Extraction

Hello All!

I successfully completed the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge earlier tonight, writing 50,000 words for a story in less than 30 days.  It was an incredible experience and left me eager to find out more about my characters, as their story is far, FAR from over.  More on my plans to make that a reality later.  As a final post for the novel this month, I felt it was only fitting to leave you as I approached you: with an action scene.  Enjoy, and thanks for all your support!

Scotty Mac

The violent part got its wish.  To my right, the remnants of a door swung open quickly, crashing against the stop.  Out of the dark, depthless portal poured Beloved by the dozens, their eyes directly on me.  I tried to think of a smartass comment to mark the occasion, but my mouth was suddenly dry as I looked at their faces, a unified mask of hunger and rage.  Instead, I pulled the flash bang off my vest, pulled the pin, muttered "Game on," threw it at the enemy and then looked away.

            The noise and sound was brilliant and sent the Beloved reeling, howling in pain.  I jumped on the pedals, sprinting further into the bowels of the downtown buildings, working to open a gap before the group regained its senses and charged after their dinner.

            I weaved through the abandoned cars, throwing the bike into turns, inside foot held out for balance, the breath running ragged in my throat.  I could hear their feet slapping the ground and their breath coming in grunts over my own wracked, dry sobs.  I was maxed out on the flat ground, legs spinning in a blur, the pace unsustainable.  I needed a plan, and I needed one fast.

            Swinging east, I could see the city's capitol building coming into view.  Risking a glance behind me, I saw I was being pursued by at least fifty Beloved.  Jesus, they were like cockroaches!  I couldn't make a stand out in the open, they'd just surround me and take me down.  Somehow, I needed to force them into a narrow area where they couldn't outflank me and I could make each round from my .40cal count.

            The capitol.  What about the capitol?  The underground entrance, Brandon.  Yeah, that was it, the staircase that led down to the entrance was pretty narrow.  Dad had shown me around there when I was younger while he was home from D.C.  If I could get down there, I could set up, force them to come at me two abreast at most, and plug the corridor with dead or dying bodies, giving me enough time to escape.  Yeah.  That might work.

            I turned north onto Capitol Boulevard and there it was, that miniature of the White House.  Putting my last energy reserves into a final sprint, I bolted headlong for the steps to the raised entrance.  I prayed the glass wasn't bulletproof.

            In one fluid motion, I jumped off the bike while still surging forward, landing on a dead run and hoisting the bike to my left shoulder.  I took the stairs three at a time, imagining Beloved hands tearing at my exposed neck the whole way.  They were closing on me.  Off the bike, I had switched from being a hare to a tortoise.  Seconds that felt like a year later, I made it up the last step.  Not stopping my run, I reached for my gun and fired into the glass doors.  The first round hit, causing a crack.  The second round sent those cracks racing around the glass, and the third finished the weakening process.  I crashed through the door, leading with my right shoulder, pivoting the bike on my shoulder so it wouldn't hang up on the door frame.

            Shards flew every which way and I skidded across the glass on the ground, nearly losing my balance.  Climbing back on my bike, I pushed off, the mass of Beloved hard on my heels.  I had to get to the back of the building.

Winter Games

The book written by the NaNoWriMo founder says that when in doubt, "just add ninjas."  I went one better and added some Irishmen.  Ladies and Gentlemen, meet the Flaherty brothers!

Three days is a long time to sit in that little death-cottage, waiting to unleash some mayhem.  To stave off boredom, we talked about all the real food we would eat when we got to the house, rigging the shower timer so we got more than two minutes of hot water, and the biggest game, what we would do when ‘it’ was all over.  That morning, it was more of the same.

            “I’ll tell you what, Brother.  I’m gonna head for the mountains, get one o’ those cabins, put a fookin’ rocking chair on the porch and just sit.  Hell, I may even rock in it after awhile,” Sean was saying to his twin brother Patrick.  The Flaherty brothers were, improbably enough, Irish college exchange students Mom had agreed to house for the year, the last year that something like higher education mattered.  When the outbreak started, she had convinced them with her typical, kindly forcefulness, that returning to Ireland was no longer in the cards.  The brothers had called their parents in County Cork, told them they were staying for another year, and hung up, sobbing.  They took to their roles well enough, and proved to be excellent shots with the big machine guns and assault rifles alike.  They wouldn’t stay silent long enough to get the twenty feet from the pillbox to the cot area though, so external work was out.  Fucking Irish, I thought.  They sing sad songs and fight happy wars.

