• Out Of The Fire, Into The Flames (zombie apocalypse setting)
    32 replies, posted
[Url=http://www.wattpad.com/story/16632319-out-of-the-fire-into-the-flames]Click here to read the story on Wattpad, minus all the thread commentary. Chapters are added as they're written, and using the Wattpad app will allow you to read it formatted as an ebook.[/URL] [I]Looks like I picked a bad day to quit smoking[/I]. Tom stood, just barely, teeth gritting. His right hand was nearly gone; white bone peeked timidly through the wet mass of red and black that once was palm and fingers. A twisted, ruined thumb, an index finger, and ragged strands of flesh and tendon were all that remained, clinging tenaciously to a mangled, throbbing stump. He couldn't so much call it a [i]wrist[/i] anymore. Wrists are those things at the ends of arms that connect to hands. This no longer qualified. He spat. A crimson-brownish wad smacked wetly onto the charred sidewalk, mixing with dirt, soot, and ash. There appeared to be about half a tooth in there. He chuckled; he could have sworn there'd be more than that. Another concussive blast, to the left. He raised his remaining hand to shield his face. Too late. A chunk of charred, jagged plastic caught his cheek, glancing upward into his eyelid. "Fucker," he growled, plucking it free. A considerable amount of flesh came with it, and blood poured, a hot, stinging fountain down his face and neck. He couldn't tell if the shard had taken his eye, or if the blood had blinded him. Everything was darkness, noise, and pain. He didn't have time to check. Not worth worrying about, either way. He still had his right eye, and it was working well enough. He felt into his knapsack. Three of the five improvised explosives were nestled between his remaining water rations and his sword (actually a lawnmower blade with duct tape wrapped around one end as a rudimentary hilt. . .but hell with it. World's ended, you're gonna die. Fuck semantics). It was his fault, he knew. He'd trimmed the fuses too short. [I]No big deal[/I], he thought bitterly. [i]Lesson learned. And it only cost me a hand, possibly an eye, probably my life. Nothing of any real value.[/i] He could sense no more movement from the brood. Pack. Whatever the fuck you call a group of those things[I]. A flock of zombies? A herd of corpses? A gaggle of ghouls? A murder of. . .nah, that's hitting too close to home.[/I] The bodies smoldered, tiny legs and arms akimbo. Toddlers. All toddlers. Some rotted beyond recognition, others a bit fresher. The daycare staff that had survived the initial outbreak had managed to save a few of the children, at least for a few months, it seemed. But, it appeared, they had only postponed the inevitable. There had been three adult bodies in the garage, all too badly chewed, dismembered, and digested (if these things actually can digest) to have come back. At some point, the children turned. He hoped while they were asleep. He'd witnessed the process. . .it was a torment no child should endure. [I]Looks like I picked a bad day to quit drinking.[/i] Tom kicked at one of them, flipping it onto its back. He shuddered; the boy was about three years old, and still fresh enough to possibly pass for human. What hair hadn't singed off in the blast was sandy, and clung in ribbons to its pale, clammy scalp. Its clothing, bloodied and smeared in offal, still bore tiny animal patches. A giraffe and a monkey. [i]Fucking parents,[/i] he thought. [i]Is it that goddamned hard to match Garanimals?[/i] He shook his head. No matter how many times he witnessed it, he'd never get used to something so angelic being so damned lethal. He crept slowly into the kitchen. The door had been wide open, and he was on guard for any movement. The sword was heavy and ungainly. . .he had been right-handed, and this was going to be a bit of an adjustment. He banged it against a metal wastebasket, letting the clang-bash echo through the building, across the now-rust colored linoleum. No response. "Hey, kids, are ya ready?," he bellowed. Nothing. Not so much as an "Aye, aye, cap'n." He sighed, letting the knapsack fall to the floor with a dull thud. There were at least ten corpses in the room. Actual corpses; had they turned, they'd have been on him by now. One adult, and nine children. He'd clear them out in the morning. He went to the sink, and tried the faucet. A tiny, brown trickle. He'd expected as much, but old habits die hard. He checked the fridge. The food was a total loss, but there was a sizeable supply of bottled water, individually packed juices in boxes and plastic jugs, and freezer pops. Not so much freezer pops now, but they'd serve well as easily-transportable, sterile drinking water. Berry and orange flavored drinking water, but water nonetheless. He took one of the water bottles, opening the cap with his teeth, and carefully cleaned what remained of his hand. The pain was too much to bear, hitting him like a freight train, knocking him to his knees. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a large bag of cocaine. He never liked the stuff, but he saved it weeks ago from a dead dealer he'd stumbled on in a motel lobby. [i]Medicine is medicine,[/i] he'd reasoned, [i]especially these days.[/i] He scooped a liberal amount into his good hand, and rubbed it into the wound. He bit his lip, tears streaming into his wounded eye. The cocaine burned like fire, but he could already feel the numbness seep warmly into the ragged edges of the pain. The first aid kit was well-stocked, to a degree. Plenty of gauze and bandages, spray antiseptic for skinned knees, and a couple of boxes of Scooby-Doo Band-Aids. No painkillers stronger than bubblegum flavored liquid Motrin, and a half a bottle of Flintstones Gummies. "Ten million strong, and growing, motherfuckers," he muttered, spraying the stump with antiseptic. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. The pharmacies in just about every town he'd passed through had been picked clean well before he'd gotten to them, and they weren't likely to be receiving any more shipments in the foreseeable future. He wrapped his wounds, washed out his eye (still intact, he was pleased to find), and went scouting. He left his bag on the floor, not wishing to be needlessly burdened. He glanced at the shitty cartoon mural on the far wall. Dora and her dumbfuck animal compatriots grinned like doped-up assholes, seemingly satisfied that Nickelodeon no longer existed to sue for copyright infringement. "Dora, you're in charge. Watch my shit. Boots, you cover Dora. If shit goes down, you're my eyes and ears. Prepare for anything, and don't be afraid to go apeshit ninja if the need arises." He paused in the doorway, and turned back to the mural. "Oh, and one more thing. Swiper, no swiping. I mean it. No fucking swiping. I'm completely fucking serious. If I come back, and find that so much as a fucking Tic Tac got swiped, the monkey and the little Mexican cunt have my full permission to literally cut off your fox balls and shove them up your fucking butthole. This is not up for debate. I've had a long fucking day. I just set five children on fire with gasoline and fireworks in Sprite bottles. I blew off my own fucking hand, and I am not a man with whom to fuck. I'm especially not going to tolerate any fucking swiping, and I'm obviously not above sending a monkey and a preteen border jumper to castrate a fox. So please, for the love of God. . .Swiper, no goddamn swiping." [i]Yeah, I know. I've pretty much lost it.[/i] The bathroom was clean, and the toilet had enough water in the tank for one good flush. He'd save that flush for when it was absolutely needed. There was nothing of use, save for a nearly full bottle of Purell. He pocketed it; these days, cleanliness was next to godliness, at least as far as killing pathogens went. Plus, it was mostly alcohol, and highly flammable. He was sure he'd find a use for it. The nursery was a disaster. There had apparently been four babies, nestled into one large crib. One had died first, it seemed, and turned in time to feed on the other three. There wasn't much left of them. The lucky winner had made it out, only to break its arms on the floor below. It lay at his feet, struggling to crawl, inching on its belly like a bloated grub. It gurgled and hissed, gnashing what few teeth it had at the toe of his boot. He took a breath, closed his eyes, and tried to pretend the wet pop under his heel was a rotting apple. It didn't work. [i]Looks like I picked a bad day to quit sniffing glue.[/i] He hurriedly closed the door. He had no desire to search the room further. There was one more door at the end of the hall. He tried the knob. It didn't budge. Locked. He took a few steps back, and forced his shoulder into it. The cheap door gave easily, splintering around the lock like balsa wood. He raised his sword, ready for-- "Don't hurt me! I'm not armed!" He turned to the far corner, toward the source of the voice. An older man, around sixty, overweight and terrified, cowered behind thick glasses. He wore a sweaty white shirt, and pink scalp peeked from underneath a sloppy, greasy combover. "Please. . .take anything. I'm not armed. . .I won't fight you. . ." Tom put the sword in the crook of his right arm, and held his hand out. "Easy, mister. Breathe. Friend. I'm not gonna hurt you." The man blinked, breathing rapidly. "Promise? The way things have been going to hell. . .I don't know what to think. You're the first person I've seen in months. The few people before that. . .well, there's a reason that door was locked. Wasn't just because of. . .well, them." Tom nodded. Good people weren't the only ones that survived. He'd seen enough of the other to know that. The sad fact was, the bad people seemed to thrive. They were the ones willing to do things that good people had a harder time with. Stealing, killing, destroying. "I understand, friend. Can't be too careful. I'm not here to hurt you." The older man swallowed hard. "I. . .I heard explosions. Screaming." Tom nodded. "That was me. I got set on by a group of kids. Dead ones. They were small, but fast. A lot of 'em, at that. I barely made it. Lost most of my hand." The man eyed the bandages nervously. "Lost. . .bitten off?" Tom shook his head. "No, not bitten. Homemade bomb. Damn thing went off in my hand. The other one got the last of the little fuckers. Trust me. . .if they'd have bitten me, I'd have driven this blade as hard as I could into my damn eye. I have no desire to come back like that." The man squinted, still uneasy, but seemed to relax slightly. "Well. . .oh. Okay. I'm. . .I'm Frank. Frank Scolari. I own. . .owned this facility." "Tom. I--" He stopped, his eyes drawn to the table next to Frank. On it were a pair of rusty.pliers, and a glass ashtray. The ashtray was full of small teeth, and ragged, bloody fingernails. "Frank, what the fuck?" Frank opened his mouth, and was cut off by a sudden thud from the closet. Both men jumped, and Frank began to stammer. "That's. . .no. . .that's nothing. You don't need to. . .don't. . .no, wait--" Tom grabbed the knob, and yanked the closet open. Frank let out a whimper, and turned pale, as it fell to the floor. It was a boy. It had been about five years old when it turned. It was stripped naked, and bound at the wrists with strips of elastic torn from childrens' underpants. Its fingers were bloody, the nails having been ripped out, as had its teeth, presumably having been stored in the ashtray. From the scratches and cuts on its back and buttocks, Tom could guess why they had been removed. It had apparently, at one point, suffered rectal trauma, as evidenced by the dried blood streaking the backs of its thighs. It snapped toothlessly at them, without much fight, as if aware that biting would do no good. "What the fuck, Frank." Frank began to sob, wordlessly. Tom reared back, and smacked him hard across the face. "What. The. Actual. [i]FUCK.[/i]" "Don't judge me!" Frank's eyes were wide now, indignant. "Don't you dare fucking judge me! It's not a boy! It's not alive! You kill them, and it's not wrong! They're not alive!" Tom spat at him, clenching his teeth. "I kill them to stay alive, you sick son of a bitch. I take no pleasure in it. But you. . .you took the time to tie one up. . .a [i]LITTLE BOY[/i], no less. . .pull out its teeth so. . .so, what? So it wouldn't bite your dick off?! [i]SO YOU COULD RAPE A LITTLE BOY WITHOUT GUILT?![/i]" "Fuck you!" Frank's face was flushed with rage, his fists clenched at his sides. "Rape?! What rape?! It's dead, asshole! There is no rape! The law doesn't exist anymore! Yes, I [i]FUCKED[/i] him. I made him [i]SUCK[/i] me. So the fuck what?!" Tom's stomach churned in disgust. "You slimy piece of shit. You know damn well you've done this before. You own a daycare. . .perfect place for a scumbag like you, huh? Tons of fresh little boys, whenever you want. And the parents [i]PAID YOU[/i] to do it." Frank grabbed the front of his shirt. "[i]No! Shut the fuck up! You don't know jack shit![/i]" "You called it 'him.' Not 'it.'" Frank froze, scowled, and let go of Tom. He stepped back, and laughed bitterly. "Well, whoop-de-fuckin' do. You got me. Yeah, I fucked him. I fucked him until his asshole wore out, and then used his mouth. Because he made me hot. When his mouth started to get dry, I'd pump hand soap in there. Sometimes, I'd just spit in there. He'd try to bite. It just made it better. Sure, he'd fight back. Before, they sometimes fought back. But this was better. Before, I'd have to be careful, because I'd have to send them back to their parents. Couldn't get a scratch on them. But not this one. [i]He's mine[/i]. I can do whatever the fuck I want to him." Tom's grip on the blade tightened. Permanent lefty or not, he swung hard, catching Frank in the throat. It caught on his windpipe, spraying hot blood into Tom's eyes. He wrenched it free, letting Frank sink to his knees. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, eyes bulging, blood forming a froth at the hole in his neck with every attempted breath. He stood there a good ten minutes, watching Frank die. When his body finally stopped twitching, he grasped the handle firmly, and drove it with all the force he could muster into the man's eye socket. Withdrawing the blade, he did the same to the bound corpse moaning and snapping at his feet. At first, he felt a slight pang of guilt. . .even after the corpses started walking, he had never had to kill a living person. But he quickly shook it off. . .he still hadn't killed one. Frank didn't even begin to qualify. He made his way back to the kitchen, and gathered up what water and juice he could. He found some stale crackers, cookies, and bagged cereals in a pantry, and loaded them into a red wagon from the playground. He took the bottle of Purell from his pocket, and squirted it liberally on the carpet and drapes near the door. [i]Found a use for it after all[/i], he thought grimly, as he held a match to the drapes.
