Yes, it's 40,000 words. No, I'm not posting it all here--just the first chapter. If you care to read the rest, follow the link in my signature and click on "The Dead of Winter"*.
Obviously, since I've posted the entire thing online, I'm probably NOT going to be publishing it any time soon. It was a practice novel; I wanted to see if I'd be able to finish it, and--much to my surprise--I was.
Now that it's done, I want feedback on it. Brutal feedback, particularly; I want people to rip out its entrails and roll around in them. I want help understanding where my strengths and weaknesses lie as a writer--in short, I want to prepare myself for writing a second novella (one that I actually will try and get published).
In exchange, I'll read anything you want me to and try to give feedback in turn. Just post a link to what you want me to read (it might take me a while as I have a pretty demanding work schedule at the moment, but I will get to it).
* I don't know if this counts as advertising for my website, since all I do on it is post things I've written. If it does, a thousand pardons. D:
______
We're doing a good fifty down an easy stretch of road when we hit him.
There's only a brief flash--a snapshot of a human shape bathed from his torso down in scorching hot headlights--and then there's that awful, wet thump, followed by shrieking tires as Jenny slams her foot on the brakes and brings 3 tons of metal to a screaming halt.
"Shit."
"Relax," I tell her. "Just relax."
"Shit," she repeats, hands trembling on the wheel. "Shit, shit, shit. SHIT."
"No way you could have seen him. Isn't your fault. Just take it easy and breathe." I reach for my pack of smokes, eager to smooth out my own frayed nerves. "I'll take a look. You better go ahead and call the police on your cell."
"Shit," she mutters, staring out with glassy eyes towards the shadow-drenched woods.
I get out of the car and light up, taking a deep drag until my lungs are drowning in the soothing bite of smoke. Once I've gotten ahold of myself, I walk over to take a look.
It's pretty bad. I'm glad Jenny isn't with me to see this. It'd be best to keep her in the car.
His face is stretched across his cracked skull like a halloween mask that doesn't quite fit. He's been nearly split in two; he must have hit the bumper and flew over us, miraculously missing the windowshield.
From what I can tell, he's an older man. 30s, maybe early 40s, with dark, stringy hair and a growing bald spot. He wrapped himself up snugly before venturing out into the frigid mid-November night. He's got a green Eagle's jersey on, splattered with flecks of rust-colored blood. I notice a name-tag pinned to his chest that says 'ASK ME ABOUT YOUR MOM'.
Heh.
Something looks wrong about him, but I can't quite put my finger on it. I'm no doctor, but I get the feeling that the corpse looks too neat.
Not juicy enough.
I shake off the odd, disturbing thought and head back to the car. Pop open the trunk, grab some flares, set myself up a perimeter around the corpse. Then I check on Jenny.
"God damn reception's out," she curses, snapping the phone shut.
"We'll pull into town. Use a phone at a gas-station or something," I tell her, dropping a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She smiles weakly.
"Guess I screwed this up."
"It's not your fault."
"I know. Just--God. Is it bad? How old was he?"
"50s," I tell her. "And it's pretty bad. You're better off not looking."
"Okay."
"Let's drive into town."
"Okay."
"Ready?"
"Uh."
"What?"
She gives me a meek, sick look. Like the thought of turning the engine back on makes her stomach do somersaults.
"Could you drive?"
_____
It's one of those little towns stretched out like a string of fake pearls along a highway off ramp. We don't bother catching the town's name; we're just after a rest-stop that's still open. We pull into some cheap gas-and-go with those old fashion pumps (the kind with spinning numbers instead of digital ones) and a storefront thick with the detritus of rural life. I tell Jenny to wait in the car while I peek in and ask to use their phone.
There's a huge deer head mounted just above the entrance. It eyes me with a disapproving stare as I step into the dust-choked building, cow-bells clattering overhead.
The floor's made out of old timber, with dirty wood barrels overflowing with with cheap cheese-infused snacks. This whole place is a sprawling mess. Shelves lay in disarray, their products thrown across the floor. And no one's behind the counter.
Something feels wrong. I try to throw off that unsettled feeling while reaching for the phone (one of those old rotaries with big fat spokes).
It's dead.
WHUMP.
Something pounds against the side door of the freezer. That's when I notice that it's been propped shut with a stack of beer kegs.
Jesus. Is someone in there?