            “That’s all well an’ good, Brother.  But what about ma’ and da’?” Patrick wanted to know.

            “Come off it, now!  You know well as me that they’re fookin’ zombies.  Ain’t nothin’ ta be done about it.”

            “What do you think, Brandon?  D’you think our ma’ and da’re fookin’ zombies?” Patrick asked me.

            “First off, how many times do I have to tell you guys, the Beloved are not zombies.  Zombies are animated corpses- a bullshit, supernatural figment of fiction.  The “undead.”  There’s nothing ‘dead’ about the Beloved except their ability to control their hunger,” I explained for the umpteenth time.

            The Flaherty boys looked at each other.  “Fine, fine.  So they’re alive Beloved zombies?  Is that any better than bein’ a dead fookin’ zombie?” Sean inquired.

            “For fuck’s sake, guys, it doesn’t matter what you call them, your parents are most likely lost!” I snapped angrily.

            “Well, why didn’t ya say tha’ in ta first place, boyo?” Patrcik chided.  Jesus, what a pair.

            “My mistake.  All right, back on track.  When this is all over, I’m going to read all the books I’ve been meaning to read in the biggest armchair I can find, and I’ll only leave to eat, go to the bathroom, and stand long enough to keep the blood from pooling in my legs.”

            “Ha!  Y’hear tha’ Paddy?  Brandon Archer, a fookin’ bookworm!” Sean slapped his knee, cackling.  I rubbed my temples which had started throbbing in the last couple minutes.  I increasingly felt like I was living in a poorly-acted movie.  “Give over, Archer.  What would ya really do?”

This was Me, Then

The latest.  In this section, we're getting a sense of why Brandon is the way he is.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the blanket Lindsey offered me.  “Trying to tell a story with chattering teeth would be counterproductive.”

            “I bet.”

            “Oh, you’ll find out.  Servant or not, I’m going to ask you one of these days for your story.  Fair’s fair.”

            “Fine.  Now, stop stalling and get on with it.”

“I was twelve years old when I got in my first fight.  Wasn’t much of a fight.  I got my ass kicked.  Three boys in my class did the kicking.  They had it in for me, for a couple of reasons.  Telling them to fuck off when they asked me to do their homework for them was probably reason number one.  Anyway, I never had a chance.  I was scrawny back then, hadn’t yet hit my growth spurt, and knew more about dinosaurs and algebra than fighting techniques.  I loved to read.  Mom and Dad encouraged me to read whatever I wanted, and would ask me deep questions when I was done as an exercise to help me remember details.  It was kind of a game.”

            “So I got jumped at final recess one day.  They all had at least four inches and thirty pounds apiece on me.  I remember the first punch I took.  The kid’s knuckles bit into my cheek, laying the skin open.  My face was warm, but whether it was from the blood running down or the sting of the blow, I couldn’t tell.  Everything sped up beyond my reckoning then, and the next thing I remember I was waking up in the hospital.”

            “Most of the damage was superficial; they were kids after all and didn’t know how to hit to injure.  I had two black eyes, a broken nose, my cheek was cut, my lower lip swollen, and I was missing a tooth.  Luckily, sort of, it was a baby tooth and so wasn’t terribly missed.  I had bruised ribs and my stomach was tender.  The doctors figured I probably got kicked in the abdomen a few times, but there wasn’t any internal bleeding.  Small favors, right?”

            “The beating was over before any of the teachers noticed what was going on.  When I regained consciousness, they asked me if I remembered who had beaten me.  I saw each face clearly, their likenesses etched indelibly on my brain, but I played dumb.  I said I couldn’t remember.  The doctors chalked it up to the trauma of the attack and that was okay by me.  Twelve years old, and I finally understood that being smart would only get a person so far.  I needed force to back up my words.  A few weeks later, I started studies very much different from paleontology and math.”