I know, I know. Everybody's writing zombie stories these days. I get tired of them, too. But this was a germ of an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. I hadn't planned on posting it anywhere, but I like where this ended up going, and I was actually surprised at how it ended up. I haven't really written anything serious in a few years (except for the train story in Fast Threads, but that was just for shits and giggles).
I like it.
I appreciate that. It was a challenge for me, writing a zombie story that didn't come off like Walking Dead fanfiction. [editline]20th May 2014[/editline] Update: Realized I had used "bitterly" three times in the story, so I changed the last instance of it to "grimly." Might replace one of the others, might not.
I'm thinking of going beyond just a short story. Tom's starting to become familiar to me, and I want to see where I can go with him. He's already got some fairly interesting character trademarks (a smartass in the apocalypse, making pop-culture references while dispatching zombies with a lawnmower blade. A righty who suddenly finds himself without a right hand), and I want to explore his world further. I'm working on a new chapter now. Not sure if I'm going the whole book route, but I don't think a series of interconnecting short stories is out of the question.
CHAPTER 2 [I]That's gonna leave a mark.[/I] Tom examined his hand. The flayed skin and muscle tissue was scabbed over, a hard crust with flecks of white fluff. The scabs had formed around the gauze, and bits of it remained embedded. It was dry and irritated, and the itch was maddening. But it would heal, given time. The appendage was, for all intents and purposes, useless; his arm now terminated into what amounted to a freakish lobster claw. A single finger, and a thumb that seemed permanently crooked at a forty-five degree angle. With luck, he'd be able to, in time, perform such vital and complex tasks as picking his nose. Maybe scratching his balls, if he didn't overdo it. Over the past three weeks, his left hand had made admirable progress toward taking the role of his dominant hand. He was able to strike matches with limited difficulty, and could now swing his sword with nearly as much proficiency as he had his right. Firing a gun was out of the question, at least for the time being. He doubted his left hand would ever be steady enough to aim with any real accuracy. Thankfully, though, the dead ones had been few and far between lately, and he had been able to dispatch them individually with a few well-placed chops to the skull. He was far from the cities now, staying mostly on remote country roads. The dead tended to keep to the main roads, and the towns. Here, in the open, he could see them coming from a distance, and could lay low, allowing them to pass without noticing. They seemed to track based on movement and sound. Funny. . .the movies and books always depicted them as having a keen sense of smell, able to pick up the scent of living flesh with ease. In truth, though, he doubted they could smell at all. Animals can track by scent due to a complex series of sensory organs. With the dead, however, the continuous state of decay made this unlikely. Sight and sound were more likely. He doubted if either sense was especially keen; they wouldn't need to be. When a predator doesn't actually need to eat to survive, it doesn't have to be especially efficient. He wrapped his stump, muttering. He was running low on gauze, and the Ace bandage had seen better days. He couldn'd spare much more of his bottled water to wash it out; it was apparent he'd need to make another supply run. It wasn't a prospect he particularly relished. Towns were bound to be tricky. Places where people lived in numbers meant places where people died in numbers. He was in no shape to confront a pack of those things. His hand had him at a definite disadvantage. [I]Jesus,[/I] he scolded his brain, [I]you whine too much. Get a fucking blog.[/I] Brook Haven Drive seemed like it may have been quaint, in better days. Aside from thick, overgrown grass, and hedges in dire need of pruning, the houses seemed in decent enough repair. The vinyl siding was bright, not more than a couple of years old. Probably still under warranty. Backyards bore concrete patios, barbecue grills, and swingsets. Weed-choked flowerbeds dotted every yard, and stepping stones peeked from the brush. Bicycles leaned against porches. None of them were chained up; this had been a nice neighborhood, it seemed. He'd remember to snag one on the way out. Tom held his sword at the ready, stepping lightly, deliberately. If anything was lurking nearby, it hadn't made its presence known. Glancing through the yards, he could see no movement. [I]Meaning that if those fuckers are around, they're still inside the houses, [/i]he thought with a grimace. That wasn't good; outside, in the open, he had options. Room to swing his blade. Ground to run. Indoors, he was cramped. Easily cornered. He approached the first house slowly, stepping gingerly on the weathered wooden porch. The windows were intact, and there was no sign of scratches on the door, no gouges. [I]Come to think of it, every house looks completely undamaged.[/I] It was unnerving; at no point had he seen any of the telltale signs of infestation. Aside from the overgrown grass, one would think time had stood still. That the outbreak had somehow passed this community by. [I]No way I'm that fucking lucky.[/I] The knob was unlocked, unsurprisingly, and the door swung open. The house was clean, but smelled musty, like mothballs, pipe tobacco, and old potpourri. The living room was garishly decorated, with lace doilies on the coffee table, and a plethora of knick knacks neatly displayed on shelves. Everything seemed to be in its proper place, with a thin layer of undisturbed dust sprinkled on every surface. The dead had obviously not touched this place. He allowed himself to relax slightly. He noted the plastic covering the couch and armchair, and the copies of AARP MAGAZINE neatly stacked on a nearby end table, next to a flyer: Brook Haven Retirement Village Weekly Newsletter. Pictures hung on the walls; at least seven different children, shown at different stages of childhood, smiled back at him. Grandchildren. Maybe great-grandchildren. "Well, that explains the swingsets." An examination of the kitchen confirmed this. A cupboard near the refrigerator was fully stocked with Ensure. Tom popped a can, and tossed it back. It wasn't particularly appetizing, but it was probably the most nutritious thing he had ingested in weeks.[i]Shoulda kept the wagon from the daycare,[/I] he thought ruefully. [i]This would be enough to keep me going for several days.[/I] On a hunch, he checked the fridge. [I]Bingo. Never met a geezer that didn't keep around some drinks for the grandkids.[/I] He made a quick inventory. "Okay, we got soda, water, purple stuff. . .all right! [i]Sunny D![/i]" He grabbed the Sunny Delight, and took a long, deep pull. It was warm, but sweet and refreshing. Checking the other cupboards, he found canned goods. Spaghetti-O's, Beef-a-Roni, Campbell's Chicken and Stars. . .kid food, for the most part. But a lot of it. There were dry goods, as well. Rice, pasta, dry beans. He had hit the motherlode; most houses he had encountered had been completely looted, or infested with corpses. He was usually lucky if he found the occasional can of tuna, some stale saltines. This supply run was paying off far better than he could have possibly anticipated. The medicine cabinet in the hall bathroom was likewise a goldmine. Gauze, fresh Ace bandages, three bottles of Amoxocillin, Darvocet, antibiotic ointment (as well as Ben Gay, Gold Bond powder, and Metamucil). He popped two Amoxicillin, dry-swallowinng them, and freshened his bindings, applying antibiotic ointment in a thick sheen. It was the first time in weeks he had clean dressings, and it felt good. Damn good. He opened the linen closet, taking stock of its contents. Razors, bar soap, towels, hair rollers, porn-- He paused. Underneath the towels was a stack of magazines.[i]BONDAGE SLUTS, BOUND BITCHES, FORCED FUCKHOLES. . .[/I] ". . .what the fuck, Grandpa." Something was wrong. Tom had checked nine houses, with similar results. All clean, untouched, and completely free of the dead (flesh-consuming or otherwise). No signs of rushed vacancy, nothing out of place. No half-eaten dinners left to rot on the table. He had never seen anything like it. . .it was as if everyone in the retirement community had simply vanished. And the [i]porn[/i]. In each house, he found massive collections of hardcore bondage pornography (and the occasional copy of 50 Shades Of Gray, often with worn out spines and sticky pages). Every single house. He found letters, detailing late night hookups between different couples, and an insane amount of Viagra, Enzyte, Chinese boner pills. Toys of varying styles and sizes. Fleshlights, a couple of Realdolls clad in leather fetish gear, something called a "Dragon Dildo. . ." [i]Seriously. What the fuck, Grandpa.[/I] He reached the final house on the drive, trying desperately to shake the mental image of leather-clad geriatrics, flabby flesh pressed together, smeared in sweat and lubricating oil. Since the outbreak, he had witnessed horrors. Children ripped apart by the rotting, shambling forms of their parents. People bludgeoning each other to death over a can of beans. Gang rapes. Starving families becoming feral with hunger, turning to cannibalism. He knew the face of evil all too well. It laughed at him from every shadow, and taunted him every time he closed his eyes. Not a night went by without being forced to relive every grisly encounter, every terror he had witnessed. He had, he was ashamed to admit, become almost used to it. But this. . . Like the other houses, the door was unlocked. He entered the living room, shaking his head. No matter what terrible, haunting things he had faced, he always managed to move on. To live with it. He had become entirely too familiar with death, and the lows that humanity could sink to. Compared to these concepts, the thought of couples in their twilight years spicing up their intimate moments was admittedly tame. It didn't even matter, really; these people had all undoubtedly died nearly a year ago. He made his way down the hall, and reached for the knob to the first door. [i]I'm really letting this get to me too damn much,[/i] he thought, letting the door swing wide. [I]So old folks like the freaky-deaky. It's really not that--[/I] He stopped short, his breath catching suddenly in his chest. He had found the residents. They were staring directly at him. And they were. . . "Oh, you have got to be shitting me." There were around twenty in all, he guessed. It made sense; ten houses, ten couples. They stood, in various states of undress, dead, rheumy eyes fixed intently on him. Some wore leather harnesses. Others, vinyl masks with zippered eye holes. Still others, nothing at all. One man, probably no younger than seventy, and severely decayed, thrashed helplessly, handcuffed to a large, wooden frame. It attempted to bite at him, its growls muffled by a red, rubber ball gag. It strained and bucked, its withered penis flopping almost comically. Another skulked toward him, a woman. It had been grossly overweight in life, and its flesh sagged disgustingly, its distended breasts heaving with each step. It hissed, gnawing at the air, naked, save for a large, black phallus secured by a leather strap to its pubic region. [I]Nope. Just. . .nope.[/I]
I don't want to like this. but i do. It's pretty decent. If there was one thing I'd suggesting changing, it's the title. Fire and flames are the same thing, so it's not getting across that "flames" is a worse thing, unless you're going for that it's the same, in which case I'd just use the word fire again.