WHUMP.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then:
WHUMP.
It sounds like someone lurching their shoulder against the door, hitting it again and again. It sounds like someone trying to get out, but not in desperation. No, this has a steady beat to it. Like the poor bastard's patient. Like he's biding his time.
WHUMP.
"Is there someone in there?" I'm nearly there, now, reaching out to brush it with my fingertips. It's cold. "Say something and I'll let you out." I don't know why that's important to me. Why should the poor guy have to ask me to let him out? But in some deeply buried part of my brain that still belongs to my childhood, I know
precisely why.
Because if he asks for help, that would mean he's human.
Probably.
WHUMP.
"Screw this," I mutter, dashing out the door.
_____
"What's going on?" Jenny asks as I climb back in.
"Don't know. No one in there, and the phone's dead. Let's try the next one." I leave out the bit with the freezer. No reason to freak her out. Maybe it was just booting up or something.
We come to a Food-Lion next. The lights are still on inside, so maybe someone's working the night shift. We can get ahold of a phone if they let us in.
As I slip the car into idle, I start to open my mouth to tell Jenny to come with me. I see in her eyes that she
wants to come. But then I think better of it. If something weird is going on, I'd rather have someone ready to drive. Besides, she's still shaking like a leaf over the accident. She doesn't need to see anything freaky.
I hand the keys over to her. "I'll be right back," I tell her, then I kiss her on the forehead. She flashes me one of her pretty little smiles and I turn to go.
The first thing I notice as I saddle up to the sliding doors is that the lights are on, but it looks like nobody's home. Inside, I can see long, sterile aisles (50% off OJ), but not a single soul. A lonely cart lays on its side in the center of one aisle, one of its wheels dangling like a flashing lure.
The doors are off, but not locked. They shove open easily and then I'm inside. There's that wet store smell, accompanied by the mindless drone of music selected for its dull sterility. Nothing else. What the hell is going on?
"Hello?"
Something clatters far ahead, like plastic soda bottles dropping to the floor. Slowly, I make my way up to the checkout, picking up the phone while keeping an eye on the back.
Dead again.
"Is anyone here?" I drop the receiver.
Something grabs my leg.
"Get down," a red-headed stock-boy hisses. "Get the hell
down!" He's stuffed himself beneath the cashier counter, clutching a mishapen bat in one hand and my ankle in the other.
"Excuse me?"
"Get down before they see you!"
"Before who sees--"
Glass falls and shatters in the back. I look up. There's a person (at least it looks like a person) standing at the end of the aisle. He's dressed in the same smock and uniform as the kid beneath me, but the front of it is dark and slick, coated in wet ichor that starts at the throat. I can't make out his face, but something about the way he stands, the way he holds himself, just the way he
stares--it's all wrong.
And then breaks into a gallop.
Oh, man. There's nothing human about the way he moves. He throws limbs out with frantic, flopping lunges, as if dragging himself forward by fistfuls of air. His eyes are wide and glassy, clouded by something milky and pale. His jaw is slack, hanging open and exposing a wagging tongue.
I manage to step back. By then, he's toppling over the counter, a husky snarl worming its way up from his throat. It's a sound I never imagined I'd hear from a human, one I couldn't imagine we were capable of making. The moment I hear it, every muscle in my body seizes up.
The kid under the counter gets up, probably to run. Bad move. That
thing reaches him first.
It snatches him by the hair, dragging him back as he screams and writhes. They squirm together on the floor like a set of fish caught on the same line, twisting and fighting while that thing drenches him in clods of bloody drool, gurgling all the while. I'm locked into place, trying to remember exactly how to breathe.
And then there's a thunderclap. No--a gunshot.
The thing's skull pops open like a soda can, fizzing up a spurt of black. It drops limp, leaving the stockboy to scramble away, shoving himself back against the counter. His face is a bright red. He wheezes for every breath, gulping oxygen down like it was going out of style.
I turn to the source of that dead-on shot. A woman stands at the entrance, holding the stock of a still-smoldering rifle. She's a dark-eyed stretch of a girl, with short black hair and camoflauge fatigues. And army boots. Big ones.
"What the hell is happening?" I croak.
Never dropping the barrel, she speaks to the stockboy with a voice that just seizes you by the throat and refuses to let go: "You all right?"
"I--I--yeah. Oh, God, thank God, I--"
"Any injuries?"