            “Boxing was first.  There were plenty of weight classes, and I was just big enough to be a flyweight.  I would get up in the morning, before dawn, and go pound the pavement.  I would run the two miles to our gym, work out with a trainer Dad had hired at my insistence, run back home, and go to school.  Back at home, once Mom was satisfied I had accomplished my homework, I went to the basement and continued to change.  I jumped rope to work on my coordination, hammered the speed bag to improve how fast I could throw my hands, and finished off with five rounds on the heavy bag.  I did that for two years straight, and each time I hit the bag I imagined their faces deforming from one punch after another.”

Claiming My Kill

Hey All!  Here's a section from the latest chapter.

I smiled.  This was going to work.  With the same care as before, I brought the rifle to my shoulder and looked through the scope.  The low light properties of the scope gave me plenty of four legged options to choose from.  It was still dark enough that I wouldn't have to worry about the sun affecting the picture.  So many variables.

            The doubts faded, the potential repercussions of what I was about to do melted into the background.  My finger slipped over the trigger, and I took a deep breath, steadying the nerves.  I had my target.  Execute.

            The shot shattered the silence of the valley, the sonic signature reverberating off the sides of the foothills.  The buck went down.  At least I was fairly sure it went down, because as soon as I had fired, the time for stealth and caution was over.  The next part of my plan would achieve fruition only if I could move quickly enough.

            I slung the rifle and started down the hill at a half-run, half-slide.  The window was a minute, maybe two.  Maybe.  I had to get to the buck.  I hurled aside thoughts for personal safety, trusting my agility earned over the years to carry me down the hill, picking my spots for me as I leapt from one patch of ground to the next.  The herd was moving south away from the fallen comrade.  Their numbers and frantic running away from the valley masked my headlong scramble toward the kill.  The human eye would be attracted to the biggest scene.  I hoped.

            The slope ran out, leveling off as it neared the valley.  I took my eyes off my route for a quick glance at the town below.  Sure enough, I could see people moving inside the rundown houses.  They had heard the shot and would be up at my position in a matter of moments to investigate.  The fallen elk was just ahead of me.  I still had a chance.

            Still at a dead run, I slid down behind the elk, putting its mass between the town and my prone figure.  I gripped the rifle close to my chest lest a rattle should betray my position.  I was gasping from the effort, my heartbeat was playing percussion on my eardrums.  I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through my mouth, calming my wheezes as best I could.

            Voices from below carried to my position.  Less than a minute I figured, and they'd be on me.  I could pick out individual people from the different pitches in speech, and my mind raced as I heard that intelligent, slightly wry, supremely confident feminine voice that had branded itself in my mind.  She was coming.  Twenty seconds now, at the most.

            I moved my right hand off of the rifle to my chest.  I was definitely outnumbered, and movement into view would get me shot.  They would have weapons trained on the buck, ready to shoot if he was still alive.  I would have to tilt the field in my favor.

Harvesting Plans

Things are starting to take shape in this story.

The next day I started preparing for the hunt.  I took my time cleaning my rifle, honed the edge on my sword, and ran around gathering each piece of my protective gear.  I grabbed an MRE from the pantry, and filled up my hydration pack.  I picked out an extra layer of clothes, something warm and with muted tones.  It was critical that I blend in with my surroundings, and the foothills were predominantly sage green and a grey-brown from the soil and sand.  I made sure my fighting knife was as sharp as my long blade, and snapped the hollow-point rounds into my .40cal.  I was so focused that I didn't hear Grace at the door until she whispered "Hey."

            I jumped a little, almost guiltily.  "Hello.  Didn't hear you come up.  You're footsteps are getting quieter," I said lightly, trying to make her smile.  Her eyes were flat and her mouth held none of the flirtatious humor that drew people to her.  Then, just when I thought she might never smile again, her mouth twitched.

            "Well.  Recent events have lent weight to your insistence that I learn to move about more quietly," she said in her best impersonation of British understatement.