I completely agree about the title. It's generic, and trite, and makes little sense. I'm just not that good with titles. Really, it's sort of a placeholder title until I think of something better. Out of curiosity, why didn't you want to like it? The setting, subject matter, style? Anyway, chapter 3 is making headway. I'm having a bit of fun with the "Orgy of the Dead" arc.
[QUOTE=NuclearJesus;44878038]I completely agree about the title. It's generic, and trite, and makes little sense. I'm just not that good with titles. Really, it's sort of a placeholder title until I think of something better. Out of curiosity, why didn't you want to like it? The setting, subject matter, style? Anyway, chapter 3 is making headway. I'm having a bit of fun with the "Orgy of the Dead" arc.[/QUOTE] I don't know. Something makes me want to just really not like it. But I do, is the point, really.
Chapter 3 [I]So, this is how I die[/I], Tom thought, panting. [I]Surrounded by gray pubes and wrinkled corpse-dick at the goddamn Orgy of the Dead.[/I] Granny Melon-Tits lunged at him, letting out a primal, guttural screech. It hit him like a fetid, fleshy wrecking ball, forcing the air from his lungs, and knocking him in a heap to the floor. His head hit hard, the world exploding into shards of blinding light and pain. He heard his sword clatter somewhere into the hallway, now blocked from his reach by the rotting bulk that had just waylaid him. Another corpse leapt at him, pushing him down onto his back, clawing at his face. It was a small, frail wisp of a man, bald pate pocked with age spots and boils, lips pulled back in a vicious, toothy snarl. In spite of its appearance, it was deceptively strong, its ragged nails tearing a long, deep gouge into his cheek. It opened it's mouth wide, and thrust its face into his neck. He could feel its mealy, dripping mouth closing on his throat. Panic gripped him, and he pounded on the corpse's head with a balled fist. He clenched his eyes shut, steeling himself for the bite, the feeling of teeth rending the soft flesh of his throat, the hot gush of blood, the. . . . . .the surprisingly soft, sickeningly-squishy gums of a toothless old man. Tom grabbed the corpse's face, pushing its head up and back. Sure enough, the snarling, snapping maw was framed by smooth, purple gums. He glanced down to his chest. There, directly below the thing's face, lay a set of yellowed dentures. Tom didn't know if a bite from dentures would have had the same effect as a normal corpse bite, but he was sure it wouldn't have been pretty, either way. He heaved, throwing the thing off of him. He got to his feet, wiping the foul-smelling saliva from his neck. He was horribly outnumbered, and woefully unarmed. The strapon-wearing behemoth still stood between him and his sword; he doubted he could budge it if he tried. Another man came at him, snarling, snapping, and flailing. He let his fist fly, catching it in the temple, knocking it onto its back. It had been a huge risk, he knew. The punch had brought his hand dangerously close to its teeth. [I]If I make it out of this room alive,[/I] he thought, [i]it wouldn't be a terrible idea to find a nice, heavy pair of gardening gloves.[/I] The others began to close on him. He raised a foot, catching Melon-Tits in the sternum. She lurched backwards a few feet, crashing into several of the others. He heard a sickening [i]snap[/I], as a leg pivoted, visibly wrenching its femur from its socket. The unlucky hulk of a woman fell like a sack of potatoes, its hip audibly shattering on impact. [I]Shit,[/I] he thought. [I]She's still blocking the goddamn door.[/I] There was no way to pull it clear of the doorway. Though crippled, it was no less dangerous. It kept gnashing and gnawing at him, snapping at any part of him that got too close. The others were also no less a threat. What they lacked in speed, they made up for in sheer numbers. He had no room to maneuver, and nowhere to go. He was trapped, and utterly helpless; the best he could manage was to shove them back as they neared him. He felt something tug at his leg. He looked down, to see that Melon-Tits had inched closer, and was closing in, mouth wide, attempting to sink its dripping, yellowed teeth into his ankle. He raised his boot, bringing the heel down into the center of its forehead. Its face gave way with a nauseating crunch, his foot sinking deep into its skull. It convulsed and twitched, finally laying motionless. He wrenched his foot free with a wet, slimy sucking sound, as another resident, a disturbingly-endowed, naked Hispanic male, around eighty, wrapped its flabby, clammy arms around him. "Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, [i]FUCK. . .IT'S TOUCHING MY LEG!!!" [/i]He brushed the member off his thigh with a sharp sweeping motion. It ripped free from the corpse's body with a sound not unlike Velcro separating, landing on the floor with a wet [i]thud.[/I] "Dude. . .not fucking cool." He kicked downward at the corpse's knee, shattering the kneecap. It landed on top of Melon-Tits, further blocking off his escape. He was mortified to see what appeared to be a horse's tail, affixed to some sort of rubber plug, protruding from its anus. "Okay, really. What the [i]fuck[/I] is [i]that[/I] about?!" He surveyed the room desperately, looking for anything. A weapon. An open window. He then saw it: a door to an adjoining room. It was on the other side of the room; he'd have to get past eighteen snarling, naked corpses to reach it. But, at the moment, it was his best shot. He lunged, shouldering through a ravenous couple in stained, moldy diapers. He didn't know if they were for incontinence, or some sort of adult baby fetish. He wasn't sure which possibility disturbed him more. Another shambled into his way; an emaciated octogenarian wearing nipple clamps on a chain. As it hissed at him, he reached out, grabbing the chain, and pulling with all his might, hoping to yank the woman off balance. The chains ripped free, taking both breasts with it in their entirety. He gagged, dropping them to the tile floor. They landed with a wet splat, like nylon stockings filled with gelatin and uncooked meat. The corpse, completely unfazed, continued its assault. He caught it in the jaw with an uppercut, sending it flying backward into three others. They fell backward onto a stained, mildewed mattress. The path to the door was now clear. He leapt for it, crashing through into the bathroom beyond. He slammed the door behind him, and turned the deadbolt. The dead ones moaned and pounded at the door, clawing, pressing their cold, naked flesh against it. But it continued to hold. He was, for the moment, safe. He turned around, and looked at the bathroom window, and his heart sank; it was little more than a slot in the wall above the shower. There was barely enough space for his arm, let alone his body. ----- Tom sat on the toilet, and considered his situation. He had no weapon, one hand, and no escape. On this side of the door, he was safe, at least until dehydration and starvation kicked in. On the other side of the door, nineteen ravenous, naked, hungry zombies waited to tear him apart and feast on his flesh, while their floppy, wrinkly old-people parts dragged across him. Starvation was beginning to sound like a perfectly reasonable option. He wished he had brought his knapsack with him. He still had two more bottle bombs left; it would be so easy to shove one through the door, slam it shut, and let the explosion clear the room for him. But, sitting on the kitchen counter of the first house, that did him no good. He looked around the room for anything useful. There was a toothbrush, a few elastic hair ties, a small toilet brush. [I]Perfect[/I], he thought, [i]provided I'm Angus Goddamn Macguyver. But, sadly, I look terrible in vests, and I just don't have the mullet for it.[/I] He spied a can of hair spray. It was certainly flammable, and could be used as a makeshift flamethrower. But it wouldn't be anywhere near hot enough to kill them. It wouldn't even slow them down. There was a disposeable razor. He considered prying the blade loose, but to what end? It was small and flimsy, and quite incapable of hacking through bone. [I]Nine houses,[/I] he thought, slamming his fist against the countertop in frustration. [I]Nine empty houses. Enough supplies to last. . .fuck, who knows how long? And I just had to check the tenth. Couldn't just be satisfied. Had to press my goddamn luck. So now what? [/I] He ran a mental checklist of his obstacles. [I]Okay. . .at best, I have seventeen to deal with. Daddy Ball-Gag's no threat, he's chained up. Granny Melon-Tits is dead. José Horsecock, last I saw, was pretty well immobilized. I can take him out once the others are dealt with. Grampa Gummy is less of a threat, but he can still slow me down; he's more than a little spry. That leaves Double Mastectomy, the Diaper Twins, Black Guy In Crotchless Panties, Fetish Abe Vigoda, the Elderly Juggalos (Incontinent J and Saggy 2 Old), Dame Judy Dench, Wilford Brimley in Stripper Heels, Old Jew in a Merkin, the Three Zipper Mask Amigos, Captain Colostomy, and Naked Batman and Robin. [/i]He paused, shuddering. [i]Or, you know, I could just take that razorblade over there and sever my femoral artery.[/I] It seemed hopeless. There were too many of them to take on bare handed. He needed something heavy, something he could swing at their skulls. He tried to wrench the towel rack free, but it refused to budge. The shower was a stall; no shower curtain rod. The lid of the toilet tank was promising, though. He lifted the heavy porcelain, and brought it down hard onto the countertop. It shattered into four, long, jagged pieces. He picked one up. It was hefty, and came to a point at the end. He could easily pierce bone with it. Still, though, the odds were very much against him. There were too many of them to take on at once. He needed to level the playing field. He began to open drawers. Nail scissors; too small to do any real damage. Enema bag. Nope. Large bottle of Astroglide and a large, solid, rubber phallus. . . [I]Jesus, you could club a man to death with that fucking thing. Why the fuck would anyone--[/I] He stopped in mid-thought, and smiled. ----- He burst through the door, and swung with all his might, knocking Wilford Brimley to the floor with one well-placed strike. The rubber penis was thick, nearly as long as his forearm, and put plenty of weight into the blow. Mastectomy roared, and leaped at him, snapping its teeth. He caught it in the temple with the phallus, throwing it off balance. He swung again, caving in the back of its skull with a loud [i]crack[/I]. Naked Batman and Robin swung to face him, screeching. Batman was a short, hairy man, with a build reminiscent of Danny DeVito, wearing a plastic Batman mask secured with a rubber band. Robin was a tall, gangly woman, with breasts that drooped like two socks stuffed with mashed potatoes, and a cardboard eyemask. He lashed out, catching Robin in the jaw. The entire lower jaw sheared off, hanging loose by a single tendon. He struck again, and again, reducing its face to a bloody mass of teeth and splintered bone. It fell motionless at Batman's feet, tripping it. Tom raised a boot, and brought it down swiftly, crushing Batman's skull like an overripe melon. "That takes care of the Dynamic Duo." Something slammed into him from behind, pushing him down onto the mattress. He rolled, bringing his arm up to shield his face. Dame Judy Dench was on him, pinning him down, its mouth opened wide, snapping at his arm. He jammed his right thumb into its eye, pushing its head back, and jammed the phallus into its maw with all of his strength. It emerged from the back of its head, severing the brain stem. He struggled to his feet retrieving the weapon. [I]Somehow,[/I] he thought, [i]I doubt that was the worst thing to ever happen on that mattress.[/I] He remembered the bottle of Purell from the daycare, and wished he had held on to it. There was a raspy groan approaching from the left. He dodged Old Jew in a Merkin's assault, allowing it to crash into the wall behind him. He pulled the porcelain shard from his waistband, and drove it upward into the base of its skull. It landed in a crumpled heap, and was still. He had taken out several of them, but there were still too many of them to take on at once. He stood on the mattress, surrounded by teeth, flailing claws, and wizened genitalia. Black Guy In Crotchless Panties came at him, and was rewarded with ten inches of porcelain driven through its eye. Fetish Abe Vigoda was next; Tom grabbed the chain connected to its leather collar, and yanked with all his might. The head came off with ease, and tumbled to the floor, still biting at the air. Thinking quickly, he fastened the collar around the chunk of porcelain, and cinched it tightly. He swung it over his head like a lariat, and flung it toward Captain Colostomy. It struck it squarely in the forehead, embedding deep into its cranium. He yanked it free, and pulled it back in time to stab one of the Diaper Twins. He saw an opening in the pack, and went for it, shoving past the Elderly Juggalos. He leapt, putting every bit of force he had into the jump, and cleared the massive bulk of Melon-Tits, pushing off of José Horsecock's head for leverage. He landed with a roll in the hallway, crashing into the far wall. Dazed, he got to his feet. His sword lay not more than two feet away. He happily retrieved it. The others were near the doorway, trying to climb over Melon-Tits and José. They struggled, not exactly being the most coordinated bunch. Tom swung his sword, neatly severing Diaper Twin #2's head. It fell backwards, pushing the others back a couple of feet. Tom reached into his waistband, and pulled out his backup weapon: the Astroglide. He popped the cap, and squirted the lubricant onto Melon-Tits, onto the dead ones' feet, onto the tile floor. The corpses slipped and skidded, falling to the tile like dominoes. They struggled to stand, with no avail; each skid and fall only served to coat them in more Astroglide, effectively greasing them. After several minutes, they were all writhing on the floor, no longer a threat. Melon-Tits made an effective barricade; they were trapped. Tom ran out of the house, alternating between laughter and gagging. He made it to the first house, and retrieved his knapsack. ----- He stood, watching the last timbers of the Orgy House crumble to ash. The bottle bombs had done their job, taking out the remaining residents in a single blast. The flames spread quickly, and before long, the house was a pile of charred rubble and skeletal rebar. Once the flames had died, he walked back to the first house on the block. He made it to the bathroom, and popped four Darvocet. In the morning, he would load what supplies he could carry into one of the larger pieces of rolling luggage he found in the bedroom, and be back on the road. But for now, all he wanted was sleep. Before long, the pills were working their magic, and his eyelids began to droop. As he drifted off in the bathtub, he sighed, and mumbled. "Seriously. . .what the fuck, Grandpa. . ."
