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Of Foreign Wars

02 Wednesday May 2012

Posted by Maccusweil in Writing

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english, fantasy, fiction, random, Story, Writing

This is an idea I’ve been playing with. I have the outline written up but nothing has been finished yet. Here’s a little post of what my idea is turning into. It’s only the very beginning and it hasnt been edited of fleshed out. There is a lot more to write before I get anywhere near there.

Under violent blackened skies on an ocean swelled by the full moons calling, a double mast vessel sliced through crestless fifteen foot waves booming against the hull, one after another endlessly. Cold rains bombarded the ship, slicking the deck, yet men gripped cordage and remained to steady the sails that panicked in the wind. Three portholes along the port side of the vessel emanated a dim hue of yellow from a flamed lantern nailed to a wooden table inside. There were hammocks in rows lined on each side of the ship’s belly. Some were filled with emaciated and scurvy stricken men, others with wooden barrels filled with food and water. Each hammock-man wore a chain that lashed their ankle to the ship, keeping their roaming distance to the hammock alone. At the bow end of the room, in front of the stairs that ascended to the storm battled deck above, knelt Sigeric, a seven foot tall man wearing nothing but pantaloons made of some tanned animal hide. His hair, that looked to once be a golden color, streamed over his right shoulder. His beard pointed to the floor as his eyes scanned the splintering wood below. His arms were extended out by the force of a crewman at each arm, keeping his upper body from collapsing to the floor.

            “This one stinks of rot. Is it dead,” said one of the crewmen holding the hulking figure up.

            “You aint given us a proper splash,” yelled one of the men in the farthest corner of the ship. They were all captives along with Sigeric, and although it was not easily seen through their greed, they felt sympathy for the large man because of the special treatment he received from the crew.

            “Shut your mouth,” said the crewman in return. “Your baths are coming.”

            The thud of wood on wood echoed as a peg legged man made his way down the stairs and into sight. He was an over-weight man and he was dressed in rich silks adorned with golden rings and amulets. As he raised his hand skyward, men with buckets full of water entered.

            “Time for you bath you poor bastards,” he said. The crew tossed the buckets of water at the men lying in their hammocks. Some of the poor souls showed a thankful smile as they licked the water from their skin.

            “What have we here? Acting out again are we,” said the peg legged man.

            “Look at the captain when he’s talking to you boy,” said one of the crew as they grabbed Sigeric by the hair, jerking back his head.

            “Scared of the storm? I bet you’ve never seen an ocean before.”

Sigeric looked at the captain and understood nothing he spoke.

“Dumb bastard,” said the captain, kicking Sigeric in the temple.

Blood seeped from the new wound, his collection was growing.

 “Get him up!” barked the captain to the two crewmen. “Time to feed the bastard,” He picked up a leg of bird and waved it in front of Sigeric who was now standing clearly feet over him. One of the men struck Sigeric in the back of the knee, bringing him to the ground.

“Much better,” said the captain now standing over Sigeric.

The captain smiled and smacked Sigeric in the face with the bird’s leg repeatedly until the meat had been bruised and lay in pieces scattered on the floor.

 “Taste good,” asked the captain as he spit on Sigeric’s face and scooped up what meat remained, tossing it toward the other captives who never thought twice to devour it. None had the grace to save any for Sigeric.

“Here you are,” said the captain as he picked up one small piece of the meat and shoved it into Sigeric’s mouth. The bones of the captain’s fingers crunched as Sigeric bit down, causing most to cringe. The captain let out a horrific yell as his fat body fell backwards and became tangled in an empty hammock, blood squirting in all directions from the stumps left on his hand. Sigeric spit the fingers into the face of one of the guards and swallowed what was left in his mouth.

“Kill the bastard!” yelled the captain to his men as they attempted to untangle his large mass from the hammock. One of the men drew his blade and poised it over Sigeric.

“Stop!” commanded a voice before the crewman could descend the blade.

 The owner of the voice climbed down the stairs and dusted off his polished black leather armor. Adorned on the chest was the signia of the royal house of Weil, a silver water drop.

“This one is not to be killed or you will lose any funding I have provided. I sought these men for a reason, this one more mythical than the others. I now possess an Antol giant, no longer just a story. I took a chance paying you to head into those steppes. I commend you for your ability to bag him undetected, but your civility in the return home has been lacking. The tales of their craftsmanship is as epic as their supposed ruthlessness in battle. It should all be worth it when we reach the sales table. Besides,” the man licked his lips as he smiled, “It’s your fault you lost those fingers.” As the man marched back down the stairs, the teary eyed captain, now untangled, looked at the large man with fury burning his eyes. With rage guiding him, the captain kicked Sigeric in the face and into the darkness he preferred.

A loud cry came from the deck above followed by a tumbling storm soaked crewman.

“Sir, we lost the sails. We’re at the mercy of the waves.”

“Captain, what do we do?”

The captain stared blankly, his mouth agape. There was no command he could give other than, “Pray.”

A loud snap, like the popping of a giant cork, reverberated through the ship. The front mast had snapped in two and fell into the ocean. A large wave lifted the vessel into the air, and without the winds direction turned the ship port face. As the wave descended it tossed the vessel into the sea, planks snapped and broke inward. Ocean water flushed into the hull and the men inside clung to anything nailed down. As the next wave approached, the ship was sucked backward into it. As it rode the wave upward in a backward motion, it tilted and through the breaks in the ship the men inside could see the full moon between black clouds. The ship was suspended nearly thirty feet in the air before it crashed back to the sea, breaking into pieces. Most of the ship sank below the waves, sending large bubbles up from below. Some were fortunate enough to survive by clinging to wreckage. It was the survivors that heard the unnatural creaks of a dying ship.

The light of the rising sun pierced through his eye lids, waking Sigeric who now lay on some foreign shore. His eyes could barely crack open due the weakness that wracked his body. A small crab with blue spots and one large claw stood inches from his face, seemingly staring at him. Sigeric knew it was eyeing him as food or foe.

“Nen feigr,” mumbled Sigeric, blowing sand at the crab, causing it to flee.

Sigeric managed to peel his body from the beach, requiring much effort. Dehydration cracked his lips and ached his muscles, and his body still suffered from malnourishment. It had been so long since he tasted freedom, yet he felt too lost to choose direction. Scanning the area, he noticed many large trees with large fronds which were unfamiliar to his home. The beach sands extended for only a few yards and beyond that were lush wilderness. He would have to find food soon and drinkable water.

Near the water’s edge he found a small circle of rocks where nature trapped six small fish during the receding tide. They were easy to catch. Picking up one of the fish, Sigeric squeezed, causing its eyes to bulge out and its guts to squirt out the opposite end. Once he was satisfied, he ate the fish raw, spitting out the bones as they came to his teeth. This was the first meal he had had in some time and it brought back a little vitality to his weakened body.