            "I can see that.  What's up?"

            "I was going to ask you the same thing.  Looks like you're rolling out."

            "Only for a couple days.  I'm going hunting."

            "Are you?"

            "What do you mean?"

            "I think you're going hunting.  But you're not bringing back an elk," Grace pronounced, her prescience rocking me back on my heels.

            I struggled to remain impassive.  "What makes you say that?"

            "Thanks for not denying it, lying right to my face.  Brandon, before we left on the sweep, Sheilah told me to keep an eye on you.  She said you were all broken up about that Bandit getting the drop on you.  You're going back there, aren't you.  You're going to get her."

            I sighed.  Ninety-nine problems... "Yes.  I'm going to get her.  And in doing so, maybe I'll get that piece of myself back that she stole away.  Don't worry, Grace.  I'm not going into this half-cocked, it's not a blind-rage vendetta.  It's more than repairing my pride.  We need her."

            "We need her?  Why do we need her?" Grace demanded.

            "We need her and her people on our side, simple as that.  We don't win the war against the Leaders and the Beloved without them."

            "Bullshit."

            "I thought so, too.  It's a losing game, Grace, don't you see it?  Casino's odds.  They have us outnumbered at every turn.  An alliance with the Bandits gives us a hell of a lot better chance of overcoming our fate.  I don't know about you, but if you told me that by getting the Bandits on our side I wouldn't have to kill another person ever again, I'd do anything to make that a reality."

            Grace remained silent, eyes searching mine for any trace of disbelief or a lie.  I gazed back steadily, not mad at her for questioning.  It was all of a sudden important to me that she understood what I was attempting to undertake.  She must have seen what she was looking for, because she nodded once, then came up to me and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  She turned and left.  From the doorway, she looked back at me with a grave smile, her eyes clear and her words simple.

            "So go get her," she said, leaving me to the task of claiming my kill.

Flight

Hello to All!

It's been a few days since I've debuted a new section on the blog, but I wanted to assure you that I have been busy, and the game has been moved along.  Here's an excerpt from a recent writing session:

Movement right.  I located it through my scope, and saw two Beloved crouched low at the corner of a house, ready to charge us.  Firing a gun now would be the equivalent of sending up a flare for all enemies in the area to use as a locator, but there was nothing for it.  I stepped toward the threat, clearing Grace out of any possible line of fire, and brought both down cleanly with bursts.  The rapid-fire explosions of the bullets out of the rifle sounded like the loudest detonation in the history of mankind in the stillness.

            "Okay, they probably know we're here now," Grace said sarcastically.

            "Yeah, probably.  Come on, follow me," I said, moving to where the Beloved I shot had been hiding.  We climbed onto the porch, and crouched down, waiting to see who the rifle blasts would bring.

            We didn't have to wait long.  The sound of a truck engine grew nearer, and headlights stretched the shadows on the lane, originating from the direction we were heading.  The truck crept forward, every occupant scanning the area for us, I knew.  I motioned to Grace to do as I did, laying down on the ground, and moving off the porch and into the bushes, overgrown from neglect.

            Grace dropped down beside me just as the truck came into view.  Through the scope I saw a driver and a passenger, calmly sweeping their heads for movement.  Four Beloved were in the truck bed, bobbing around eagerly for any sight of us, which for them meant a tasty treat.  It was an interesting pairing, I thought.  Leader and Beloved, cold calculation mixed with mindless strength and brutality.  With this partnership finally verified, I felt even less hope for human survival.  Then again, I reminded myself, if it were easy, then anyone could do it.

            We remained motionless, hardly breathing, faces pressed to the earth as the truck moved closer.  It was agony, waiting for the sound of brakes being applied and the headlong rush of predators that had spotted their prey, but it never came.  The truck moved past the dead bodies, unseen in the darkness where they lay, and the engine note picked up as the vehicle accelerated away.  We waited just a moment more to make sure the truck was out of sight, then slowly stood and continued our progress.