Chapter four is in the works. I'm making it a more dialogue-centric entry, and am trying to introduce a new character. Is there any way a mod could remove the "a short story" bit from the thread title? That train has sailed.
Chapter 4 He awoke to the sound of running water. [i]Damn fool,[/i] he thought groggily. [i]Forgot to turn the tap off.[/i] He was halfway into a sitting posotion, when it hit him. [i]The pipes haven't been pumping water since--[/i] "Lucky I heard you snoring. I was about to pump a round in your brain box when I saw you." Tom shot up, eyes darting frantically. A man was standing next to the tub, lowering the toilet seat. A shotgun was in his right hand, leaning against his shoulder. He looked down at Tom, zipped his fly, and grinned. "Shit!," Tom spat, his hand reaching to his belt. It came to rest on his thigh. "See," began the stranger, "I figured that'd be your reaction. Hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of removing your weed whacker." He laughed. "Lawnmower blade, huh? Definite points for ingenuity, friend. When the shit hit the fan, I walked around for a month with the ass-end of a pool cue, and a fire poker. 'Course, I traded up, as you can see." He flung the firearm off his shoulder, letting the barrel come to rest in his left hand. It wasn't an aggressive gesture; more a display. A "hey, look what I've got" sort of thing. It also said "Make no mistake. You're outgunned, and I aim to maintain the upper hand." Tom swallowed. "Nice piece," he said. "A bit on the bulky side. We're not overcompensating a bit, are we?" The stranger grinned. "No, sir, we are not. Not one god damn bit." He sat on the toilet seat, and pointed the barrel away from Tom. But not by much. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, in tattered biker leathers. His beard was thick, bushy, and black. His face, though not especially malicious, was a jagged crazy-quilt of scars, and hard, rock-like edges. His nose, crooked and bulbous, told a story of numerous fights; some won, some badly lost. The story, he was positive, was entitled "Badass Motherfucker Doing Badass Shit To Other Badass Motherfuckers." Not the best title he had heard, to be sure, but it got the point across. Tom eyed him cautiously. The two sat in silence for a good minute, studying each other, sizing each other up, before Tom finally spoke. "Anyone ever tell you that you bear a striking resemblance to the Biker of the Apocalypse?" The stranger sat stoically, silent for a few seconds, before responding, "Raising Arizona?" "That's the one." "I love that goddamn movie." The two men maintained eye contact, and then, finally, broke into simultaneous laughter. "Best movie of Nic Cage's career, by far." "That's not really saying that much," said Tom, rolling his eyes. "The man's a horrible actor." The stranger nodded. "Agreed. The fuck was up with Con Air? Nevermind the fact that the movie's named after a fucking hair dryer. Cage's scene chewing bullshit was fucking intolerable. Worst southern accent I've ever heard in my [i]life."[/i] "Hey," Tom snapped, brow furrowing. He angrily pointed a finger at the stranger, and gritted his teeth. After an uncomfortably long pause, he drawled. "Put. . .the bunneh. . .back in the box." The two men roared in uncontrollable laughter. It felt good; Tom couldn't remember the last time he had even had a [i]reason[/i] to laugh. It was the first time in nearly a year that he had felt this way. Like a [i]person.[/i] Not a man trying his damndest to survive. Not a potential meal. Not a cornered animal. A [i]person.[/i] "Think he's still alive?" "Jesus, I hope not." Tom laughed. "I can't shake the mental image of Nic Cage, shambling around, being the most over the top, psychotic, moody, embarrassingly cheesy zombie ever." The stranger stood, and held Tom's blade out, handle pointed to him. Tom nodded, and took it, sliding it back into his belt. "I figure you're not much of a threat. If you were that sort, you'd be shit-talking, acting tough. Giving some speech about all the ways you're gonna fuck me up." He offered his hand, and Tom took it, allowing the big man to help him to his feet. "Thanks," Tom said, shaking his hand firmly. "Name's Tom Hueston." "Glad to know ya. Folks call me Wes. Wes Harding." ----- Tom found himself taking an instant liking to Wes. He had been a bouncer when everything went to hell. In spite of his appearance, he had never ridden a motorcycle in his life ("But, when you work a job like that," he had said, "you gotta look the part, or people will walk all over you."), preferring his old Dodge truck. He had once been a roadie for Ronnie James Dio for most of the Sacred Heart tour; he had been one of the operators of the dragon onstage. "You wouldn't believe how tiny that fucker was," he had said. "Voice that big, and the man only came up to your elbow." They sat down to cans of Beef-a-Roni, and a warm bottle of purple stuff, and shared their stories of woe and hardship. "I had been unemployed for months," Tom began. "My wife was getting sick of it. I mean, it wasn't for lack of trying. Jobs just weren't available. The economy was in the shitter. Bills were piling up. I'd been sent to the couch. Hell, I practically lived on the damn thing for three weeks. The only upshot of unemployment was spending time with my son. He was three. When I wasn't pounding the pavement, or doing odd jobs for folks, I was at home, watching cartoons with the little one. Got pretty decent at cooking for him. Before long, I was a regular Wolfgang Puck. I made a mean grilled cheese, and these little things where you put a bunch of uncooked spaghetti sticks in the end of half a hotdog, boil it, and it comes out looking like a squid. He loved those damn things. For about a week, it was all he wanted for lunch." Wes grinned around a mouthful of noodles. "Cute, man." Tom nodded soberly. "Yeah, he was one of a kind. Matt. Named after my dad. Used to love Spider-Man. When we'd have a storm, no matter how bad the lightning would get, he'd never get scared. He'd just smile up at me, and say, 'It's okay, Daddy. Spider-Man gonna keep us okay.' No matter how bad things got, Spider-Man was gonna keep us okay." He paused, taking a long pull of purple stuff. "My wife was a nurse in an emergency room. She came home one night, bleeding. A patient had bitten her. She got bandaged up, and came home, feeling feverish. She was stumbling out of her car, could barely walk. I tried to help her, but she pushed me away. Told me she was fine, said to go back to the couch. "I laid down. About an hour later, I woke up. Matt was screaming. I ran upstairs, to find my wife leaning over him. She was shaking, making noises like an animal. I could see blood on Matt's sheets. She was. . .[i]gnawing[/i] on his arm. To the bone. I grabbed this big lamp off Matt's dresser, and bashed her over the head with it. She fell. I rolled her over, and she lunged at me. Her eyes were cloudy, and her mouth was covered in blood. She had bits of Matt's skin in her teeth. She tried to rip my throat out. So I hit her again. And again. And again. And then, she stopped moving. "I went to Matt's bed. His little arm was just bone, muscle, and blood. His throat was ripped open. Bubbles came out when he breathed. I clamped a hand over it, tried to stop the bleeding. He looked at me. Looked [i]right at me.[/i] He said 'Don't cry, Daddy. Spider-Man gonna keep us okay.' And. . .and then, he--" He stopped, choking back tears. Wes said nothing, keeping his gaze to the floor. "So, you know the rest of the story. About an hour later, Matt turned. Came at me, damn near knocked me to the floor. I couldn't believe a body so tiny could have so much force behind it. I fought him off for a few minutes before I could get to the door. I bashed his head between the door and the frame until he stopped moving. It was six days before I could bring myself to bury them. By then, the shit, as you said, had hit the fan. Utilities had stopped. Society had collapsed. National Guard was pretty much wiped out. All in less than a week. My neighborhood had erupted into rampant looting, and chaos. I knew I couldn't stay put. I was killing six dead ones a day, on average, in my own goddamn yard. So I packed up what supplies I could. I took an old lawnmower blade, sharpened one end real good, and wrapped the other end in tape. It was nice and heavy, and way more sturdy than my old, rusty machete. I got in my wife's old car, and drove until I ran out of gas. And then, I walked." "What exactly are you trying to get to?," Wes asked. "Not sure," Tom replied. "Anywhere. Nowhere. More like what I'm trying to get [i]away from.[/i] I guess I'm hoping if I can get as far away from that place as I can. . .I don't know. It won't be better. I doubt there's any [i]better[/i] places left on Earth. But maybe, if I get far enough away, it won't hurt so fucking bad. The dead, I can handle. Memories, however, are a motherfucker." Wes nodded. "That, they are." "So, now you've seen a grown man blubber like a fat chick over Twilight. Turnabout's fair play, fucker. Out with it." We shook his head. "Not just yet. I think, maybe, I need a little something to loosen my lips." He reched into his vest, pulling out a bottle of Everclear. He poured half into the jug of purple stuff, and mixed it with a good shake. "That'd probably mix better with the Sunny D," Tom said. "Fuck off, it's my booze." "Fuck you, it's my purple stuff." Wes laughed. "You got the mixers, I got the booze. I outrank you, asshole." Tom grinned, as Wes took a long, deep swig. He accepted the jug, and guzzled. It tasted like vaguely-grape flavored kerosene. The warmth hit almost instantly. The two men sat in silence, passing the jug. Finally, after half had been imbibed, Wes spoke. "I'd been a bouncer at Rainbows for about a year. Don't let the name fool you. . .you get enough booze into anybody, and trouble won't be too far behind. I worked six nights a week, and all the events. Drag shows, pool tournaments, date auctions. Karaoke, too. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I've got a pretty decent voice. Won a few competitions, singing old Dio numbers. That's how I met Grant." He paused, checking Tom's face for a reaction. He took another swig, and continued. "He was a slight little twig. I coulda broke him in half if I touched him too hard, like an autumn leaf on a sidewalk. He had these gray eyes that were like stormclouds, and this smile. Jesus, that smile. Close cropped blonde hair, and this cute little dimple in his cheek. Just the one dimple. He was beautiful. I'd be onstage, singing, and from across the room, I'd see that smile. And my voice would soar. No matter what the song, it'd be his song. Just for him. And I think he knew it. One night, I'd just finished belting out Last In Line, and he walked up, and handed me a beer. He said I was the most beautiful thing he'd seen." He laughed bitterly. "[i]Me[/i]. Beautiful. You believe that? At first, I thought he was making fun of me. Big, hairy brute, singing metal in a gay bar. But he just smiled that smile, flashed those gorgeous gray eyes. . .I was in love, man. Probably the first time in my life. "The courtship was fast, man. I'm not gonna say we were picking out china patterns, but yeah. We were getting pretty serious. When I wasn't working, I was with him. Watching movies, cuddling on the couch. Some of our best times together were spent not saying a damn word, just enjoying each other. Not that we never talked. We had some wonderful talks. He was so smart. He'd recite poetry. Yeats, Burns, Frost, Shakespearean sonnets. 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?'" He sighed, and took a swig. "He was everything. All I had ever dreamed of, and more. He made me a complete man. "And then, one day, I was bashing his face in with a fire poker. That beatiful, perfect little face. Those gray eyes, that little dimple, that perfect smile. Destroyed. I killed a monster, I know. But I destroyed something beautiful. Something perfect. "I fell in love for the first, and last time, of my life. What you said about memories? Yeah, fuck 'em. I hit the road, picked a random direction, and kept on going." Tom said nothing for several minutes. Both men stared at their shoes, occasionally taking hits from the jug, before he finally spoke. "So. . .you're gay?" Wes snorted. "Really, shitheel? What was your first fuckin' clue?" Tom raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I don't mean it like that, man. You just don't. . .you know, seem the type." Wes' brow lowered. "And what, pray tell, is 'the type?' Limp wrist? A lisp? Belting out showtunes in a sweater vest? Fuck off. I'm gay. Deal with it. I've never been ashamed of it, and I've never tried to hide it. A few people have been dumb enough to give me shit for it. If you think I look beat to hell, you should see [i]those[/i] assholes. And no, I'm not gonna try to fuck you. You're pretty fuckin' far from my type." Tom frowned. "Easy, man. I'm not judging you. There's nothing to judge. I was surprised, yeah. But not disgusted, or dismayed. You're gay. I'm not gonna 'deal' with it, because there's nothing to 'deal' with. "And by the way. What, pray tell, do [i]you[/i] mean by [i]'type?'[/i] I'm not [i]that[/i] goddamn ugly." "No. You're not ugly. You're a handsome man. And, if you've been straight up with me, you're a good man. But you're strong. You've survived on your own. You don't [i]need[/i] anyone. Because the minute you [i]need[/i] someone, these days, you're dead. "You wanna know what I mean by 'my type?' My type [i]needs[/i] me. My type isn't strong, or hard. My type needs me to protect him. To keep him safe." Tears were streaming down Wes' face. "My 'type' doesn't exist anymore. My type died a year ago. They all died. Because they weren't fighters. They weren't strong. They weren't made to survive in this world. Nature selected my 'type,' wiped them out. Wiped them out, and. . .and left me alone." The big man sank to his knees, sobbing. Tom knelt down, took him into his arms, and let him cry. "Hey, it's okay, man. It's okay." Wes' voice came out in choking sobs. They were the sobs of a man who hadn't allowed himself to feel in entirely too long, and Tom held him tight, a hand firm on his back. "Just. . .just so goddamn [i]alone. . .so fucking alone. . ."[/i]