Sigeric walked a few feet from the water’s edge and sat in the sand, digging a hole a few feet deep. The sand began to cake to his hands and turn darker until a pool formed. Cupping his hands, he filled them with water and drank. The coolness of the water glided down his throat and he could feel this cooling effect all the way to his belly. In his ecstasy, he failed to hear the sand muffled footsteps approaching behind him. The hilt of a blade crashed into the base of his skull, sending him face first into the sand. He was dazed but not unconscious. He slowly rolled over to face his enemy, the nobleman from house Weil. Sigeric knew nothing of these people or their houses, but he knew this man was his captor. The nobleman no longer wore his expensive armor. He seemed nearly as beaten as Sigeric; one could easily mistake him as a captive if it weren’t for his finely crafted sword that pointed directly at Sigeric’s throat.

“The Gods have brought you to me again Giant of Antol.  This time I will not lose you. Get up.”

Sigeric, holding the back of his head with his left hand, rose at command. He stammered a bit before catching his balance. The nobleman waved his blade slightly, suggesting Sigeric walk in that direction.

“I’ve got him,” yelled the nobleman. A few of the shipwreck survivors appeared out of the wilderness, some nursing their wounds.

“You saw how he made fresh water. Start digging,” the nobleman commanded to the men. “Thank you for that little trick. Now start walking.”

Sigeric felt the fires of rage burning in his soul. He would not be captured again.

“Andak kar,” Sigeric yelled as he smacked the sword out of the nobleman’s hand and hoisted him over his head. He threw the nobleman into the hole he had been digging and ran for the wilderness. The weakened crew hadn’t the energy to pursue as they watched him vanish into the dense green jungle that bordered their home only a few short miles away, the city of Barat.

Alien leaves cut at Sigeric’s flesh as he dashed through the dense foliage, leaping over fallen trees and narrow streams. One such stream that blocked his advance had a steep embankment that required more than will; luckily a sturdy sapling jutted from the embankment’s edge, a rescuing limb reaching out to help him move forward without slowing. He hadn’t a clue where he was going. Further from the beach and his would be again captors, was goal enough. It became harder for Sigeric to breathe; he could feel his breath becoming deeper, needy. A moment’s pause could be all it took to end his maddened dash for freedom, and he knew he couldn’t spare it. With clenched teeth he marched on, motivated by survival.

A clearing opened in the jungle. Sigeric felt the sun assault his bare back. He remembered the cloud filled skies of the steppes, his home, and a sorrow filled his soul. It was all too much a reminder he was far from home. His memories brought no reprieve. Sigeric began to feel extremely lost. All around him the same foreign green reached to the sky. It was as if he left the small clearing, he would be forever lost. He couldn’t choose which way to run. If he chose wrong, it could lead him back to the beach. Hopelessness squeezed his lungs, his breath quickened. He pulled at his hair and then it came to him, an overwhelming sense of peace. He knelt only momentarily, long enough to pray to Haabardin, the bear god.

His vigor renewed, Sigeric continued to rush forward through the jungle, forward into  a fishing net. The force of the net stopping his run sent him crashing to the ground.

“Got him,” yelled a man’s voice Sigeric could not see.

Sigeric’s right arm was tightly bound to his head. He lay at the foot of a tall but narrow tree. His legs were free, but the entrapment of his upper half left him unable to make a go for it. He writhed on the ground like a captured beast; he even growled like one.

            “Alright boys, let us have a look at what we have here.” Sigeric stopped his struggle to see his captor. This man was different than the men from the ship. He was finely armored with steel plating and chain. The armor was near the level of craftsmanship required of an Antol boy before apprenticing. His sword wasn’t in a scabbard. It was tied around his waist with only a sliver of leather holding it in place. Sigeric had no doubt he was showing off his strange golden blade with odd symbols etched into its face. The craftsmanship was strange. In some areas the blade was narrow and in others quite thick. It interested Sigeric, making him forget he was wrapped in a net in some strange land and that the swords owner was his captor.

            “You’re a large one. What are you doing out here in the jungle,” asked the plated man, his voice muffled by his helmet.

            “Dreyuger lin,” Sigeric growled.

            The man froze and slowly lifted his helm from his head. He was a handsome man. His face wore a neatly trimmed short beard. His hair was rich black and wavy. His skin was a darker shade than Sigeric’s and the others Sigeric had seen. Everything about this man was strange to Sigeric.

            “Akra be praised. You are from the steppes of Antol?” The man’s mouth was stuck open in awe.

            “To hell with your Akra, Zadig. Don’t be spitting your whore’s name around me,” said another man nearby, obviously part of the group responsible for Sigeric’s current state.

            Sigeric noticed the anger in Zadig’s face. It caused a tremor that vibrated the golden sword of which Zadig was gripping the hilt. Sigeric was no longer scared of what could be. His fate was with Haabardin.

            “This man is to be taken to my residence at once. Tell no one what you saw here,” said Zadig. He looked down at Sigeric, “We will be great friends. You’ll see.”

            The men hoisted Sigeric off the ground, removed the netting and bound his wrists tightly with rope. The walls of Barat were only yards away in the direction Sigeric was running before being captured. The beach wasn’t the only thing Sigeric had to be careful of.

            The great walls of Barat were the color of the sands at the beach, a light brown. Green roots of the wilderness slithered up the walls like veins under transparent skin, clinging to the structure. Tall trees hung over the wall in some areas, but mostly the city was in a man-made clearing, free of the surrounding wilderness. As Sigeric approached the passage into the city, he noticed strange colored furs of orange and green being stretched and sold by merchants wearing thin fabrics around their face and shoulders. Some of the women inspecting the hides were completely nude, only vaguely hidden by outfits completely made of the strange cloth dyed in colors of deep blues and pinks.

            “Welcome to Barat man of the steppes,” said one of the captors. “Pretty aint she?”

            Zadig stepped to the front of the group and greeted a man who like a large portion of the people here, looked similar to Zadig. Sigeric thought it strange that the rest of his captors and the heavily armored men patrolling this city were all of fair skin.

            Zadig shook the hand of the man he was speaking with and returned back to the group.

            “Okay. Let’s get him to my home,” said Zadig. He grabbed Sigeric’s arm, personally escorting him.

            As Sigeric made his way through the city, he continued to observe this strange land. The city floor was mostly dirt. Sand stones made up the paths between buildings that looked to be made of mud dried solid. A man passed them holding a leash with a large orange beast attached to it. Its snout was muzzled. Black and white stripes ran across its back and down its sides and its tail swayed from side to side in a hypnotic way. Sigeric noticed scars where claws should be on its large paws. Its yellow eyes connected with Sigeric’s and it echoed a hollow rumbling in its throat at him.