"I don't think--Christ, thank you, I thought I was going to--"
Her voice goes quiet. Like a knife slipping between the ribs. "What's that on your arm?"
The stockboy looks down. An oval-shaped wound seeps fresh blood. "Oh, shit. That thing must have--ugh, it must have bitten me. I need to get stitches. God. Rubbing alcohol, or someth--"
The second gunshot is like a lightning bolt to my brain. At once, my muscles are free; now I'm grabbing the dead stockboy's baseball bat and spinning on the bitch who just blew his brains out. And now she's got that barrel squarely trained on my face.
"You been bit?"
I grit my teeth. "No."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
That barrel doesn't waver. "In that case, the name's Cassidy. I'll be your tour-guide for the evening. Welcome to Hell."
_____
[/center]
"You got a car?"
"What."
"Car," she says. "You know. Four wheels, runs on gas, made of metal?"
"I don't--"
"Jesus Christ, man. If I want some pussy, I'll drop my trousers and look down. Get your shit together. Do. You. Have. A. Car?"
I'm gripping that baseball bat with stark white knuckles, staring at the woman who just blew away two people without even flinching. Staring, and thinking, and--
Jenny.
Shit.
"Yes. Yes, there's--I'm with someone. Are there more of those things--are those things outside?"
"Yeah," she says, glancing over her shoulder. "A lot of them. Your pal in the car?"
"Yes."
"Okay. What's your name?"
"Jack." I try to keep it together. But my eyes and mind keep wandering back towards that door, venturing out into the darkness of that parking lot. Back to where Jenny's sitting in her car, waiting for me. Alone. "My name's Jack."
"Okay, Jack. You play video-games?"
"Wha--what?"
Cassidy steps up to me, leveling a stare that can split rock. "Stay with me, Jack. Do you play video-games?"
"Yeah. Uh, a little."
"Okay. Good. This one's got three rules. You listening, Jack?"
"Yeah."
"Rule number 1. You get bit, game over. No continues, no extra lives. You'll turn into one of them. Maybe fast, maybe slow, but you
will turn. No exceptions."
I slowly start to swallow.
"Rule number 2. Once someone's turned, fuck them. I don't care if it's your long-lost brother, your mother, or even the girl who sucked your dick at the prom. Once they're a zombie, it doesn't matter. You're meat to them. So fuck them. With a shotgun, if you got one."
My hands are trembling.
"Rule number 3. Last one. This is the important one, Jack. You still with me?"
Numbly, I nod.
"Rule number 3: The only way to kill them is to shoot them in the head."
She presses the cool hilt of a revolver into my palm. It feels a lot heavier than I expect.
"Let's go."
_____
There are zombies outside.
Am I allowed to call them that? Have we progressed to that point yet? Are things screwed up enough now for me to start talking like I'm in a god-damn zombie movie?
As if reading my mind, I hear Cassidy mutter next to me. "I bet Romero's a zombie now. Fuck you, MTV.
That's irony."
The parking lot is crawling with them. It looks like they're emerging from the forest, shambling about like drunkards into the night. They weave their way through the maze of cars, dissolving into a labyrinth of chrome. There must be at least fifteen or twenty.
How the hell did I not see them before?
Cassidy sweeps her backpack off the ground and tosses it on. She plucks up a duffel bag and throws it over her shoulder. Then she levels the gun at the shambling horde.
"They won't start running until they see us. Most of them can't see worth shit, so as long as we keep our distance, we got the edge. Where's your buddy?"
"Other side," I mutter, nodding towards the far end of the parking lot. Can Jenny see them? I can't make out her car. A van is blocking my view.
"All right. Take it slow. You got six shots with that thing. Use the bat after that. Anything but a headshot is a waste of time and ammo. Ready?"
Not at all.
"Yeah."
"Let's go."
We start circling around the cars, keeping our distance from the shufflers. We keep our backs to the store. One of them's stepping past a gold mini-van when she spots me.
Little girl. 14, maybe 15. Pigtails, spritz of glitter on her face, pink PJs. A strip of flesh is gone from her cheek, exposing yellowed teeth--like rows of tic-tacs. It gives her a sort of funny, crooked grin. Her eyes are puss-white, and when she catches sight of me they gleam in the street-lights.
"Move. Now," Cassidy hisses, and then she says something else but I can't hear her over the den of inhuman shrieks, over the sound of that gibbering, frothing chaos. I can't describe it except to say that it's the sound dead things make.