okay, i'll try not to write an essay this time. First off, I'll say that this is pretty good; even though that the zombie apocalypse setting is overused. (there's a few parts where it seems a bit awkward in wording and syntax but there hasn't been a place where it's a big problem) Tom doesn't seem like a man who would be troubled by his past. Either that, or he's doing a [I]very[/I] good job hiding it. Wes seems like that he has a rather easy-going but also a brooding personality, but feel free to elaborate more on it (I think that's probably what you're doing right now). That aside, I'm quite impressed by your incorporation of humour into a very dark work; it's something that I need to learn to do. You're also doing well with some of the very grey subjects. On that note, be careful not to offend anyone. It's probably [I][B]the[/B][/I] worst thing we can do as authors; abuse and rape are not subjects to be taken lightly. You know this already, but I just want to warn you because of its incredible importance and possible consequences. Things like Nic Cage are definitely more subjective but as always, be mindful of what you're writing. Anyway, moving out of the depressing bubble, there's one big 'goal' for the plot (staying alive). Sure you can probably write an entire book on just this driving instinct, but I just don't feel like it's enough. Perhaps it's more of a personal preference, or you just haven't started diving into the plot (getting character establishment first is fine). Ah well. You can always revise this when you publish (if you ever will). You can add more sparkle to your writing (I've massively edited stuff that i've wrote only a month or two ago). Don't worry about editing now, though. Write what you want and [I]keep it[/I]. Edit it over at least a couple times before you release your work to the public, as you may regret what you've written. Though really, the only time where you[I][B] really[/B][/I]need to edit is when you're publishing. But other than that, try to avoid some of the really blatant clichés. Rare usage of common clichés and tropes are fine, and usage of the "less common but still known" tropes are fine. However, avoid overusing clichés and tropes to tell a story. Subverting tropes are fine, but still avoid overuse of them. Remember, your story is your way of communicating to an audience, how you want to tell people what and how you think. It can, in fact, be a subconscious one. I've found metaphors in my own writing even when I weren't actively thinking about them. Anyway, that's just stuff for you to think about. You shouldn't worry about that for now; it's stuff to worry about when you're editing. For now, just look forwards to completing your first draft. Don't fear the usage of a common cliché just because you think it'll make your writing seem too cliché; sometimes the only way to speak your true thoughts is to use a common cliché or trope. But yea, you're doing very well. I don't want to sound like I'm berating you, but just think twice before you post chapters out in public. I know that there's stuff I've written months ago that I've decided to cut without mercy. When I post something in public, I often feel as if I shouldn't change it. I'm not sure if you feel the same way about your work, but if you do, just remember that you have the freedom of changing it whenever you want.
I appreciate your thoughts. I assure you, they're not going to go ignored. As far as offending people. . .I tackle those subjects, I feel, appropriately. I don't glorify rape or molestation. Those subjects are brought up for a single purpose: To show that there are far worse things in the world than flesh eating corpses. They're touchy subjects for most people, myself inccluded. That is why I'm very careful to keep a clear separation between such passages, and any passages involving humor. There will never be a "funny" rape scene, nor will I ever go into a graphic description, aside from a rapist describing such things to get under a character's (and the reader's) skin. "Good" is a gray area in this story. Evil is not. I want evil to be seen for what it is. It makes it so much more satisfying when the bad people have bad things happen to them. I will say, however, that I was very careful in my depiction of pedophilia, in that the victim was not a living, breathing child. Child death, while shocking, is not something I intend to shy away from. One thing that I've always respected is any writer, filmmaker, etc. that wasn't afraid to break the whole "don't kill kids in your story" taboo. I don't mean "make it a point to kill kids;" I just mean "don't treat it like it never happens." You rarely see zombie children in zombie works (Hell, the Walking Dead has only had two that I can think of in four seasons). That's always seemed wrong to me. Children are weak, and need protection. It stands to reason that zombie children would be all over the place. That recurring thought was the inspiration for the short story that eventually became Chapter 1. I'm not out to offend anyone. If people get offended, I feel that] a definite risk, but one well worth it for the sake of the story. For this reason, humor has been a vital element. One chapter might bum you out. But the next one will put a smile on your face. Then, another will wipe the smile off, and make you angry. Then, the anger is defused with a joke out of left field. I feel it's been an effective formula thus far, and has made the story a joy to write. As far as a main plot, yes. It's coming. But one thing about my writing is that I rarely go into it with a plan. I start with a setting, and a clear idea of who the character is, and from there, he or she makes their own decisions. The story comes organically from that. It may not be the most efficient way to write, but it's led to some great moments for me. Like Tom losing his hand. . .would ya believe that I never planned that? I honestly didn't know it was going to happen until the sentence appeared on my screen. And it's the SECOND DAMN SENTENCE of the story. One line, and it ended up shaping much of who Tom ends up being as a character. It forced me to come up with other things. Like, how does Tom handle the pain when he washes the wound? I need him to kill a guy in two pages. That led to a minor backstory about a dead drug dealer and a bag of cocaine. Wes was intended to be an antagonist. But I decided it would be fun to have him bitch about Nic Cage, so I could work in a Raising Arizona reference. His backstory wrote itself, and now Tom's paired with a burly gay bouncer. It's been fun so far, because, for the most part, I'm discovering all this stuff as you guys are. I can't say where the story's headed. Even if I did, the story may decide to go in a completely different direction at the last minute. All I can promise is a shitload more zombie kills, some more laughs, a few human antagonists, and Tom facing something so horrible, it makes the zombie apocalypse seem like a two year old's birthday party. [editline]26th May 2014[/editline] I also want to say that I'm glad that Wes decided to tell me who he was, rather than the other way around. His backstory, while completely unplanned, made him a far more interesting character than I had anticipated. [editline]26th May 2014[/editline] I also want to touch on Tom's past. You say he doesn't seem troubled by it. I get how you'd think that. But keep in mind that his wife and child have been in the ground for a year. This isn't like most post apocalyptic stories, where you join in the narrative as the outbreak begins. Tom has survived in this world for a while now. He's seen horrors, and experienced losses along the way. There's a reason he's on his own when Wes finds him at Brook Haven. He's jaded, yes. But he's still very human. And he's learned a long time ago that clinging to the past gets people killed. He HAS to push it down, just to survive another day. In the next chapter, I plan to touch on this a bit, and revisit the whole "Spider-Man gonna keep us okay" line. Just hang in there. This will be addressed. [editline]26th May 2014[/editline] One last point I'd like to address: I completely agree. The zombie apocalypse thing IS way overused. I love a good zombie tale, but I get sick of them. Everybody and their brother is doing zombies, and it's all the same shit. That's precisely why I wanted to do this. I wanted to do it MY way. I don't want to write a George Romero or Robert Kirkman zombie apocalypse. Those guys have their own author's voice. And too many people flat out rip that off. I wanted to do something different. To go where other people had gone, but take a completely different road to get there. I'm not the only person to do the whole "smartass vs zombies" bit. Sam Raimi pretty much invented that with the Evil Dead trilogy. But in that, the whole thing ends up a fantastical farce by the third act. You stop taking any of it seriously, as the comedy gets so pervasive, that you're pretty damn sure Ash isn't going to die at any point. It'd be too much of a downer. I wanted to write dark comedy in the zombie apocalypse, but with emphasis on "dark." Make no mistake, Tom Hueston isn't immortal. In most zombie works, there's an emphasis on finding a safe haven that the zombies can never breach, or wiping out every last zombie, or someone discovering a cure. I have no intention of doing these things. There ARE no safe havens. There are too damn many zombies to exterminate. And there are no government labs running on generators looking for a cure. Society is dead. The power's never coming back on. I also refuse to do a flat out, silly, happy comedy ending where everything works out. Shaun Of The Dead did that. . .people capture the zombies, and make them push carts at Wal-Mart, etc. And for that movie, it worked. But I'm not going there. And the protagonist is NOT going to go off on some meaningless, symbolic quest. Tom is not going to pull a Talahassee, and go off in search of the last Twinkie. I'm not saying I won't borrow from what's come before. You can't avoid that. Everything we know about zombies came from Romero. He pioneered the bite as a catalyst, the hunger for flesh, the shambling. The lore is too pervasive to ignore, or rewrite. What I want to do is write a zombie apocalypse tale where the zombies are the setting, not the main antagonist. The story happens to involve zombies, but more as a sad fact of life. But it's not about them. It's about a man who is forced to face the ugly side of humanity. He's not going to rise up as a great leader, ushering a ragtag group of survivors on the way to rebuilding society. That's been done to death. I just want to write about these things like you'd write about your life, your job. He's not a scared man, coming to grips with the world collapsing around him. The world collapsed a while ago. He's used to it by now. It's just life at this point. And, like anybody's life, it's funny. It's tragic. It's weird and disturbing.
