Hey folks, How do I start. I am a big fan of horror, particularly survival horror stories. Regardless of the form, whether it be a b-movie zombie slasher flick, or some old pulp H.P. Lovecraft short story, or the long-awaited Fallout3 (fellow nerds, eh, EH? no? oh....meh, thats ok.) I have begun a novel. I will be posting chapters whenever I've completed one. If you've ever read Cormac McCarthy's "The Road," you will instantly see that this tale is indeed the Prince to it's King. (P.S. Why does it belong in the S.L.? Well, simply because my late night ravings on MS Word are fueled by that sweet sweet herb! Nevertheless mods, feel free to move at your discretion.) So lets begin, children....
I. It had been four days since the jeep died. What they could salvage, they brought, tied to their backs like beasts of burden. Two worn wool sleeping bags, a thermos, a flare gun (no flare), an old bait box, knick knacks, and the rest of their rations. They keep a galloping pace, always, always towards the descending sunset. At middays, David builds a makeshift lean-to, using an old tree branch he had found, and their sleeping bags as the awning. He rarely sleeps, because he knows they always wait. He thinks he can feel their eyes on him. The boy's usual plague of nightmares seem to subside during the day. David watches over him. He is his guardian. He knows and acknowledges this, although at times he is resentful. Resting midday is good out here in the badlands; he recalls his father saying that the heat brings out the bad in folks. Makes them cuckoo. He reminds himself, they aren't people anymore. An old magnum .45 hung at David's side. Lately, he had slept with it in his hand. Its familiar weight, the only comfort he could hold onto, now that the damned car had died. They stay off the road, but always in eyesight. The terrain is rougher, but David doesn't mind. He hasn't met any of them in the last two weeks, but still he remains wary. They do math problems as they walk. Calvin is bright for his age. His division is still shaky. He racks his brain for the answer. "Do you give up?" He asks. "No, no I think I've got it.." he replies. He never gives in. Funny, david thinks. He hasn't yet asked him how old he was. He is lanky, and carries an ackward gait. His chest looks hollow under his t-shirt. But his cheeks remain rosy, day in day out. He laughs to himself often. David has stopped trying to ask him why. "Cuckoo for cocoa puffs!" He yells, as his faded sneakers kick up a cloud of dust. "Calvin, let it be," David whispers. And it is enough. He had hit him, back in Lucy. He remembers his backhand, how his knuckles met his cheekbone. They had taken a pit stop, back when their luxury on four wheels still had a working alternator. They were on their way, and the boy had grabbed the safety brake, damn it. What should he have done? He did not cry, but the way his smile faded. Vanished, so suddenly, cut David deeply. I'm sorry, he repeats, as he caressed the boy's head. "It's ok, it's ok, I was bad. I'm sorry." They don't talk for awhile afterwards. For dinner that night, David makes him a tuna sandwich, using the last of their crusty bread. He eats the crust. He gives him their last coke. Calvin takes a few sips and gave it back. "You have it." He said. Calvin is good boy. They were headed to Gran Quivira. He reckoned they had 20 miles more to go. 25, tops. Towards mid afternoon, they run upon a ramshackle cabin. David is torn. He wants a cigarette so bad, he can almost taste it. "Fuck," he whispers under his breath. Turning to Calvin, he says "stay here, if bad comes to bad, leave the bags and run. Run fast." The boy stands, smiling. As if to say, "don't worry, bro. I got you covered." David can't help but crack a smile. He walks towards the door. He is surprised to see it is not made of wood, but of solid reinforced steel. Cautiously, he knocks. 30 seconds. 45. Another knock. He turns the handle. It is locked, and for some reason this comforts him. He stands back, and gives the door three hard kicks. On the fourth, it give in. A foul odour assualts him. Sulfur, rotten eggs, morgues. Gurggling, to his left. He turns, and he sees the top half of what can only be one a... .....His legs were missing. He chewed them off, above the knee, the tattered bits of khaki from his pants stuck to the wall, pasted on with bits of flesh and spittle like some horrible mural. They meet, eye-to-eye. David is frozen. The man, this thing, is in pain. David knows he has eight bullets, total. Twenty miles, but probably more like twenty five more to go. Calvin is scared-shitless. He is keenly aware that he is alone, on all sides. He wants desperately to peek in. But he knows its wrong. He stands with his hands in his pockets. He nervously examines his lucky quarter. The brightly polished owl seems to smile back, knowingly. "Michigan," he whispers under his breathe. "I wish i wish i wish I were in Michigan." He hears a single, heart-stopping gunshot. David rushes out of the cabin. His face is pale like the moon. "Lets move." Calvin doesn't hesitate. David pounds out a soldier's march, using his tree branch as a walking stick. Calvin finds this somehow comical. He thinks it makes David look old. "What happened?" "It was one of them." he says. He is looking away, his brow furrowed. He reaches for David's hand. It is cold and wet. Calvin knows not pry. "Answer me honestly, kid." "Ok." "Did the gunshot scare you?" "ya." "Me too." They walk towards the midday sun. FIN
