Or even if they would give a shit at all, for that matter. I hate fucking New York, he thought to himself for the billionth time that day. But it does serve its purpose. Marc stumbled out of the train station, and headed toward Valentine Avenue. Home was a shitty one bedroom in a decrepit apartment complex. The halls reeked of old wine and piss, but Marc never let that bother him. He'd been subjected to far worse. His apartment was on the top floor, wedged in a small corridor right off the elevator. It provided the isolation he desired. No, that wasn't right, was it? Not desired. Required would be closer to the truth. Tossing his jacket on the threadbare sofa, Marc made his way into the bedroom without bothering to turn on the lights. Darkness made the apartment almost bearable, transforming the thrift-shop relics strewn about into amorphous shapes that merely insinuated poverty. Edison's brainchild only served to drive that fact home. Sitting on the lumpy mattress, he opened another packet from the bundle he'd purchased earlier. Marc lit a scented candle on the milk crate that served as an end table, casting an eerie pall across the room. He carefully emptied the packet into a tarnished spoon, not wasting a granule of powdered comfort. He tightened the rubber tubing around his arm, and held the spoon over the candle until its contents were bubbling. Arming the syringe with its payload, he slid it into a vein and released, granting Mother Heroin access to the highways and byways that stretched throughout his body. Lying down, Marc permitted himself a quick glimpse out of the single window gracing the room. Night was falling, and in a short while the moon, that pale and bloated pellet that corrupted the night sky, would arise. It was the moon that had been responsible for his rapid plunge down the social ladder, dumping him to live among the flotsam and jetsam of human debris. The moon that was responsible for the liquid death that poisoned his body each day. No point in anger; the dope wouldn't allow it in any case. Just relaxing, floating away on a shimmering opium ribbon, drifting toward a tranquil place devoid of judgment, devoid of heartache. Devoid of beasts. Sometimes, when the baking soda cut was a little too heavy or the quality of the dope was low, the dreams would come. Dreams of a former reality; dreams of parties and women and respectability. Then the dreams would change shape, darken, and the perfectly sculpted women and the subtly fawning men would be replaced. By beasts. Or at least, one beast in particular. Marcus Aurelius Warren. King of the Beasts. Tonight, the dope was good and the cut was low. Skinny had hooked him up right and proper. There'd be no dreams. Just sweet, sinking oblivion; a slow cruise to nowhere. That was just fine with Marc. Even nowhere was better than here. The morning sun filtering through the grime-encrusted window slowly nuzzled Marc back into consciousness. Chalk up one more night free of mayhem; one more life saved. Mother Heroin, Tamer of Beasts. Marc slowly rose from the bed, stumbled over to the bathroom, and splashed a handful of rusty water on his face. He allowed himself a furtive glance in the mirror above the sink, then quickly turned away. His once-handsome features had eroded into a topography of lines and creases stretched taut across the landscape of his skull. The eyes that once broke a thousand hearts were dull and lifeless, sunken deep within their sockets as if trying to hide from some imagined enemy. He wore the face of a junkie. It was a shitty face for anyone to wear, and he took a minute to remind himself about that other face, the one far worse than the used-up countenance he now sported. Bitterness welled up inside of him as he remembered. The hunting trip, the attack, the bite, the pain, the change. Rending a human being into scraps of offal with teeth as sharp as daggers; gorging himself upon the sweet flesh of one he had called friend. The shock, the guilt, the repulsion after the change had reversed itself. He found it nearly impossible to live with himself. Yet it was equally difficult for him to end his own life. Knowing what he had become, there were no guarantees a suicide would even take. And so, he hunted and killed by moonlight, and drowned in self-hatred at daybreak, until the solution finally became clear to him. The first time, being unacquainted with these endeavors, he had administered himself a partial dosage. The result, while not catastrophic, did not merit a repeat performance. He had undergone a partial transformation, not quite man, not quite beast, stumbling around the room in a lycanthropic jones. Being one of those rare souls who actually learn from their mistakes, Marc increased the hit on the following night. No change at all. The beast was subdued. No need to resort to silver, not when white was just as effective. But much more habit-forming. At first, his drug use was resricted to the times when the moon was full. But Mother Heroin is a jealous lover; her embrace not so easily dismissed. The monthly trips downtown became weekly, and in a short time became as much a part of his daily regimen as washing his face or combing his hair. Perhaps even more so. Personal hygiene had gone the way of platform shoes in terms of relevance in his life. But the jones kept on tickin' till he did the stickin'. And so began his descent down the escalator of society, becoming one of those nameless, faceless people we happen to encounter in our daily travels; the ones who remind us, "There but for the grace of God go I". And we shuffle quickly past him, unaware that this glassy-eyed, disheveled washout is actually a hero of the greatest sort. A man who sacrificed his humanity in order to retain it. A man who chose to eradicate his own future so that others might achieve theirs. A beast among men. A king among beasts. Heading downtown on the "D" train. To keep a date with Mother H. And keep us safe from harm. THE END