            “Here we are,” said Zadig pulling a large metal ring from somewhere in his armor. The ring had many little trinkets shaped like nails. They jingled loudly; it amused Sigeric. Zadig placed one of the objects into a hole in the door and turned, causing the door to rumble. It was all so strange to Sigeric. “Please come inside.”

            Inside the home, there was little but weapons and armors lying on worn tables and chairs. The floor was just as dirt as the ground outside and it smelled strange, like stagnant water.

            “It won’t be long before they find out you are here. I believe I know how you came to be here man of the steppes. There was rumor that some men were hired by the capital to search for slaves that would help their war efforts. My guess is you are one of them, which would mean either they are back and you got away, or you killed them and ran. I don’t care which to be honest. I’m as much a slave in my own home as you are. I’m sure you don’t understand me, but you must know I am your friend. The enemy of the empire is a friend of mine. I won’t let them have you. A slaver caravan leaves tomorrow. I will smuggle you into it. That’s the best I can do to get you far from their hands.”

            Zadig looked to the ground and sighed.

            “I’m sorry my friend.”

            Someone knocked loudly at the door, interrupting Zadig’s heart to heart with Sigeric.

            “Captain Zadig,” said the voice on the other side. “The bastard wants a word with you. He asked for you personally.

            “Shit,” said Zadig. “Word traveled fast.”

            Zadig unfastened his chest plate and removed the chain underneath. He was clad only in leather leggings, a brown and worn tunic, and his golden sword.

            “I will return shortly,” He paused, “I hope.”

Zadig left the home and closed the door which made the rumbling noise once more after closing. Sigeric quickly jumped up and tried to open it to no success. He scanned the room and found no way of escape. He was completely trapped once more; only this time he was bound only by rope and surrounded by weaponry. Sigeric made use of a dull long sword that rest propped up against a table, wedged between the table and a chair. It took some effort but he was able to cut through his bindings. There was still no escape, but now he had hope…and dull steel.

After only a short while Sigeric heard the clashing of metal outside. Someone was fighting and it sounded like there was more than one opponent. The fighting ceased and the door rumbled once more. Sigeric was too large for any of the armor but he held a long sword in each hand that he sharpened with the time he had alone inside. He was poised in front of the door with his arms raised, ready to strike.

The door opened slowly, pushed open by Zadig’s back. He had his golden blade raised in defense as a fair skinned man approached. Sigeric hesitated to strike Zadig. It was dishonorable to strike a man in the back and although he didn’t understand him, there was something about Zadig’s tone that calmed Sigeric. He felt like Zadig meant no harm.

            The fair skinned man lunged at Zadig but it was futile. Zadig hopped backward only inches, arching his back and hunching over slightly. The enemy’s blade fell just short of Zadig’s torso. Zadig brought the golden blade down, severing the man’s limb at the shoulder with such speed and ease that he quickly snapped the sword back up and split the man’s chin in two, sending him backward to die, choking on his own blood.

            Zadig turned and noticed the large man standing only feet behind him, no longer in bondage and now wielding two blades raised in the air.

            “Wait! I mean you no harm. Helping you seemed to be the best reason to start the revolution friend,” said Zadig. He lowered his blade to show Sigeric he meant no harm.

            Sigeric didn’t understand Zadig but lowering his blade was universal language for I don’t want to fight you. Sigeric still questioned Zadig’s sincerity and motioned for Zadig to back away. Understanding, Zadig walked backward, leaving room for Sigeric to step outside. As he did, Sigeric was now aware of the battle taking place outside. The dark skinned men with their lack of armor were at war with the fair skinned men who earlier patrolled the city. The fair skinned men looked to be winning. Their enemies were fleeing the city and most of the dead that lay on the floor were of Zadig’s people. Sigeric noticed a decapitated man sitting up against one of the mud homes, his head was lying feet away, the nose snuggled in the rear of another corpse.

            “How fate could allow such insult after death,” Sigeric thought.

            “My people would rather be cleaned from this world than live under the heel of evil,” said Zadig. “Come, I’ll show you where to run.”

            Sigeric could tell Zadig was trying to help him. It was the first sign of kindness he had be given since he was taken from the steppes. He knew he had to follow Zadig.

            Men came at them from either side. One man approached Sigeric as Zadig had three making their way to him. Sigeric wanted to keep Zadig alive. He charged at the man nearest to him and plunged both blades into the man’s belly at the same point. Sweeping each blade in opposite directions, he cleaved the man in two; his innards fell between the two halves on the ground. Without wasting a moment, Sigeric threw one of the blades. The sword nearly laid waste to Zadig, impaling one of the three men approaching him instead.

            Zadig countered one of the remaining two men’s attacks and spun around, removing the man’s head with the golden blade. Sigeric was impressed with Zadig’s strange style of combat. It was quick and his movements were fluid like. The last of the enemies turned and ran but without heavy armor, Zadig was too fast. He quickly caught the man, grabbing his shoulder and impaling him with his sword. The gold of the blade was beautiful to Sigeric, even when bathed in the red of blood and jutting forth from a man’s chest.

            As the two of them reached an opening in the wall only large enough for men to crawl through, Zadig stopped to catch his breath. He pointed his sword at the opening.

            “Go through there and follow the road. You’ll find your way out of these lands. I have to help my people fight the enemy that strangles Barat.”

            Sigeric dropped down without hesitation and squeezed through the opening. The stone scraped his shoulders; he was too large to make it through unscathed. Blood lightly streamed down his shoulders, a low price for freedom. He waited for Zadig to follow. When he didn’t come through the portal, Sigeric ducked down to look through the opening. All he could see through the smoke, dust, and blood was the golden sword dancing through the air, sending sparks and blood into the air as it clashed into blade and bone, the song of war.

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The Schooner Hesperus Adaptation

26 Thursday Apr 2012

Posted by Maccusweil in Writing

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Adaptation, fiction, henry wadsworth longfellow, hesperus. read, longfellow, random, short, wreck of the hesperus, Writing

The trend in adaptations can be blamed on a course I’ve been attending this semester, Adaptive Literary Materials. I was charged with turning a favorite poem into a short fiction adaptation. The following is my little adaptation of “The Wreck of the Hesperus” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

The Lord’s Prayer

             “Is it her…is it Moira…my little girl?”

            A surge of chilling air assaulted the crew as they hoisted the broken mast from the jagged bay. Cordage, tightly wound around the mast, held in place the porcelain like remains of a young woman wearing a white nightgown. The cold air and ocean preserved the semblance of life, a sleeping beauty.

            Removing his wool coat, the captain rushed to the water’s edge, ignoring the impending danger of the rocks that made up the shore, the same kinds of rocks that chewed and swallowed up his galley.