            The night wore on.  Our pace slowed even further, fatigue stealing over us from the late hour and the stress borne of moving so cautiously.  We didn't see any more Beloved on foot, and I bet they had found the bodies from the initial ambush and decided that staying in the vehicle would give them a better advantage.  At some point in the night, I took the strap off my rifle to rig a makeshift sling for Grace's arm, but other than a whispered "thank you," we remained silent, lost in our thoughts and our unspoken hope that we would survive the night.

            The first tentacles of light signifying Dawn's approach broke over the valley.  As much as we wished for the morning, we knew that the light worked to the advantage of our pursuers even more.  We came out of a suburb onto a main street, and I recognized it as one of the approach roads to Mom's house.  So close.  We looked for any sign of the enemy, but there was nothing to suggest any danger.  We moved along the road as fast as we could, trotting and stumbling as we desperately tried to reach safety.

            The sound of a car running fast on the road behind us burned through our elation as surely as a struck match through rice paper.  They were coming for us, we wouldn't escape them after all.  Summoning what energy reserves we had left, we dashed down the road.

The Opposite of 'Handling it Well'

Hello Faithful Followers!

This section of my story finds Brandon headed home after his furlough.  I offer a preemptive apology with regards to the length of this section as it's longer than my 500-word guideline I've been adhering to, but I hope you'll forgive me as you read the scene.  We pick up the action, quite literally, courtesy of his brother John...

John started in on me immediately, while Dad looked on, intent on the dynamics of our maladjusted confrontation I figured.  "Well, look who's here.  Brandon Archer, ex-soldier," he said with a sneer, putting heavy emphasis on the 'ex.'

            "All right, Brother.  I'll play along.  Why am I an 'ex-soldier'?" I asked, suspecting the answer.  We were a few feet away from each other.  I hung my head as if submitting to the taunting while shuffling my feet backward a half-step.  Distance was key.

            "Because only someone unfit for duty would give up their firearm," John delivered the punch line with obvious relish.

            "Ah.  Yes.  I had a feeling that's where you were going," I mumbled, still shuffling my feet, digging my left foot into the crushed gravel.  A good platform was crucial.

            "'I had a feeling that was where you were going'," John mimicked my voice in a high, whiny pitch.  "You're pathetic, Brandon, you always were." I bowed my head, still deeper, interlocking my fingers in acquiescence to his just proclamation.  I sneaked a peek at Dad.  He wasn't directly at me, but I caught his head move from right to left just the barest bit.  But he said nothing.  Surprise was critical.

            "And the best part?  You got beat by a Bandit half your size and surrendered without a fight!" John through back his head, eyes closed as he laughed, exulting in my humiliation.

            Now.  As soon as my mind thought it I was moving, pivoting on my left leg and throwing my right in a roundhouse kick aimed for the side of his head at the temple.  Had I connected, I would have killed him.  I had put all my rage into that kick and I knew it was one of the most lethal strikes I had ever attempted.  It wasn't fast enough, however.  John caught the movement from beneath his eyelids, and snapped his head back so that the toe of my boot brushed his chin.  The force of the kick combined with my foot not hitting where I had planned brought my body around, but I was prepared for that as well, and saw John charge out of the corner of my eye.

            I continued the spin, crouching slightly, and brought my interlocked hands up swiftly as my brother barreled into me, the uppercut solidly hitting him in the gut.  I winced as I connected, John wasn't a field man anymore but he kept himself in great shape and his stomach muscles were still rock solid.  I felt my a knuckle in my left hand break, which was excruciating as it sounds, but took grim satisfaction in hearing the breath leave John's body, the blow staggering him, throwing him off his rush.  With whip-crack speed, I pivoted into his body and threw him over my shoulder.  He landed on his back with a thud and groaned, struggling to get up like a turtle that had been flipped on its shell.

            "You need to choose your words better, Brother.  Seems I'm enough of a soldier to beat you, you fucking bastard!" I yelled at him.  The speed of my attack had undone his strength, the range of my strike had negated his prowess for in-close work.  He should have known better.

            Then, right then, just as I thought the fight was mine, he got up.  Ah, fuck.  My older brother.  Too dumb to know that he was defeated, but as I watched him rise slowly, knowing he was conducting a mental "systems" check of his body for injuries as he did so, a part of me wondered if he knew something I didn't.  He looked at me, and the sneering, insulting older brother was gone.  In his place was someone who wanted me fucking dead.