[QUOTE]"Good" is a gray area in this story. Evil is not. I want evil to be seen for what it is.[/QUOTE] Personally, I like a bit of moral ambiguity; the world itself is not in black and white, so why should stories try to paint the world as something it isn't? (well, for the sake of the children, I guess.) Anyway, that aside, I personally think that more books should have some sort of ambiguity especially in what is 'good'. On that note, unfortunately not all people who do evil deeds are punished. Yea, it pisses me off too, but reality is reality. I also agree with you about the death of children in a book; it usually plunges a work quite deeply into the dark end of the spectrum (again i'm certain you know of this). [QUOTE]One chapter might bum you out. But the next one will put a smile on your face. Then, another will wipe the smile off, and make you angry. Then, the anger is defused with a joke out of left field. I feel it's been an effective formula thus far, and has made the story a joy to write.[/QUOTE] It is our job as authors to manipulate the emotions of our readers :) [QUOTE]As far as a main plot, yes. It's coming. But one thing about my writing is that I rarely go into it with a plan. I start with a setting, and a clear idea of who the character is, and from there, he or she makes their own decisions. The story comes organically from that. It may not be the most efficient way to write, but it's led to some great moments for me. Like Tom losing his hand. . .would ya believe that I never planned that? I honestly didn't know it was going to happen until the sentence appeared on my screen. And it's the SECOND DAMN SENTENCE of the story. One line, and it ended up shaping much of who Tom ends up being as a character. It forced me to come up with other things. Like, how does Tom handle the pain when he washes the wound? I need him to kill a guy in two pages. That led to a minor backstory about a dead drug dealer and a bag of cocaine. Wes was intended to be an antagonist. But I decided it would be fun to have him bitch about Nic Cage, so I could work in a Raising Arizona reference. His backstory wrote itself, and now Tom's paired with a burly gay bouncer. It's been fun so far, because, for the most part, I'm discovering all this stuff as you guys are. I can't say where the story's headed. Even if I did, the story may decide to go in a completely different direction at the last minute. All I can promise is a shitload more zombie kills, some more laughs, a few human antagonists, and Tom facing something so horrible, it makes the zombie apocalypse seem like a two year old's birthday party. I also want to say that I'm glad that Wes decided to tell me who he was, rather than the other way around. His backstory, while completely unplanned, made him a far more interesting character than I had anticipated. I also want to touch on Tom's past. You say he doesn't seem troubled by it. I get how you'd think that. But keep in mind that his wife and child have been in the ground for a year. This isn't like most post apocalyptic stories, where you join in the narrative as the outbreak begins. Tom has survived in this world for a while now. He's seen horrors, and experienced losses along the way. There's a reason he's on his own when Wes finds him at Brook Haven. He's jaded, yes. But he's still very human. And he's learned a long time ago that clinging to the past gets people killed. He HAS to push it down, just to survive another day. In the next chapter, I plan to touch on this a bit, and revisit the whole "Spider-Man gonna keep us okay" line. [/QUOTE] A few notes: Making up the plot as you go is something that I tried to do when I started my novel. I didn't get very far before I decided that I needed an overarcing plot. I ended up writing quite a bit of tedious filler in an attempt to get somewhere, most of which I've completely cut out. You might have a different outcome, but it's just a warning. I recommend having an overarcing plot as a failsafe in case you stumble into a wall. You can always go back and change whatever you want once you've breached the wall. A few things that I learnt from the experience is that I can't tie 'moments of character' into an actual story without plot. For character introduction, it's fine though. My advice would to just think about the plot and keep it at the very back of your head. In fact, you can pretty much change it anytime you want; just be careful not to be too inconsistent, especially if you've set down a solid goal/plot. Sure, your characters can fail and have disasters; it's part of what makes them human. I know it's going to sound egotistical, but we are pretty much on the level of deities when we write. Yes, I'll admit that sometimes it is good to forget the part where you're the all-powerful being in the book and to actually interact with your characters as if they are actual people. However, just keep at the back of your head that you have unleashed power within your book. I'll admit that there's been times where I've written something that I've really not wanted to write (killing off a character that I really liked). I knew that for there to be any sense of struggle that people had to die, and I already planned for that character to die. For the sake of the book. So use your power and exercise it within limits and for the greater good (of the novel). "Spider-Man gonna keep us okay". This one line has [I][B]great[/B][/I] potential to be symbolic (though by now i'm probably beating it to death english teacher style, so i'll stop now lol). [QUOTE]What I want to do is write a zombie apocalypse tale where the zombies are the setting, not the main antagonist. The story happens to involve zombies, but more as a sad fact of life. But it's not about them. It's about a man who is forced to face the ugly side of humanity. He's not going to rise up as a great leader, ushering a ragtag group of survivors on the way to rebuilding society. That's been done to death. I just want to write about these things like you'd write about your life, your job. He's not a scared man, coming to grips with the world collapsing around him. The world collapsed a while ago. He's used to it by now. It's just life at this point. And, like anybody's life, it's funny. It's tragic. It's weird and disturbing.[/QUOTE] You know, it reminds me of The Catcher in the Rye. It's written unconventionally without much plot at all, and mostly about the adventures of a depressed teenage person trying to lose his virginity but at the same time wanting to preserve childhood innocence. Not in the way that the plot and symbolic stuff is the same, but how they don't really focus on a plot. The Catcher in the Rye can pretty be summed up as a bunch of events, but it's the way that Salinger portrays these events that makes them symbolic with deeper meaning underneath the text. Not trying to put pressure on you; you don't really need to worry about the symbolism and metaphors and all that stuff. Like I said before, they can show up in your work before you know it. If you really can't find any, you can let your readers find them by themselves. They're really only important because it immerses the readers deeper into the character's thoughts and meaning of what you're trying to say as an author. On the side note, the question of "what does being human mean"? is, imo, a good thing to touch upon but not excessively. I know that it's been asked more than a few times, but I haven't really seen it being used in a zombie apocalypse setting (or I just haven't been playing/reading enough). Such as Tom murdering Frank, then deciding that he didn't qualify as a human. It certainly can make for lots of deep meaning, and you can shape that deep meaning to what you want to express. What you want to express is almost certainly going to be different, either drastically or minimally, than all the other authors who have answered that question. Last word, i'm not trying to intimidate you with urges of "More deeper meaning! More symbolism!", etc. It'll come by itself imo. Just write and let your mind speak.
Chapter 5 Wes had not, it turned out, mentioned his Dodge in the past-tense. After both men had nursed their rather crippling hangovers, they loaded what food, water, medicine, and clothing (minus the various studded leather and vinyl ensembles hidden in nearly every closet on the block) they could scavenge, and hit the road. Neither man had a preferred direction; there were no safe havens. No government laboratories running on generators, where men in white lab coats and yellow Hazmat suits worked around the clock to develop a cure. No military bases, where the last surviving generals met in secret, drafting plans to take back the land from the grasp of the dead ones. In every direction lay death and decay, and no one road seemed more promising than the last. So they decided to follow the birds. Spring had been steadily fading into summer, and the air became drier, carrying the scent of far off smoke from the inevitable brush fires that popped up, from lightning strikes, or the carelessly tossed cigarettes of survivors that had long stopped caring about keeping litter in its place, igniting dry grass and windblown paper. Tom could envision the spirits of a thousand Indian braves on street corners, looking at the piles of refuse, solitary tears running down their stony faces. Still other fires would crop up from houses set ablaze, either with the dead trapped inside, or the living. Some people would rather be burned alive, their flesh searing, writhing in agony, lungs filling with soot and flame, finally coming to lie still as the world exploded around them, than suffer the hell of being torn limb from limb by the corpses. He wasn't exactly sure which fate was more torturous, but he could hardly blame them. He had witnessed both, up close. Neither seemed particularly desirable, but, given a choice. . . He gazed out of the passenger window, at the birds. They cut across the sky, above the fields and neighborhoods, occasionally coming to land on fences and tree limbs. With the human population noticeably thinned out, and their machinations having come to a sudden, grinding halt, the birds were everywhere. Some days, they would damn near blot out the sun, swooping to and fro. Their food was plentiful, now that the pest control industry was, for all intents and purposes, defunct. Locusts and crickets abounded, hopping madly from blades of unkempt grass, dodging the swift, unforgiving beaks of ravens and jays. Not to mention the flies. Death was everywhere, and rotting carcasses dotted the landscape. Not all who fell had turned; some had been chewed, shot, or otherwise damaged too grievously to make the change. Where the dead fell, flies would invariably swarm, buzzing loudly enough to be heard from several blocks away. And so, too, came the birds, swooping down into the swarms, gorging on the stinging black beasties (and occasionally pecking at the bloated faces of the deceased). The cacophony had been almost maddening for the first few months; Tom had scarcely slept through the barrage of unending screeches and caws. But, like most things in the past year, he had become used to it. [I]It's amazing, the things a man can get used to,[/I] he thought with a scowl. It was Wes that had noticed it first, as the two men sipped the last of the spiked purple stuff on the porch, watching the sun crest over the trees in the early morning. They sat in silence, gazing at the orange and red seeping into the sky, the black of night giving way to the warm, growing light of dawn. As the world began to stir, the birds began to leave the shelter of the trees, filling their bellies with locusts and grubs, before taking to the sky. "I may just be three sheets to the wind, so forgive me if I'm completely talking out of my ass," Wes had said, "but have you noticed lately that all the birds seem to be headed [i]south?"[/I] "Good for them," Tom had said dismissively, throwing back a swig. "Thanks, asshole. You're a big help. I'm serious, man. They've been headed south for a while now. Think about that for a second." Tom glanced at him quizzically. "It's the beginning of summer. And they're headed south. That's not exactly how seasonal migration works." Tom shrugged. "Guess I never really thought about it. With everything that's been going on, I never paid much attention to the birds." "Well, maybe you should. Animals are smart. They can tell when shit's going down. When there's a coming storm, or an earthquake, or a goddamn volcano erupting, animals are the first to hit the road." He turned to Tom, his face taking on a somber expression. "Maybe something's coming this way. A goddamn phalanx of those fucking things." "I'm not entirely sure you're using that correctly." "Infantry formed in deep ranks and files; a body of troops in close array; an organized body of people, animals, or things. Fuck off, my vocabulary is better than most. At any rate, Mirriam-Webster, something's coming. Something that's making the birds ignore millennia of instinct [i]en masse.