            “Is that her captain?” said one of the deckhands. The captain dropped to a knee and held his head for a moment.

“Nay,” said the captain brushing ice from the young woman’s face. “It’s Donnelly’s lass, Trina.”

            The crew stood in a circle around the broken mast. Silence washed over the vigil as the foamy green water bathed the rocks. The captain looked into the distance across the bay at a large alcove cut into the face of a five-hundred foot tall crag. Cradled within, rest the Hesperus, his galley ship. The imposing sight was eerily beautiful. The ship lay on its side, the hull facing the bay they stood on. Even at a lean, the remaining mast extended halfway up the cliff face. The tear in the hull created by the rocks was large enough to be seen as a black abyss ripped into the dark wood of the ships belly. Green waves crashed incessantly against the remains but failed to cause the slightest stir. The rocks had claimed her eternally.

            One of the deckhands followed the captain’s gaze to the wreckage.

            “Where is she captain?”

            The captain continued to gaze at the wreckage for about five seconds before looking down at the lass tied to the mast at his feet, her hair frozen to her body.

            “God save her from a fate as this.”

            The first mate began to rally the men. Leaving Trina on the rocks, they began to cast their small boats back into the water, ores flailing wildly in the cold wind. They charged toward the shipwreck. The captain, a single tear frozen to his cheek, stared into the void torn into the Hesperus. The cold air could do nothing to close his eyes.

            As the boats approached the jagged teeth of the cove, a wave roared and capsized one of them. The men, like ants trapped in foam, bobbed up and out of the frothy head of the green waves.

            “My God, help me!” yelled one of the men. Cries like this were numerous yet like echoes among the roar of the waters. There was nothing anyone could do but reach the shipwreck. Lives would be lost but nobody could be left behind. The captain, still frozen in stare, would not abandon his ship twice.

            Of the four boats that set out to the shipwreck, three survived. This in itself was a victory. Of the boat that capsized, only one man was lost to sea. All is worthy if Moira be among the survivors, if there were any to be had at all. As the men approached, the void became less. Cargo of all colors and sizes spilled from the greying darkness. A shipment of Merlot crashed, leaving a red stain all down the hull, or so they hoped it was the wine.

            No motion could be seen outside the ship. Inside, a few crates swung on free hanging rope. The men began to climb the jagged rocks up to their lost vessel, the captain ahead of them all. A few of the men stayed back to watch their little boats, some were clinging to beads in prayer.

            “Let them be safe if we are worthy my Lord.”

            The captain, still leading the men, crested the point where stone met wood. He earned a splinter as he used the ship to hoist himself up on the rock edge. The others followed.

            “My God captain…it’s all ruined.”

            “What a mess,” Said another.

            The captain continued, never blinking. The men made their way into an opening, yelling to what may now be ghosts.

            “Let her be safe if I am worthy my Lord,” whispered the captain.

            Bodies of men and women littered the remnants of the ship. The men had to adjust their steps to keep from disturbing them, yelling all the way. As they wound through corridors and passages, they reached a room where stored within were shipments of down and wool. The captain entered first upon hearing whimpering. A woman’s head peered from behind a crate, tears in her eyes.

            “Daddy you came back!” yelled sweet Moira. “God be blessed.

Prisoner

04 Wednesday Jan 2012

Posted by Maccusweil in Uncategorized

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Tags

english, fiction, Literature, nonfiction, prison. corrections, random, Story

            Officer Erhardt’s polished black boots squeaked against the freshly cleaned rubber floor. An inmate, some girl he had never seen before, was still holding the mop. She averted her eyes as he marched past her and stood in front of a massive plexiglass and steel door, labeled 0286-A in bold black numbers at the top.  The interior was painted in a shade of baby blue, the lighting dimmed.           

            “Central, 0286,” Officer Erhardt said into the radio marked A-1 with yellow paint. He scratched at his mutton chops and waived the radio in the direction of the camera set above the door before attaching the radio back on his belt.

            A loud clank followed by an electrical hum echoed through the hall. The door slowly began to slide open. Officer Erhardt stood with his back to the wall until the door quit moving. This was the first door of twenty-four that separated him from the entrance of the prison and A-Unit where he was headed. Alpha was where they placed the violent offenders.

            “Living the life,” one officer said to another in passing; a row of inmates followed close behind him in single file.

            “Dumb asshole,” Erhardt said under his breath. “Never let an inmate walk behind you.”

            Down the hall, the door to the sergeants office swung open. The Sergeant stepped into the hallway, facing the doorway. Erhardt slapped the elevator call button and listened as Sergeant Rikke reprimanded one of the new recruits.

            “If I catch you with a chew in your mouth again boy, you’re fucked.” His eyes bulged from his head like they wanted to jump out and slap the poor guy. He had a wild stare even when he was being casual. Yanking the leash in his left hand, he summoned Bogie to his side and slammed the door.  He turned and looked in Erhardt’s direction and smiled. The German shepherd even looked to be smiling at him.

Sergeant Rikke was different from the rest of the officers. He wore baggy cargo pocket pants that were grey, instead of the black straight leg slacks everyone else wore. He stuffed his pants into his boots and wore his shirt un-tucked like a jacket. He was also the owner of the prison guard dog Bogie who made a point to defecate in inmate units. It was more than Rikke’s looks though; he had a confidence that was louder than the rest of the cocky bastards under the prisons employ. He was an asshole. The Sergeant and his dog slowly strode toward Erhardt who nodded at the Sergeant and moved his attention to the elevator.

“Officer Erhardt, how ya doing?” The elevator doors opened.

“I’m fine, Sergeant. You?” Erhardt asked as he stepped into the elevator.

The Sergeant pointed in the elevator and snapped his fingers; Bogie pranced right in followed by the Sergeant himself.

The Sergeant pulled a can of tobacco from his cargo pocket and tapped it vigorously before putting a wad in his bottom lip.

“Chew?” The Sergeant asked Erhardt.

“No thanks Sergeant. I don’t chew.”

The Sergeant shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

            “Going up?” The Sergeant asked.

            Erhardt scowled. “You know damn well I’m headed up. You put me in Alpha.”

            The Sergeant laughed. “I told you last month. You’ll be in Alpha for the rest of your career. I’ll make you hate them pieces of shit until you do what’s right.” The Sergeant stepped closer to Erhardt. “Nobody invited ever refused. You think you’re better than us? A guy like you fits right in, strict, loyal, tough, and hard. You’ll see we’re not wrong after enough time in there goes by.”

            Officer Erhardt shook his head. “I won’t just smack around inmates to give you what you want. You’ve got the wrong guy.” The elevator doors opened.