Hungry things.
The girl's launching herself at us both with a lopsided gait, nearly slapping her palms on the ground with her sheer exuberance for meat. I don't even think. I just lift the six-shooter and start firing.
Bullets kick back the barrel while I start running. I think I fire four shots, maybe five. Her shoulder pops open in a wet burst, but that doesn't even phase her. She's nearly on top of me when her temple explodes and she drops like a broken toy.
"MOVE!" Cassidy roars, and then we're nearly tripping over each other as every zombie on the lot turns to us at once. I fire again, and again, and then I'm getting nothing but dead clicks. The revolver drops out of my numb hands. I hear Cassidy say something else behind me, something that sounds like a curse, but I can barely even comprehend English at this point. I reach for my bat--then I realize that I left it behind.
I am so not ready for the zombie apocalypse.
We get around the van just as an overweight lard-ass with his intestines scraping behind him like a length of extra rope begins grappling with it, his fingers crawling along the chrome as he desperately tries to clambor over it. Or maybe he's trying to eat his way through. I can smell his stink; it's like rotten eggs mixed with festering meat boiled in a bucket of vomit. I'm fighting off the urge to gag when I finally catch what Cassidy's been screaming her head off about.
"THE CAR! WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR CAR?!"
I turn. The car's gone.
Jenny.
In the distance, I see what looks like stationary headlights up ahead, reflecting back off something. In the woods. "She drove," I yell, pointing. "Trees!"
Cassidy pauses to pump a round in fatty's skull, and then we're both turning and running, just
fleeing from all those zombies as they scramble to follow.
They really don't know how to run. It's like they've got the basic premise nailed down, but all the details elude them. They just throw themselves in the direction they want to go, scrambling over whatever is in front of them like crazy drunks. Like they just can't be bothered to take time out of their busy schedules of eating people to figure out how to properly put one leg in front of the other.
Cassidy and I charge towards those headlights. I hear her drawing out rounds and reloading that rifle with a steady *click* *click* *click* as we move.
The zombies probably spooked the hell out of Jenny. She just drove, didn't even think, just
drove away as fast as she could. Probably didn't even think to honk the horn or drive the car into the grocery store. She's probably okay. Probably crashed into a tree or something like that. She's probably just dazed and confused and wondering what the hell happened, wondering if it was all just a bad dream.
Probably.
_____
I thought the parking lot was terrifying, but the woods are worse.
The most aggravating part of this is that while we're fumbling our way between trees and heading towards that shimmering glimmer of light, we're outright blind. The distant street lights are at our back; the only other thing we've got for illumination is the car's distant headlights and the stars in the sky. A zombie could spring out at any moment. All I've got against him are my mitts.
Miraculously, we don't hit a single one of the buggers on our way to the car. They're still behind us, stumbling like idiots through the trees. Distance has bought us time.
We're just about there. I notice that Cassidy's pointing the gun straight at the driver's seat. I start to say something, but then I notice: No one's in it.
It drove straight off the road and slammed into a tree, its headlights reflecting off the bark and flashing back into the cracked and broken windowshield. The driver's side window has been shattered. Pieces of glass gleam like jewels scattered over the seat. But there's no one actually in the car.
There is, however, blood. It's a rich, healthy red, lacing the jagged teeth of glass that remains in the window. Like a drooling mouth.
Mixed with something black and ichorous.
"Oh shit. We--I have to find--"
"She's dead." Cassidy swings the rifle around to face the forest. I can hear the zombies coming up on us. They're shambling through the foliage, snapping branches, gibbering and gurgling, hurtling towards the only source of light they can see. "She's dead, Jack. Either that, or she's turned. Either way--she's dead."
They're getting closer.
"Jenny!" I scream, hoping to hear her holler back.
Nothing.
"Jack. We need to go. Now," Cassidy says, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me away from the car. "Car's fucked, she's fucked, let's go before
we're fucked."
"I can't--"
She hits me, either with her fist or the butt of the rifle. I'm not sure which. It isn't hard enough to pop a tooth, but I taste blood.
"Move! NOW!"
I stop thinking. I turn, and with Cassidy right besides me, I start running.
On our way out, I throw back one last forlorn glance at the car. As we slip past the next grotto of trees, it winks out of sight.
Harshmellow