[/I] Either that, or things are a damn sight better down south than they are here." Tom took a second to process this. "So, what are you suggesting?" Wes shrugged. "Fuck, I don't know. All I know is those fuckers seem to know something we don't. We can't stay here forever. It's quiet now, but it won't stay that way. Too many of the surrounding towns are completely overrun. It's only a matter of time before the corpses pick up the scent of fresh meat." "I don't actually think they can smell, Wes." "Figure of speech. Point is, when the food runs out, those things tend to go off, looking for more. They move slow, sure. But they've got numbers. And as they go along, they come across others, and those others start off in the same direction. And before we know it, we've got what amounts to a goddamn army on the doorstep. How long, exactly,do you think we can hold those things off with a couple handfulls of shotgun shells and a lawnmower blade?" Tom nodded. "You're right, I know. We have to keep moving." "We? Thought you were more the loner type." Tom shook his head. "Not the best option for me at the moment. Sure, I've spent a long time on my own. Most of the people I've run into haven't exactly been the most trustworthy of folks. Hell, last guy I met turned out to be a real sick fuck. Kept a kid's corpse. . .the moving, biting kind. . .tied up in a closet. So he could fuck it. Before that, it was a group of truckers out of Vermont. I travelled with them for two months, and they seemed decent enough. Got me out of a fair share of scrapes, and I returned the favor. Then, one day we come across this woman in a tent with her three daughters. The oldest couldnt have been more than ten. They had survived out there for God knows how long. This group of guys, my 'friends,' turned into animals. They raped that woman, and her children, to death. Literally, to death. I tried to stop them, and ended up with a busted jaw, three cracked ribs, and left for dead with a knife in my side. "Suffice to say, I have trust issues. But when you found me, you could have killed me if you wanted. You could have pumped a shell into my brain, cleared out all the supplies, and hit the road. But instead, you talked to me. Shared your booze, shared your stories, shared your pain. I trust you, Wes. And, seeing as how I'm currently short a hand, I could damn sure use the backup. So, yeah. We. You want to head out, I'm with you, if you'll have me." Wes looked up at the sky. "South, then?" "Yeah. South." ----- Tom awoke with a start, as the driver's side door of the pickup slammed shut. They were on the main street of some dusty little town. A few corpses shambled toward the noise, and Wes dispatched a few with the butt of his gun. "Stay in the truck, and keep the windows up!," he shouted. "I just need to grab something right quick!" Tom watched, as he ran into a nearby shop. Cardboard cutouts of Superman, Wonder Woman, Moon Knight, and Ghost Rider stood mightily in the shop windows, flanking a large, colorful sign, reading [i]BAGGED AND BOARDED: Comics, Cards, and Hobbies. The fuck is he--[/I] His thought was cut short by the concussive boom of a shotgun blast. He reached for his door handle. "I said stay in the goddamn truck! I got this!" Wes was rushing out of the door, shotgun at the ready. He bashed the stock into the head of a dead one, knocking it to the sidewalk, before flinging the door open, and jumping in. He gunned the engine, and sped away, pedal to the floor. "Wes, what the fuck was that about? What--" "I'll show you in a minute. Let's get clear of town first." Before long, they had made it to the back roads. The dead were thinning out with every mile, until finally, they could see nothing but fences and grass. Wes brought the truck to a halt. "Okay. You mind telling me what you were doing back there?" Wes fumbled in his pocket. "I'd been thinking about something you said the other night. It stayed with me. I'd close my eyes, and it kept popping into my head." He withdrew his hand, and Tom could see something dangling from a small key fob. Wes hooked it to the rearview mirror, and let it hang, its red and blue surface catching the midday sunlight. It was a small Spider-Man figure. It hung from the chain, as if from a web, body poised to swing into battle, heroically extending its free hand to snare some careless villain. [I]"Spider-Man gonna keep us okay," [/i]Wes said solemnly, gazing at the figurine. "That entire night, it was all I could think of. I wasn't lucky enough to have met your Matt, but he sounded like a hell of a kid. A brave kid. He believed in this. He believed in it the way some people believe in God. It gave him strength, even at the end. And I don't know about you, but there are damn sure some times when I could use that sort of strength. I figure we could use a good luck charm, something to 'keep us okay.' And honestly, I couldn't think of anything better, man." Tom sat, a lump forming in his throat. "You know, Wes? Neither can I, man. Neither can I." He looked at the big man, and smiled. "Thank you." As the truck roared to life, kicking up a thick cloud of dust down the long dirt road, he kept his eyes on the figure. [I]I love you, Matt,[/I] he thought. [I]Whatever happens, I know you're going to keep us okay.[/I]
I just compiled all five chapters into a single .doc file, and will add the others as they're written. I just did a word count. . .11427 words so far. It's certainly the longest thing I've ever written thus far, and all in the span of one week. Even if nothing comes of this, I'm just glad that a story has been so adamant about coming out of me. It has been, and continues to be, a fun journey, and I will see it through to the end.
An interview with author Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid's Tale) had suggested Wattpad as a good service for beginning writers to post their work. Being a fan of hers, I took her advice. When putting up stories, the site requires you to upload a picture to act as a book cover. So I made one. [IMG]http://i.imgur.com/Hhw7CQm.jpg[/IMG] Still working on Chapter 6. I'm consulting Google Maps to plan out Tom and Wes' route to the South. I'm trying to find a good route that will avoid Georgia (The Walking Dead's set there, so I'd rather avoid it if possible). I'll post again when there's something to post.
I like this, the characters are intriguing and I love how much humor they use even though they're in a literal hell.
Thank you, Skeeter. When I write scenes, I try to think about how I would deal with the situation (aside from, you know, dying three seconds into the apocalypse. Because seriously. . .I have no survival or fighting skills whatsoever). In my real life, humor is my main weapon. I'm a complete smartass. Assuming I could somehow survive a situation like this, I'd be the sort of person that would crack jokes to keep from going insane. A sense of humor is one of the things that makes us human. If faced with terrible, soul-crushing things on a daily basis, I'd either keep my wit sharp, or eat a bullet. Humor is a powerful thing, and it's something that I feel is missing from a lot of post-apocalyptic/zombie fiction. The Walking Dead is wonderful, but centers much of the focus on people losing their humanity (the series, anyway. The comics have a little humor, especially when Negan shows up. He's a rather funny character, and much of his dialogue is a fucking riot). It's drab, and serious. Occasionally, you get a humorous moment, such as Michonne going into a bar crawling with zombies, and emerging with a kitschy little folk-art cat, because "It was just too damn cute." But the moment's over as quickly as it appears, and you soon forget all about it. It's a delicate balance for me. Too few humorous moments, and it's a horribly depressing read. Too many, and it comes off as a farce, like the later Chucky movies. They smack you in the face with jokes, in every scene. There's no real emotion beyond just "silly," and when something grisly or shocking FINALLY happens onscreen, the entire moment is utterly deflated by all the jokes. The Orgy of the Dead arc was funny. I had fun writing it. But I also tried to maintain an air of urgency with it. A feeling that, as funny as all this shit is, Tom REALLY IS in danger. The risk is very real. There are laughs, but Tom is truly fighting for his life. And I can only hope that comes across.
Chapter 6 Joshua crouched, his breathing shallow and measured, as the insects huddled around the fire. His eyes darted occasionally to their inconsequential faces, and he felt his stomach knot in disgust. Filthy. Weak. Meaningless creatures, completely undeserving of the light and protection of the crackling blaze, clumsily restrained by rocks and earth. The insects numbered three: the male, a makeshift splint fastened to its leg. The whore-thing, a rather unimpressive example of a female, gaunt and plain of face, dirty hair falling in greasy strands. It clutched its foul offspring; a pathetic creature, helpless, beneath his contempt. [I]Vermin,[/I] he thought, his brows furrowing as the bile rose in his throat. [I]Hardly a fitting offering.[/I] The female insect was clutching tight to its young, its eyes scanning the trees. The whelp mewled, pressing close to the breast of the mother-thing, eyes wide, glistening with tears. "Hush," whispered the whore of a mother-thing, pressing its foul lips to the larvae's forehead. The infant worm whimpered, burrowing its vile face into the mother-thing's neck. "You have to keep him quiet, Barabara," the male hissed, tensing. The female scowled. "I'm doing the best I can, Samuel," it responded, rubbing a hand on the infant creature's back. "He can't help it; he's just a baby. He's scared." The male said nothing, gazing into the flames. [I]Heretic,[/I] thought Joshua. [I]Unclean. Wholly unworthy to bask in Moloch's presence.[/I] "Maybe it's okay," continued the mother-thing. "It's been quiet. We haven't seen any corpses in days." "You wanna take that chance? Look, Barbara, I'm not trying to be an asshole. But those things have snuck up on us before. It was hard enough when you were pregnant. But [i]now,[/I] with Mikey. . ." "You don't think I'm aware of that?," the whore shot back, narrowing its eyes at the male. "You don't think I think about that every goddamned day? Yes, he's a burden. Yes, he slows us down. Yes, he makes it harder to lay low. But he's our [i]baby.[/I] I almost bled out giving birth to him. He's the one positive thing in our lives. The [i]one[/I] thing that makes life worth living. What would you have me do, Samuel?" [I]You could give yourselves to the flames,[/I] thought Joshua, with a crooked smile. He had been following the insects for five days now, keeping to the brush. The male had injured it's leg the previous day, and the three had been forced to set up camp. The mother-thing had proved itself to be not entirely useless; it had been more than proficient at striking sparks from flint and steel. It was a dying art, Joshua knew. . .the precision of the strikes, the tender care. Feeding the smallest of embers, growing them, nurturing them like children, until they grew hot enough to sustain themselves. A thing, it was. But the skill with which it tended the flame was almost commendable. [I]Motherly,[/I] he supposed. And how the flame had rewarded them! They, the unclean, the unworthy. Not fit to draw the oxygen that fed the holy fire before them. They of no understanding, who could never comprehend. . .could never [i]know[/I] Moloch as he did. How could insects, base beasts writhing in filth and putrescence, like maggots in a festering dung heap, even begin to know a god? But, unworthy as they were, Moloch had allowed them to sit at his feet, to warm themselves in the enveloping blanket of his light. Allowed them to cook their meager rations of meat, boil their water, and cast light onto their campsite. It was a sacrilege, it was an abomination. Detestable. How he hated them. A burning, righteous hate. But, Joshua knew that Moloch had his reasons. They were to serve a purpose. ----- In his previous life, Joshua Rylander came to know Moloch's touch. His face, scarred by flame, having taken on the texture of tree bark, permanently devoid of hair and color, was a testament to Moloch's righteous hand. He had always loved fire, always been drawn to it. As a child, he discovered its perfection. Pets in the neighborhood had an odd habit of vanishing, only to turn up days later on their owners' doorsteps, charred and blackened. [I]Cleansed.