            He leapt after me, and I turned and ran for the wall.  I had one chance.  I was quicker than him and faster, but his rage lent him wings.  I could feel him gaining, hear the explosive grunts as he strained to reach me.

            I made the wall.  Instead of trying to climb it as I hoped he thought I was about to attempt, I jumped into the stone, coiling like a compressed steel spring, then exploded back toward John, pivoting to my right, my left foot coming around in a mirror image of my first kick.  I was confident he hadn't expected the move, and maybe he hadn't.  One minor problem made itself quickly and readily apparent, however.  He was too close for my ranged attack.  My leg landed ineffectively in his side, and he quickly clamped his right arm around it, pivoting while his left hand grabbed my shirt at the chest, driving me down at the grou-

            Blackness.

Furlough, Kind of

All right, folks, here's some more on the still-untitled novel.  I'm not sure I'll have anything out over the next couple days, so enjoy this section and if you have any feedback, don't hesitate to let me know!

An hour later, or close enough that I was confident search parties hadn't been dispatched for us yet, we pulled into Mom's house.  She lived in our old house before we moved to the hills, a farmhouse, one of the last farmhouses with acreage that hadn't been turned into a suburb in fact, and she used every last one of those acres to great effect, growing the lion's share of fruits and grains for the families that were part of the cooperative.  Her part of our survival was so critical that every approach to the house was guarded around the clock.  The guard houses had been notified of our arrival and they lifted the gates as we approached, waving us on.  We turned down the crushed gravel driveway, and saw Mom waiting for us, waving her hand.

            Skidding to a stop, Sheilah leapt off her bike and was in Mom's arms in a flash.

            "Mom!  I've missed you so much!" she said, crying with happiness.

            "Darling, I've missed you too.  I'm so glad you made it safely," Mom said, including me in her gaze and her smile.  I came up and hugged her as well, basking in the moment.  Things would continue as they had been before, I would be sent out to kill or be killed again and again, but that was a lifetime away.

            "Yeah Mom, would you believe that I had to practically drag Sheilah kicking and screaming over here?  She sure does put on a good act," I teased.

            "Oh Brandon, you're such a liar.  You don't believe him, do you Mother?"

            "Of course not, sweetie," Mom said, and Sheilah stuck her tongue out at me.  I shied a hand at her.  "Sheilah, why don't you go get changed into something less martial.  Your cousin Samantha has been looking forward to catching up with you since we got the notice of your impending visit from your father."

            "All right Mother.  I'll help out wherever you need me to afterward.  See you later!  You too, jerk face," she said at me with a grin, running into the house.

            "Okay, don't worry, I'll just take care of your bike for you then," I yelled after her, turning to Mom in feigned disgust.  "Kids."

            "I remember you being a similar nuisance to John not too long ago," Mom said.

            "Well.  Some things never change," I said, picking up Sheilah's bike and wheeling both to the detached garage behind the house, Mom walking by my side.

            "I'm glad you wanted to come out, Brandon.  It's been ages since we talked."

            "Yes it has.  Darn Beloved apocalypse, always gets in the way."

            "You don't have to pretend to be lighthearted around me, Son.  I know you too well," Mom said seriously, those blue eyes Sheilah had inherited boring into mine.  "We need to talk about how things are.  I fear your father has been overly positive with how we fare against our enemies.  I was hoping to gain a clearer picture from your experiences of late."

            "I'll tell you what I can Mom, but I'm just a spear carrier.  I'm not privy to the grand strategy of Jacob Archer, I'm afraid."

            "That self deprecation won't work on me either, my boy.  I know how smart you are, how much you take in even if you don't know you've taken it in.  So let's talk.  Let's see if we can connect the dots."

            I knew what that meant.  We were going to figure out what was really going on even if it took all ten days of my furlough to get there.  Mom's strength was different than Dad's, but she was definitely not weaker.  I shook my head, but met her eyes, curiosity tugging at my mind.