            “Have a nice day,” the Sergeant laughed and smiled at Erhardt, who stepped into the hallway off the elevator. After the doors closed Erhardt flipped a bird in that direction.

            Most of the doors were open during shift change, and Erhardt made his way down a series of hallways that bent in rigid angles. Every hallway on the floor converged to a small plexiglass room with monitors and a door control panel for the entire third floor. Inside operating the station was Officer Switzer. He called out of a tiny mail slot on the door that only he could flip open.

            “Hey Wolverine!” he called out. It was the nickname attributed to Officer Erhardt ever since he had grown mutton chops.

            Erhardt waved at Switzer and yelled back, “I’m in A-Unit. Open her up for me in a sec.” Switzer saluted Erhardt and spun his chair around to face the control panel.

            Once Erhardt got to the first of the two doors of the entrance he noticed inside the partition between the two doors was another officer who was kicking the unit door and yelling expletives into his radio. He could hear Switzer’s laugh echoing through the concrete hall.

            The door in-front of Erhardt slid open, allowing him to join the other officer. Only one door could be opened at a time between a unit and its adjoining hallway. As Erhardt approached he noticed it was Officer Ray, the joke of the institution. He was about five foot tall and weighed a whopping ninety pounds wet. He had one hell of a mouth that got him in trouble in the units and on the streets. On more than one occasion he showed up to work with a black eye. Rumor had it an inmate even dangled him from the second floor railing of the mezzanine once.

            “Awe shit,” Erhardt muttered as he identified Ray. “You my partner?”

            Officer Ray turned around. “Fuck no, I’m support. Here’s your pod sheet.” Ray shoved the sheet of paper on Erhardt’s chest and walked out of the partition before the door could close.

            “Thank God,” Erhardt said, waiting for the door to Alpha to pop open. The inside door unlocked and popped open on command from third floor control, unlike the rest of the doors in the prison that slid open and close automatically. The officers were responsible for the security of the inside door and would be reprimanded if a lieutenant came into the unit and it was unlocked.

            Entering the unit was always strange. New inmates came in and old ones were moved out every day, so it was hard to tell what sort of crowd would be inside. There were familiar days and then there were days where an officer had to start all over again and retrain the inmates to the way things were done in a unit. Officer Erhardt was one of the few strict officers who never let a rule fly. Inmates knew that when he walked in that popped open door, today was not business as usual.

            “Hey Robo-Cop is here,” some of the inmates started to shout as he walked into view. During a shift change all inmates were locked in cells lining the walls around the unit. The name calling and yelling were not to incite Erhardt, they knew better; it was more of a way to warn the rest of the unit that he was here.

            “Shut the fuck up,” Erhardt yelled. “I don’t want to hear shit from you today. My head hurts and we’re all going to have a nice calm day.” He started to march around the unit with his left hand tucked behind his back, gripping his belt. As he walked by each cell door, he looked through each small window and searched for signs of contraband and rule breaking, yanking the door to make sure it was secure before moving to the next. All was clear so far, so he made his way down to the officer’s desk where his partner for the day sat leaning back in a plastic chair with his feet propped up on the desk.

****

            Halfway through the shift, the units with two officers send one officer at a time to relieve officers for lunch break. The officers alternate until everyone has received his half-hour break. Officer Erhardt, being Alpha officer 1, had to relieve the G/H control pod. G/H was a control room like the third floor control, only smaller. It controlled the doors into and out of units G and H, the cells inside G and H, and the nurse offices inside G unit. These officers who work this station must also patrol the G and H units every half hour, using their radios to have central control open and close the doors for them.

            G unit is the medical unit. It’s where the nurses provide diabetic inmates with insulin, place the sick inmates for care, and where piss testing is performed. H unit is considered intake. It’s a place where the handicapped individuals may choose to be segregated from other inmates and where all freshly booked inmates go until a counselor can evaluate them to decide which unit they belong in.

            On this particular day G unit had three inmates in medical lock up. An elderly woman on an oxygen machine, a guy with a broken arm, and a new guy they believed was coming off of dope. Officer Erhardt had made his way up to the post and was beginning his first patrol. The nurses were all away at lunch and he was the only employee in the units.

            As he made his way into the medical lockup room he could hear a loud scraping noise coming from the cell at the far end, home to the doper. Officer Erhardt peered through the window, but he could see nothing in the cell. He could only hear the noise.

            “Hey where are you!” He yelled. No response. Erhardt pulled the chart off the door.

            “Steve Makke,” he said aloud. The chart read that he had been arrested for stealing steak from Giant Eagle.

Inmate is dangerous to unit population.

Drugs are still in system.

            “Hey Steve I need you to step where I can see you,” Erhardt said as he slipped the chart back into the door slot. The scraping sound ceased but the guy didn’t enter visibility.

            “Steve if you don’t open this door, I’m going to open it and come in. You don’t want that do you?” Erhardt grabbed his radio and waited a moment. “Last chance,” he said. Nothing happened.

            “Central, pop G-523.” A moment later the cell door slid open. Officer Erhardt shimmied in sideways to face the blind-spot. Steve Makke leapt from the sink. In one hand he held a toothbrush that had the back-end sharpened to a point; in the other hand he held a broken piece of the metal mirror which was supposed to be bolted to the wall.

            Erhardt quickly reacted, grabbing Steve’s arms by the wrist as Steve came down on-top of him. The little junkie was no match. Erhardt jolted the inmate backward into the wall, knocking the weapons from his hands. He tossed Steve to the floor causing him to smack his head off the steel frame of the suspended bed. Blood began to soak the inmate’s hair.

            “Code brown, code brown…code white, code white,” Erhardt yelled into the radio. Brown was for inmate attacking an officer and white for medical emergency. The first one to respond to the call was the Sergeant. His office was across the hall from G unit. The Sergeant stormed in and paused at Steve on the floor with Erhardt standing outside the cell. His gaze wandered to the weapons on the floor.

            “Anfallen!” The Sergeant yelled. It must have been some word for attack because Bogie instantly jumped into the cell and began to ravage the barely conscious inmate. The Sergeant loomed over the horror, Erhardt yelling for it to stop. The German shepherd didn’t quit until the Sergeant yelled another German word. Blood was all over the cell. Puncture wounds from the bites dotted Steve’s arm, blood gushing from them.

            “Why did you do that? He was already subdued.” Erhardt said, pushing the Sergeant. Bogie snarled.

            “You don’t get it, do you Erhardt. That trash attacked an officer. When he attacks one of us he attacks all of us. That shit doesn’t fly here and now he knows it. When will you realize that you have to make a decision? You are either one of us or one of them?” He shook his head and pointed at Steve, who lost conscious. “He wanted you a dead man. Erhardt started to walk away.

            “Besides, it looks like you did him up good before I showed up. I told you, you’re one of us. Join the squad…don’t kid yourself.”

