It was dark when I managed to crawl out of the dugout. The drab moon hid itself behind the clouds, but some light broke through. I stood up and walked towards the edge of the cliff. Looking towards the horizon where I had last seen the swarm of zombies, I tried to make out any movement or shapes but failed. The wind was surprisingly cool, and a strong, smoky scent carried itself on the soft breeze. With the whirling of the planes gone, it was now truly silent. I wondered who else out there also dealt with the planes today. Sighing, I slid back into my hole and starting to check out what remained of my supplies and tools.
Well, damn. I can't use this anymore... and this is all burnt.The batteries are even melted.
I wiped the acidic goo from the ruined batteries off my fingers as I searched through the things I had scrounged up in the last week. All the food was gone and ruined, and nearly all the various junk and scraps I had were destroyed. The flashlight in my hand was dimming rapidly and I didn't expect it to last another day. I fortunately found a small hoe and a few miraculously intact towels, although they were covered with some soot and charcoal. The three water bottles I found and the small yellow pot I had water in were all gone.
Just my luck. Parched throat is killing me, and nothing's left. Why'd it have to be today?
Irritatingly, ash and dust got into my wrinkled eyes and attached themselves all over my tattered clothes.
I sighed.
Guess staying here isn't an option anymore.
Not only had I lost near everything I owned including the water that took forever to find, I was now cheated out of a "house". Life, I knew, wasn't fair at all. I crawled out and looked around for any suitable spots to lay down but in the dark, I could barely see anything. Despite the high likelihood that I was the only guy alive in the area, I didn't want to take the chances of meeting a Wildie or a zombie. Death by blade or death by shredding - I preferred neither.
I took my chances; a small spot next to the entrance of my dugout had not been completely burnt. The jagged and serrated ground stabbed at my back, and instinctively my hands reached out to the floor to prevent the pain.
An intense, incredible pain jolted up my arm and shot into my brain, and I whimpered loudly as tears began to slide down. The gash I received earlier reopened as a large, talc-like sliver of rock slipped into my bloody wound. I grasped my wrist with my other hand and brought it close to my vision. The edge of the sliver stuck out and, biting my lips, I grasped the rock and pulled with all the strength I had left. Still, I managed to only pull out half the sliver. The shock was immense, and I violently bit the edge of the towel, tasting a harsh taste of ash in my mouth. Blood soaked part of the towel, and saliva drooled down my mouth as the waves of agony did not subside. Several tormenting moments passed and I decided to give it one last time, knowing that I would not have enough energy for another attempt. Running on adrenaline and pain, I pinched hard on the sliver and tore it out.
I unleashed a carnal scream and I felt my body viciously convulse from my toes to my shoulders. I wrapped my hand with my cleanest towel as tightly as I could. Fighting a losing battle with the desire to merely close my eyes, I had barely finished fixing the towel when everything went dark.
This was shorter than what I expected. It was all spontaneous and I just continued writing until I thought that I reached a reasonable end. I might scrap it if another idea comes, but I think I'll be able to flexibly transition from this point.
And so far, the scene with the stone entering the gash is the only scene that made me cringe in pain as I wrote it and visualized it. Unfortunately, the last time I had a similar painful event was when I was little, so I'm not sure how to make "pain" read realistically.
Boom. Loud. Thundering. Yet in the distance. Boom.
Was it that time already?
The light shone through a small hole that existed as the entrance to the outside world. Grabbing my tattered, black cloak, I grabbed onto the sides of the wall and crawled out of my den. I blinked several times due to the blinding light and used my hand to wipe away my tears that crept out of my drained eyes.
Crying twice already? What a special morning.
The air was musty and dry, like everything around. To the left of me, another familiar noise. Boom. Squinting my eyes into the horizon, I surveyed the barren plains to locate the birds of prey that were bound to be shooting through the cloudless sky.
There! I think I see... three? No, that's probably a fourth one behind the other one.
Four ebony-dark fliers flew in straight lines, dropping hyperexplosive napalms one after another. Luckily, none of them were heading towards my direction. They were the only things moving in the still landscape as the plains revealed no other signs of life or movement. The ground was burnt to a blackened crisp, yet they were still raining fire over everything. There was nothing left to burn at this point, but they continued.
Suddenly, the ground halfway between the fire-bombarded flatland and the where I stood rippled. Something was strange, and I narrowed my eyes trying to figure out what it was.
Dust? What's going on? What is...
My thoughts trailed off as the truth suddenly manifested.
Zombies.
A medium sized swarm, blending in with the sandy ground, slowly moved in unison. It wasn't something that scared me, but it was still concerning to see them relatively close. From the distance, they seemed like termites on the move on a mission. To travel. To eat. To survive. Looking up, I realized that one of the planes changed its course and veered towards my direction, still dropping the hyperexplosives.
Oh shit.
I turned and slid back into my rocky den. A warm tingle shot up my left arm.
What the ... ? Oh, come on...
A bloodied gash ran from the center of my palm and towards my thumb. The pain intensified, and the back of my head started to throb as if someone had struck me with a sizable rock. I touched the top of my hair with my other, unharmed hand and found it warmly wet. My clumsiness struck again; unsurprisingly, I was prone to injuries. It didn't help my nerves that I was in danger of becoming a chunk of roasted flesh in less than five minutes.
The whirling grew louder and louder and merely added on to the confusion of my predicament. To the best of my abilities, I ignored my wounds and annoyances and pushed a large boulder across the floor to block the entrance. Boom. Loud. Thundering. And definitely close. The whirling managed to pierce through the small cracks the boulder failed to cover. My head pounded even more. Boom.
Two minutes away, maybe a minute and a half. I wonder if the zombies are burnt yet?
I silently laughed to myself at the image of tons of well cooked zombie flesh scattered across the sandy, charred plains and the millions of people who would kill each other to get some of it to eat.
Disgusting.
I wrapped myself in as much clothing as possible, including a blue tarp I found a week before seemingly unworn by the ravages of time. I squirmed through an even smaller crack in the small room that I referred to as the "closet". If I was any larger, I'd fail to fit inside. Thankfully, I had stopped growing years back. Boom.
Less than 30 seconds away. The next one will probably hit nearly above me.
Still, I wasn't scared. Nervous, yes. But as for fear, I had already accepted the likelihood of my death by either zombie or by my own kin, and I had nothing to lose or leave behind. If I was going to die, so be it I chanted.
I held my breath, waiting to hear the explosion and feel the inferno at any moment. The ground was rumbling from the prior explosion, and parts of the dug out had already collapsed. In the closet, it was pitch black. No light crept in, and the utter darkness was only perforated by a shrill, mechanical whirling. I waited silently for the inevitable explosion. Dust managed to wiggle itself into my nose, and I bit my already terrible lips to not sneeze.
For a start of a novel, I didn't think it was that bad. I'm still not at a point where my own style of writing is very clear. A lot of my writing can end up convoluted or boring, and part of that is because I can imagine the scene in my head and the words as my own thoughts. But it becomes much harder to describe all that into words and sentences that are interesting to read for others. Overall, an okay start. Room for improvement, editing, and so on. I haven't thought of what'll happen next, so that should be fun to theorycraft about.
San Francisco Electronic Music Festival 2010
Alessandro Cortini + Don Buchla, performing the piece "everything ends here", from Blindoldfreak's 1st EP, 1.