[/I] Their agony had been Joshua's delight. He relished every agonized howl, every monsterous screech, every twitch as the flames devoured the beasts. The animals emerged sanctified. Baptized husks of soot and bone. Beautiful, twisted things. Perfect things. As they writhed, Joshua would feel a wanting. His member would become rigid, would ache. The first few times, he couldn't understand what was happening. He only knew that release would soon follow; a warm, wet gush, and a euphoric stillness. The tide would ebb, and for the briefest of moments, he would know peace. In his adult years, he had lain with beasts. The subhuman whores that passed themselves off as his equals. The filthy, wicked animals on two legs, masquerading as human, the stench of sin and sour sweat leaking from their nether regions. It sickened him to do so, to sully himself with insect flesh. He would go through the motions, the animalistic, crude fumblings and sticky secretions, feigning pleasure while choking back vomit. The whispered lies of affection and wanting, the thrusting. The sweaty, matted hair in his mouth. . .disgusting. Distasteful. Abominable. But a necessary charade. It was expected of him. He would eventually climax inside of their grotesque wombs, their mouths, their hands. They, of course, were unworthy to receive his seed. But it was neither the sex (if one could truly call fornication with beasts [i]sex[/I]), nor the feminine wiles of the whore-things that would coax him to orgasm. It was Moloch, and the thought of offering the foul things to his cleansing fire. Imagining them engulfed, their foul, clammy flesh blackening, blistering, splitting and cracking. The sweet, pungent bouquet as their hair singed and smoked. . .the delicate pops and hisses as their fat rended and sizzled, bubbling and oozing from their seared meat. The screams and wails, deafening and glorious, finally falling silent as their lungs filled with flame, bursting. The eventual stillness of their charred forms, as the ash flew from their blackened bones, spiraling into the night air like myriad fireflies. It was a scenario he was all too familiar with. The years of experience had taught him to be careful, to cover his tracks. In thirty eight years, he had never seen the inside of a prison cell. He was good at blending in with the insects, appearing as one of them, his jovial smile neatly concealing his utter contempt and disgust. The creatures had long ago turned their backs on Moloch, forgotten him. His braziers no longer burned, crackling with the fat of sacrificial children. Humanity had lost the right to be considered human. Moloch was displeased. And rightfully so. There would come a reckoning, and Joshua was all too happy to oblige. ----- He kept low, out of sight, and turned his attention to the blaze. The flames licked at the sky, a thousand brilliant red tongues caressing sensually against the night air. He felt himself grow turgid, and allowed his hand to creep into his jeans, grasping his member tightly. He squeezed, withdrawing it from the fly, tugging, his pulse racing. The fire was everything. His friend. His god. His blessed lover. It taunted him, teased him. He bit his lip hard, as the shuddering climax crashed over his body, engulfing him like ocean waves, his hand growing slick. He moaned softly. [I]"For Moloch."[/I] He heard a metallic click. "Whoever's there. . .we are armed. We have nothing you want. Leave now." His eyes snapped open, to see the male leaning shakily on an aluminum crutch, a pistol in its grasp. The female's eyes were large, frantic, as it held its unclean spawn tightly against it. "I'm not going to say it again. Leave. [I]Now.[/I] Or I start shooting." Joshua stood slowly, and stepped into the clearing. He smiled, hands high. The male's gaze was drawn to Joshua's right hand, still dripping with seed, and to his still-unfettered erection. "That's far enough, man," the male said, its face flushed. The mother-thing gasped, its visage drawn into a distasteful grimace. Joshua laughed softly, and took a step forward. [I]"I said not one fucking step more, psycho!," [/i]the male roared, gripping the pistol with both hands. Joshua remained silent, creeping ever closer. He lowered his hand, reaching toward his back. The pistol jerked, and he could feel the slug slamming into his shoulder. It tore into his flesh, a searing, white hot flash of pain wracking his frame. He gritted his teeth, relishing it, the smell of sulphur and smoke, the hot, burning gush of blood down his shirt. He looked at the insect, and laughed. "There's something you should know, pest," he said softly, the corners of his mouth drawing upward in a manner that made the whore-thing begin to tremble. "I've been following you for days. I've stood over you and your harlot wife as you slept. I've held your child, and whispered into its ear the many, [i]many [/i]ways I planned to make it scream. I've stood over you insects in your slumber, warming myself to the embers of your fire, and releasing my seed onto your pitiful excuses for bodies." The male was trembling with disgust and rage. Its whore began to sob. "I've listened to your inane words. Every conversation. Every utterance behind turned backs. Every secret you pathetic creatures whisper to the night while the other slumbers." He turned to the female. "How you wish you had never fallen for this imbecile. How you wish the wound in his leg would become gangrenous, how you wish you could leave him to die, to be free of him, to raise your child in solitude." He then turned to the male, and laughed. "And you. How you wish the whore and your bastard offspring had perished in childbirth. To free you of the burden. The constant crying, the annoyance of their continued existence." He slowly withdrew the crowbar from his belt. "Oh, yes, insects. I've heard your whispered chitterings. I know your secrets all too well. "For example. . .I know that the day I started following you. . .the day you fought off the group of corpses at the river. . .you used up all but [i]one bullet."[/I] He lashed out suddenly, catching the male in the skull. The claw of the crowbar caught it in the temple, embedding deep into bone and brain. He wrenched it free, spraying the whore-thing with a shower of crimson. It screamed, reflexively dropping the offspring to the dirt. It landed with a dull thud, wailing in fear and pain, as Joshua lunged, driving his heel into the whore's face. Its nose exploded into a spray of blood. He stepped over the screeching infant, and swung at the female, bringing the crowbar down sharply, shattering its kneecap. It flailed, screaming as he brought it down repeatedly on the other leg. It tried to flip over, to inch away on its belly like a serpent, clawing at the ground. He broke its right arm easily, swiftly, with a sharp strike of his heel; then, the left. He dragged the sobbing, pleading insect to a nearby tree, propping it into a sitting position. Grabbing a nearby coil of rope, he fastened it by the neck to the trunk, and pointed its head toward the campfire. "You, I will deal with shortly. Your end will be neither swift, nor pleasant. You will beg me to end it. How quickly that end will come will be determined by how quickly I grow bored by your screams." He leaned in close, until he could smell the stench of its stale sweat. "And I warn you, whore. . .I'm not easily bored." Joshua turned his attention to the offspring, still wailing in the dirt. He picked it up roughly by its leg, and walked toward the fire. The insect screamed, its words a wet, unintelligible mass of syllables. He ignored it, reveling in the sensation of growing warmth, the sting of sweltering smoke in his eyes, filling his lungs. [I]"First, MOLOCH, horrid king besmear'd with blood Of human sacrifice, and parents tears, Though, for the noyse of Drums and Timbrels loud, Their children's cries unheard that passed through fire. . ."[/I] He paused, and turned toward the whore. "That's Milton, if you were wondering. I don't suppose you've ever read Milton, have you?" The whore-thing screamed, choking on its frantic sobs. He sighed. "No, I suppose you haven't," he muttered wearily. He took a breath, and raised the child above his head.
. . .get the title now?
...That took a turn for the worse.
As in, the situation escalated, or you don't like the chapter?
To explain a bit about chapter 6:.Moloch is an ancient Canaanite god, often represented as a man with a bull's head. He is mentioned throughout the Bible (Leviticus bears a warning to parents, to not sacrifice their children to him). He is linked with fire and human sacrifice, and worshippers would give their children as offerings, burning them alive in braziers sculpted in his image. Other cultures also worshipped him, under the names Chronos, Baal, etc. As far as Joshua Rylander goes. . .he's batshit insane. Moloch, to him, is fire personified. He's a sadist, and a pyrophile (one who is sexually aroused by fire). As you can piece together, he is also a serial killer/arsonist. No, I'm not going a supernatural route with the story. Moloch isn't real. Tom and Wes are not going to end up doing battle with a pagan god. But Joshua Rylander is a major threat, and will be the main antagonist. I wanted an antagonist that would come across as a far greater threat than the zombies. . .it was always my intention for the zombies to be a secondary aspect of the story. Quick note on Joshua's name: In Mobile, Alabama, on Dauphin Island Parkway, is a cemetary. About halfway down, visible from the street, is a gravestone. It has a single name: RYLANDER. I would walk by every day, and the name would jump out at me. This was about eleven years ago. . .back then, all I could think was "If I ever write an especially evil villain, his name will be Rylander." Edit: The verse that Joshua recites as he's about to sacrifice the infant is from Paradise Lost, by John Milton.
Well both, I really don't think it is necessary to lay out everything that is wrong and why the villain is such a twisted man straight off, especially not when the jump from our two protagonists smiling and laughing to a sick twisted man fucking animals and whatnot. It just becomes too much, establish him slowly and only here and there let people peek into his sick twisted mind, instead of just taking him out of the blue, showing him right into the readers face and in gruesome detail tell of all his sick twisted opinions and acts. It's kinda like you're showing someone pictures of your family where everyone is happy, then suddenly you open up some perverted pornsite and forcing whoever looks to watch.
While I do get your point on that, and totally thank you for making it, I would also like to point out that the story opens with a chapter that has dead toddlers, stepping on a baby's head, and a pedophile raping a zombie five year old. Not saying you're wrong. It's a valid point. But, personally, I don't feel chapter six is terribly far removed from chapter one, in terms of shocking imagery.
I had actually forgotten about that, I still believe that you could cut down on the shocking imagery on this character since he's going to be with us for quite some time, meaning you'll have plenty of time to really sell him as a vile, disgusting character whereas on that first chapter, you decided to off the man directly meaning you could splash on a lot. Actually I think that's something I would try and improve upon, show and don't tell more, right now you're working a lot on painting up exactly what happens at any given moment, something you do well although it doesn't give the reader a lot of time to breathe and imagine things the way he/she wants it. There's probably plenty of ways you could constanly put in small tidbits that'll let the reader intepret this Joshua character as someone you really, really don't want to meet in any given situation, or as to how he was before and after, and how very little has changed and even how much of a perfect fit the man is in this sort of situation, where normal rules and laws don't matter anymore and how being able to disconnect other humans is the reason why the characters who are alive now were meant for this world. Joshua in particular seems like the character who would thrive in a post-apocalyptic world where it is eat or be eaten. :) I think it could be good to loosen up a bit (as in, dillute the imagery) if you're planning on making this a long thing, if you're planning on just having like, a few short chapters more then I think doing the way you're doing it now could work, it is going to get stale and repetive if you keep on putting more on the readers platter though. A nice read nonetheless, so keep it up mate :) [editline]10th June 2014[/editline] It also means that shocking imagery stays shocking, if everything is terrible and disgusting and gruesome the whole time, you're going to get used to it (which the characters might, but we the readers are only supposed to get glimpses into their lives, right?) and it'll lose its value. Food for thought!
Not to say that I completely disagree. More that I think you and I look for different things when we read. One of my favorite novels is an often-overlooked novel called "The Vampire Papers" by Michael Romkey. The book starts off as a journal entry from the book's antagonist, where he stalks his prey, a crack whore, has brutal sex with her, and brutally murders her. When you get to the next chapter, and the protagonist's perspective begins, the tone lightens a bit. Every subsequent chapter from the antagonist's perspective lays him out as he is: Pure evil, sadistic, and monstrous. It leaves nothing about him up for debate. You know from the first paragraph about him exactly what he is, what his motivations are, and it only gets darker from that point. To me, as a reader, it was an effective device. I know that, as I write this, I'm going to make some decisions that some people are going to really dislike. Especially now that Joshua is in the mix. Up to this point, I agree. The story has been, aside from a few dark moments, a light, funny bit of character development. All I ask is that you trust me. . .I'm going somewhere with this. I'm not going to constantly beat you in the face with Joshua. . .it's still early in the story. You now know Joshua's out there. For the next few chapters, you'll be aware of him. But he won't be a direct threat right away. They're miles apart at this point. . .he's around the Florida/Alabama line at the moment, and Tom's just leaving Virginia (locations will be mentioned and dealt with soon). Tom and Wes have many, many miles to travel before they come in contact with this man. Like I said. . .just hang in there. I'm going somewhere with this. Also, don't think I'm saying "Fuck you," and ignoring what you're saying. All feedback is welcome, and encouraged.
Probably! Yeah that's part of being a writer, making decisions that people are going to dislike and not agree with, all part of the art since you can't please everybody nor should one strive to do that, since then you'd never get anywhere. I definietly trust you to make a good story, I like it a lot so far and I'm anxious to see where this goes as it fleshes out even more. :) Keep it up!
Sorry, you need to Log In to post a reply to this thread.