            Erhardt stopped and turned slowly to face the Sergeant.

            “Face it Rikke, I’ll never be like you.” Erhardt ripped off his badge and tossed it on the floor before shoving his way through the army of nurses that finally started to rush in.

Western Excerpt

20 Tuesday Dec 2011

Posted by Maccusweil in Uncategorized

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english, fiction, Gunslinger, Literature, Story, Western, Wildwest, Writing

An Excerpt from Bullet For A Friend

by Thomas Maxwell

Jase Mcmasters is a man of the past stuck in the present. With each passing second the world in all its mystery conjures new life and new deaths. With each passing second, man in all his mystery, conjures new unique ideas and patents that aid life and death.  The civil war ended thirty-five years ago yet the bittersweet taste still leaves a sensation on the back of his tongue. The guilt of act and witness binds him back there, restricting him, and some nights when the heat is just right it coils around his throat pinching his lungs from air.

The people back in Black Creek knew better than to cross him, but that was when this all started. That was when the stench of whiskey, the clicking of coin, and the echoes in the saloon muffled the echoes in his head. That was back when things were easy and the crooked nosed Frenchman weren’t holding him at gun point in the back room of a warehouse in La Tesoro Texas.

The floor boards creaked each time the Frenchman shifted weight from one hip to the other. The annoying way the creaking drug on far too long was nearly as annoying as his accent. Rope bound Jase’s hands to the back of the chair and his feet were neatly knotted together. A lantern hung from the ceiling, casting its light on the chair Jase was tied to and the Frenchman.

“Where the hell is ma hat Froggy?” Jase asked with his stare directed to the floor.

The Frenchman clenched his fist and socked Jase a good one to the jaw. Jase let out a hardy laugh.

“You French sure are a bunch of pussies. Always have been…” This time Jase looked the Frenchman directly in the eyes. “What am I doin in here? Who put ya up ta this?”

The Frenchman lifted his pistol to Jase’s head and pulled back the hammer with his thumb; the muzzle of the barrel rested softly on his Jase’s forehead.

*****

Trying to Make This Happen

20 Tuesday Dec 2011

Posted by Maccusweil in Uncategorized

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english, fiction, literature. literary, random, Reading, sciencefiction, Student, Writing, zombies

Okay, so lets see. I want to start posting regularly and I want to get some followers to chat with about my writing and other things in the literary world. I plan to eventually get to a point where I can poll followers ideas on one word topics to write a short story about and then the highest poll gets the story the following week to read and tear up. Until then…I need followers. I’ll start this blog out with posting previously written things and personal thoughts until people care enough to start this. SO, I will begin with posting a short clip of the zombpocalypse story I’m working on. This clip was written for and submitted to my university literary magazine and accepted back in october. Let me know if it sucks, it’s a fun read, or anything else on your mind. I hope you’re at least entertained and I will post more like this as I go. Thanks!

STAY ALIVE

by Thomas Maxwell

Watch him instinctively draw his firearm, urged by the moans of the dead lurching just out of sight. The instinct had been drilled into him by his father and sixteen years of service to the United States Army. If only they had taught him how to make ammo from nothing. “Oh crap,” said Scott. His colt 1911, gifted to him by his war-hero father, had been out of ammo for three days. Scott surveyed the dilapidated room for weaponry. The ruins offered a five foot length of rebar and an overturned stool by the only window. Scott holstered the heirloom and pulled the rebar that sprung from a gash in the wall. Stooping low across from the only window in the room, Scott studied the doorway to his right. The room was dimly illuminated by shafts of light passing through the window and breaks in the walls.

Scott gripped the rebar with sweaty palms. His heart beat rapidly. He could hear the ghoul shambling down the hallway, pounding the wall as it marched closer. He imagined what it looked like; worms protruding from its eyes, teeth naked and menacing on its fleshless face, its tongue slapping the inside of its mouth. He silently prayed to God that it would shamble past and leave him be. The pounding on the wall ceased and the shuffling of its feet became ever-present.Its fingers coiled around the doorway. The flesh on them was golden in color and in some places bone was free of restriction. Scott began to shake the rebar, taming the adrenaline coursing through his body. Erecting himself in preparation for what was to come, Scott reminded himself it sounded like only one and he had this under control. The ghoul awkwardly shifted its body sideways through the doorway and before it could turn to face Scott, Scott charged and bashed it over the head with the rebar. The rebar broke, leaving Scott with a few feet of it left. He tried to regain the upper hand by jamming through the ghoul’s head with what was left of the rebar, but the ghoul swiped the air with respectable strength, sending Scott to the floor.”Son-of-a-bitch,” said Scott as he crawled on his back toward the wall, the rebar still in his grip. He noticed the thing must have been a farmer before. It was a lumbering beast, ugly and disfigured. It still had on work boots and a flannel jacket typical of Pennsylvania rough necks. It made its way toward Scott. Scott leapt to his feet and braced himself against the wall; he held the rebar with both hands, extending it outward in a defensive stance. The ghoul came closer, its grotesque abomination of the human form more noticeable with each step. Scott had no route of escape that he could see, so he held the ghoul back with the rebar as he thought of a plan.The ghoul’s large hands groped and tugged at Scott’s black Kevlar vest. It occasionally gripped him firm enough to bash him against the crumbling wall. Scott noticed the ghoul’s face. Its eyes were glazed with the emptiness of death, each eye looking in opposite directions, neither of them at Scott. It bit at the air wildly, its teeth gnashing. Dry cracked lips revealed thin and amber receding gums. The nose had been cleaved off leaving two holes in the face above the mustache. Its left ear was missing and there were human bite impressions all over.Fear took form in Scott’s throat. It worked its way up from his gut, leaving an empty shiver in its wake. He wanted to scream, but he knew if he did, the sound could bring more of them. The drywall supporting his back began to weaken and buckle. He could think of no escape. The image of teeth tearing his flesh and gnawing his bones took hold of his thoughts.The familiar boom of a .50 caliber rifle rang loud in the distance. Seconds later, the ghoul’s head splattered, sending blood, bone, and brain in all directions. The wall finally gave way to the pressure. Crashing through the wall, Scott fell outside on his back. The headless and decomposing corpse followed directly after, pinning Scott between its rot and the ground below. A surge of static coursed through his ligaments and knuckles, compelling him to frantically swat the thing off of him. He wiped the blood from his face and cleaned his hands on the dead farmer’s jacket. “Big son-of-a-bitch,” he said as he patted the farmer’s pockets. He noticed something solid.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, fella.” Scott discovered a set of keys in the pants pocket. A blue rabbit foot dangled from the chain. “Wasn’t much luck for you, huh?” He stuffed the keys in his vest and continued to find a box of matches and a pocket knife. “These should come in handy,” Scott said.