            "Okay Mom.  Let's give it a shot."

A Fate Worse than Living and Love's Meaning

I'm making this a serial, it seems.  Here's Brandon, finding himself in a situation that is more than pleasurable but less than desirable...

She glanced over and saw the joint propped over the ash tray.  Without asking, she slid past me, picked it up and took a drag.  I watched her lips close over the cigarette, so full and promising.  This certainly wasn't her first time smoking up, I observed as she took a huge pull.  She released the smoke, watched it drift lazily toward the ceiling to intermingle with my puffs.  "Want to tell me about it?"

            "Not really."

            "I didn't really want to hear it anyway.  I think you knew that," she said as she climbed on the bed with me.  Almost effortlessly she undid the button of my jeans.  She slipped her hand beneath the denim, fingertips searching.  My resolve weakened, cracked, and just when it was about to shatter, a door slamming in the hall caused her to jump, to pull away.  I knew from the direction that it was John going to his room.  He moved with all the grace of an Abrams tank.  I hoped his wife Lauren was able to sleep through his attempt at being quiet, I knew if we still had neighbors they sure as hell would have had a tough time.

            Grace got up, shaking her head.  "Well that spoiled the mood."

            "Probably for the best.  She loves you, you know," I said, searching her face for a reaction.  She ducked her head, but I had caught a faint blush.  Was she embarrassed?  Angry that I called her out on her attempted infidelity?  I couldn't tell.

            "She's so delicate.  Soft and tender.  I see you, and it makes me want a rougher experience, something without a future.  You're dangerous, Brandon, volatile.  I sometimes get the feeling that if you lost whatever it is that keeps you wanting to live, you'd kill us all," she mused, eyes now on mine with no trace of guile.  "I want to feel that fire inside me.  Grace can't give that to me, she's too gentle."

            "Well, we can't all be hardened killers," I said, my high completely lost in the conversation.  "Stay with Sheilah.  She has a rare gift, and she wants to give it to you and you alone."

            "And what gift is that?"

            "Her capacity to love.  She loves all of us, and I mean all of us.  Beloved, Leaders, and Bandits.  That's something that I could never do.  She believes that we will all be saved and the world will be rebuilt.  She loves her family when I would wish them all dead, and she loves me in spite of all my failings.  She loves you because you are her opposite and she finds you beautiful even as you flirt with me and the other men.  Sheilah values life in all its forms, no matter how irredeemable it may seem.  She is her Mother's daughter," I finished simply.  My lust had ebbed away as I thought about my infallible sister.  I would do anything she asked if I thought it would bring her eternal happiness.  While so many of us fought and died in vain, focusing on drawing breath for another minute, another day, another decade, she had all the love in the world.

            "She's too good for me," Grace said, the catch in her voice echoing the one in my mind.

            "Newsflash, Grace.  She's too good for all of us."

Home and the Hook

Hey All,

I cranked out a few more words, moved the game on a bit.  This section is from Chapter 2, and it finds Brandon back at home...

Two armed guards marched me down the hall to our shower complex.  We passed the bunkers that looked like smashed furniture, the murder holes only visible if one knew where to look, arranged by design to funnel an intruder to the center, making the only option for that bastard death by ballistic metal.  I could tell by the slight shuffling of the massive guard to my left that it was my cousin Robert- he had injured his leg in a motocross race when he was younger, and his gait made him a liability in the field.  The slender guard to my right strode confidently, footfalls ringing throughout the house.  That would be my sister Sheilah's friend, Grace.  No matter how many times I tried to tell her that she wouldn't be ready to go on external missions until she no longer walked like she was angry at the ground, she stubbornly kept to her masculine stride. 

            Without consciously meaning to, I thought about how I would escape if I found cause.  Dad was always telling us to analyze the situation we were in, understand what we needed to do to save ourselves.  Robert was set up on my left, and that was stupid, his bad leg was nearest to me.  I'd fake a stumble, falling off balance and forward, that'd do the trick.  When Robbie stepped forward to steady me, I'd strike the side of knee, felling him as surely as a lumberjack felled a tree with his last axe strike.  That was part one.