Gazing up from the corpse and to the northern hillside, Scott scanned for the shooter. The oppressive summer sun was on its way down. The calm and eerie aura enveloped the small country farm. The trees in the distance rustled in the light breeze. “Now, I wonder who shot your head clean off. I’d like to thank him for saving my ass.” Scott cleaned off his military issued cap with his knee and looked carefully around the house for the garage. He already searched the house and found nothing but the farmer ghoul.

He found it at the back of the house. A perfect condition, 1973, candy-apple-red, Cadillac Eldorado perched right outside with an ivory top and a chrome grill. It was rare to find a whole vehicle these days, let alone one like this. He hadn’t seen a decent car in years.

He entered the garage first. There was no need to check the engine until he finished rummaging around. It was too dark to see inside the garage. Luckily, there was enough fuel in the lantern hanging outside to keep a flame. The matches did come in handy after all. Inside the garage were a typical workbench, dirt floors, and racks of tools. Scott raised the lantern up and noticed a banister framing a second floor. The light of the lantern reflected off the glass doors of a gun cabinet above.

“My God,” Scott whispered as he retrieved the rabbit’s foot and keys and made his way directly to the gun cabinet. He could see there were guns inside and the excitement of it forced a smile. He placed the lantern on the railing behind him and used the smallest key on the keychain to unlock the doors. Inside remained a Remington 870 twelve gauge shotgun, a Winchester 30/30 lever action rifle, and a bucket full of random ammunition. Some of the ammo looked to be self-loaded, but these days any ammo was good ammo. Finding enough .45 caliber bullets to fill his three magazines, he loaded them and put the few extras in his pants pocket. He brought everything down to the Cadillac where he loaded the rifle and shotgun.

“Let’s see about that shooter with the .50 cal,” he said. The engine failed to start and he noticed the gas gauge read empty. After inspecting the vehicle, he discovered a single bullet had found its way into the car, putting a hole through to the gas tank. “And here I thought you were lucky,” Scott said to the rabbit’s foot. He ripped it from the chain and tossed it away. Scott found some duct tape to seal the hole but failed to produce any gas to fill the tank back up. “I guess I’m hiking it,” Scott said. He left the ammunition bucket and the shotgun in the car and headed north. Scott wanted to thank whoever saved him–he even hoped to find some gas–but more than that, he wanted some human contact. He was used to being a loner-before the event he preferred it that way but years of isolation warrants a conversation or two.

****

Nobody had a name for it. It wasn’t a plague. There were no CDC tents being set up along every coastal city. The dead could bite you. They could bite your damn arm off and it wouldn’t matter. It’s when they killed people that things went bad. That’s when people came back, different. The dead rose in all stages of decomposition. That first week, people believed they had hold of the situation. Maryland boasted, “We’re in the clear; no Zombies here,” like a tourism advertisement. But people got scared and more people started dying. Violent crime was on the rise and natural death was consistent as always. The number of risen became unbearable. It was the same on every continent. After two weeks, there were no more communications available for the people and any semblance of government went with it.

Scott was home on leave the day it started, to say goodbye to his father. Cancer had been sucking his father’s life for years and the oncologist said this would be the end. At the hospital, Scott watched his role model die. For the first time since he could remember, his father looked peaceful. His father was a hard man, a Nazi-killer, and a lifelong state trooper. After his father died, he woke up, and tore out the throat of Scott’s mother. Her blood quickly painted the hospital bed and floor a rich shade of red. Scott was in a state of shock. He pulled his mother from his father’s maddened hold, brandished the colt 1911 his father used in the war, and shot him in the head. Scott turned to help his mother, but she had already bled out. The idea that this could all be some crazy zombie nightmare didn’t occur to him until his mother stood up and attacked him. He shot her in the head, too.

Security guards ran into the room, yelling at him to drop the weapon. Nurses were outside screaming, “He’s got a gun” “and, “Oh my God!” People were frantically running down the halls to escape the mad man with a gun. They didn’t know. They didn’t know; by night’s end, most of them would be dead. That first day, hospitals were the worst place to be.

Scott dropped his colt and went to his knees. He wasn’t sure if he went mad or if he really murdered his parents. After all, he was diagnosed with PTSD after his second tour of combat duty. Before the guard could cuff Scott, an armless doctor ran into the room and closed the door. He had tubing as a tourniquet to stop the stump of his arm from bleeding; blood soaked his clothes. “He died! I screwed up his surgery and he died! His chest was lying wide open! My God, tell me how!?” The doctor sunk into the corner of the room, hitting his head of the wall and rocking back and forth to comfort his confusion.

A man, with his chest surgically folded open, stood outside the door. The same empty gaze of Scott’s parents was on his face. In his grip was the surgeon’s gnawed arm and he repeatedly slapped it against the door. The guard was not panicked. He told Scott to pick up the colt and reached for the doorknob, saying, “On the count of three.” Scott confirmed with a nod. “One…two…three…”

****

Everything was still and calm. The trees surrounding the farm would occasionally sweep in the wind. At the peak of the hill, he could see a sprawling valley below that gave home to an old red barn that fell into disrepair. Only one door could be seen and thin unpainted boards were shoddily nailed up where there were faults in the exterior. Scott made his way to the barn. A strange sensation tickled his spine and pinched his sides. It was only a short time ago one of the risen nearly tore him to pieces. The thought of being in close quarters with another one put Scott on edge. He needed to call out, to either the man who saved him, a barn full of walking dead, or nothing at all, but he wasn’t going inside.

“Hello,” he said. No response. He peered through the doorway; the single hinged door creaked suddenly. “Shit,” he yelled as he jumped and readied the lever action rifle. Nothing moved. He waited, frozen in place. The door creaked once more, pushed by the wind. He lowered the rifle, leaned against the barn, and looked out to the setting sun. He thought to himself he should head back to the car and either rest in it or on the roof of the garage. Soon it wouldn’t be safe to be outside and the shooter was nowhere to be found. This was as far as he would look.

“Drop the gun,” a muffled voice commanded suddenly, startling Scott.

“Who are you?” Scott asked.

“Drop the gun. I’ll shoot right through the damn wall,” the disembodied voice demanded once more.

“Now listen here,” said Scott. “I will not disarm myself out here in these woods. You’ll either have to shoot me or lighten up. I mean you no harm. I came to thank you for saving my ass down there in the farm hou…” A gunshot blasted; It shot through the wall to the right of his head, sending splintering wood into his face.

“Whoa! What the hell are you doing?” Scott yelled as he dropped to the ground and rolled to a nearby tree.

“I don’t like your tone. I asked you to drop your guns. You can have them back when I’m done talking to you. I don’t trust strangers and I ain’t having you mess with me mister. So leave now or drop your weapons,” the voice said.

After a pause to think, Scott said, “Alright, alright. I’m leaving the guns at the tree and then I’m coming out from behind it.” Scott leaned his rifle and pistol against the tree, put his arms out, and stepped out from behind its protection. A figure emerged from the shadow of the doorway. It was ghostly pale and thin where flesh shown. Long and black greasy hair flowed from behind a gas mask. The figure was wearing military issue BDU pants tucked into boots, the BDU jacket tied around the waist. The .50 caliber Barrett rifle was slung over its shoulder, and a Glock 23 steadied in Scott’s direction.

The figure stepped aside and motioned with the gun for Scott to enter the barn. He willingly complied. Something about this person made him trust they wouldn’t simply kill him without reason, especially after whoever it was rescued him.

“Take a seat,” the figure said. It motioned to a singular chair in the middle of the barn. Inside there were stacks of hay all around and a ladder that reached up to a loft that held a sleeping bag covered in hay and a duffle bag. He could hear the slide pulling back on the Glock, and he heard the loud smack it made when it was released. The figure stepped out in front of him, holstered the Glock, and pulled back the gas mask.

“You’re a woman,” said Scott.

He thought she looked beautiful in some savage Amazonian way.

“Is that a question?” the woman said. She hung the gasmask on a nail that stuck out from a support beam. “What’s your name?”

Scott stared for a moment and stammered the words, “Uh, Scott. Scott Baabriarn.

“Well, Scott, I’m Liza. Welcome to my casa. What are you doing here?” she asked.

“You saved me. I wanted to thank you and maybe grab some gas if you knew where I could find any,” said Scott. He looked around and found a gas can. “Is that full?”

Liza looked at the can. “It just so happens it is. What is it to you?”

“There is a Cadi down at the farm. If we go now, we can get there before dark and head out in the morning,” said Scott.

“Whoa, slow down, mister. I’m safe here. This place is safe. I ain’t going nowhere,” Liza said with confidence as she crossed her arms.

“Safe,” said Scott. “Safe is a word without meaning. It used to be a place you kept your shit locked up, a feeling of security. It’s a fleeting memory, lady. At most it’s an idea you can see in your head. Safe is a place where they can’t get you, and I haven’t found it yet.”

Liza shook her head and rolled her eyes. “That zombie I wasted for you was the first I’ve seen in a month. I’ve got food growing all around me. I’ve got a place up here to stay, a roof over my head. You can take the gas mister, but I ain’t going nowhere. As for making it by dusk, take a look outside.”

Scott looked outside and realized it was too dark to travel back to the farm house. “Mind if I bunk up here for the night?” Scott asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Get your guns. I’ll make you a bed and start a fire.”

****

They sat around a fire cooking in a barrel in the center of the barn. Liza prepared some corn in a metal pot of boiling water.

“So you never fired a shot since you’ve been up here?” Scott asked.

“No, never.” Liza picked some corn from her teeth. “I saw that one down there from time to time. It would pick up a shovel and smack the dirt a bit and then go back inside. I’ve seen him maybe four times since I’ve been here. I never had any reason to shoot him until you showed up.”

“Well, I thank you for that,” said Scott. “I was out of ammo and cornered. I’d be a dead man if you hadn’t. Were you in the military? I noticed you have lots of military equipment.”

Liza laughed. “Oh God, no. I’m not that stupid. These were my husband’s.”

“Hey now,” said Scott. “I served sixteen years in the Army. I’m not entirely stupid.” He laughed a bit. “So your husband was in the military? Is he dead?”

Liza’s face soured. “No, my husband was a military nut, but he was too weak to ever join up. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was a good man. His daddy was a rough man, a military man. He made Dave feel like he had to be a certain way. It just wasn’t in his nature. He loved these things and they’ve come in handy…for me.”

Scott nodded. “What happened to him, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The local militia came sweeping through the town killing everyone outside their homes. At the time they didn’t know it wasn’t a disease. They thought everyone who was bit would be sick. They didn’t even know you had to shoot them in the head. They were just dealing death; people were scared and running wild on the streets. The dead started getting up and going into homes, eating everyone. Dave had a little bunker where he kept everything. He took his AR15, locked me inside, and said he would be right back. His eyes told me goodbye. After a few days, I tried getting out. The door was jammed. I managed to open them enough to wiggle through. I found him lying sprawled out on the doors. There had to have been twenty dead around him. He shot himself in the head, the rifle emptied.”

Scott looked Liza in the eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss. I took off to my cabin up by Lake Pymatuning after I watched my dad rip my mother’s throat out in the hospital room he died in. I didn’t know what the heck was happening. I thought I was going crazy.”

“Hey, we’ve all had some heavy shit to deal with. We’re still kicking for a reason, right? Why don’t we get some rest,” Liza said.

Scott shushed her.”You hear that?” Scott tilted his head in listening.

Something scraped against the barn. The sound of something being drug across the dirt startled them both; they looked at each other with alarm. Liza loaded a round into the Berrett and lay prone on the loft, aiming at the doorway. Scott grabbed the Winchester rifle and knelt above the ladder. Whatever was dragging came closer and closer to the doorway. The door jolted, causing a hair-raising thud to echo through the barn. The barn door slowly nudged open. A very decomposed corpse shambled through the door, dragging its broken right leg. Its eyes were bulging and floating in lidless sockets. The bottom jaw had been broken and stuck agape. Its tongue flapped freely, but lacking saliva it looked shriveled like a small potato.

Firing a round from the 30/30 Winchester, Scott shot the ghoul dead between the eyes. The corpse slumped back onto the ground. Before he could snap the lever down and back, another risen shambled through the door. Liza dispatched the second one, the Berrett resounding through the barn, deafening Scott temporarily. He rubbed his ears and ignored the ringing.

Two more entered through the barn. “What is happening?” Liza asked. Panic stained her face. Scott ran over and stuffed her belongings into her duffle bag. “We have to get out of here,” he said. “Your gunshot from saving me must have lured them to us. They must be leaving the cities to look for people like us.”

“Where will I go? What do I do?” Liza asked in a stupor. Scott shoved the duffle bag into her chest. “I’m going to Alaska,” he said. “You coming?”

“Alaska,” she said.” What do you mean, Alaska? ”

Scott grabbed the gas can and looked for another way out. “Because the last two winters they barely came around. As soon as summer hit, they were all over.”

“Why not just go north to Canada? It’s a lot closer than Alaska,” Liza said.

Scott kicked open the hay loft hatch. “There are none back here. We drop down and run straight for the Cadi. We can do this.”

“Why Alaska?” Liza asked louder.

Scott laughed. “Cause, it’s American,” he said, as he jumped out of the hay loft.

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