            For all her lack of tactical silence, Grace was a fucking technician with a rifle, and had incredibly fast and lethal reflexes.  I'd dive behind Rob, let him absorb the rounds in that fleshy, Kevlar vested body of his, and take Grace out with his assault rifle.  I estimated I would have 10 seconds maximum from the time Grace's gun went off to the moment guards would displace from their murder holes, move to the scene of the crime, and cut me down.  That was enough time to clear the house, I knew its hallways and portals intimately, but what to do when I made it outside?  The wall surrounding our house was ten feet tall and mortared brick, with a generator providing a high-amp charge on the wire ringing the top.  There was a five second lag from the time someone threw the switch to the point when some dumbass like yours truly trying to get in or make good his escape became a crispy critter.  I could set up a defensive position, but the guards were drilled incessantly in tactically responding to a crisis situation, and I knew they would quickly seize the advantage.  And then there was the whole moral problem of killing my family, which anyway I sliced it, was a deplorable idea.  We had plenty of enemies trying to kill us: Beloved, Leaders, and Bandits.  Jesus, the Bandits.  I had been so focused on escaping from the Beloved I had forgotten about those assholes.  As bad as the Beloved and the insidiously ruthless Leaders were, the Bandits were perhaps even worse.

            What a fucked up world we lived in.

Out of F*@king Bullets

Hello All!

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is in full effect and throughout the month I'll be dropping bits of my writing effort in here.  Hope you like it!  Here's an exerpt from Chapter 1- Out of Fucking Bullets:

I'm out of fucking bullets.  I heard the telltale 'click' of my rifle biting down on nothing but air, and felt that old fear that I had felt so many times before.  But for a split second, I stood on my pathetic, yet well-sighted, patch of land with a dumb "How did I get Here??" expression and that useless and very un-motivating, profane statement of fact clattered around my mind.  I'm out of fucking bullets.  I'm out of fuck- movement crossing my field of vision from left to right and back again snapped me out of my despair, or maybe it just put me into a new level of hell.  There were at least three of them left, and they were charging me as if I was the last tasty morsel on the planet.  I shuddered, even as I holstered my rifle, drew my baton with my right hand and my katana with my left hand, settling the curved blade with the diabolical underhand grip I knew and loved.  Jesus, they were fast, the Beloved.  I had been engaging them from over two hundred yards out, and I could see the littered corpses starched on the ground as evidence of my handy work.  Three of us from different families, always different families, had gone on this fact finding mission and we were arrayed in a triangle formation, backs to each other with room to operate.  Fuck, Dad, you said resistance in this sector of downtown was light...

            "Guys, I'm out of ammo!  Three Beloved left, switching to hand weapons!" I informed my companions, Rachel and Steve.

            "Damn, Brandon!  I've been out for a minute already.  Stop being so stingy with your shots!" Steve angrily retorted, the stress of the situation bleeding through his normally calm countenance.  "I've got two left, one male, one female... they've been laying low as long as the bullets have been flying.  Either they've fed recently, or-"

            "They've got a Leader with them," Rachel finished, grimly.  "Fuck," then, with greater emphasis as her pistol clicked empty, "Fuck!  I'm out!  Got three left.  Here they come.  Switching to close quarters," Rachel was focused in, not wasting her breath, keeping the observations coming without slowing down to change weapons, eyes never wavering from the enemy.  "They're not charging directly at me, either.  They're using cover.  All right, I'm calling it, there's a Leader coordinating their movements, I've never seen a Beloved move like this without one of those bastards calling the shots.  Be smart, guys.  Be.  Fucking.  Smart," Rachel said through clenched teeth.

            "Mine are a hundred (yards) out," I calculated.  "Do your part you two and we all go home.  Don't get cut, none of your blood drops here or-"

            "No shit, Brandon," Steve said and I could almost see his eye roll even though it was eleven at night.

            "Right, Chief," Rachel added, then with as cavalier attitude as she could muster "It's too bad, anyway, Mom promised we'd dip into the hot cocoa stores.  Madeline better not take my share if I don't make it back."