Gary's tension @ Drabblecast

Holy crap! I doing the ironing last night (just call me Captain Excitement) listening to my IiPod. Drabblecast 224 was playing, and my author blurb started, then Gary's Tension played. I submitted it a while back, and had almost forgotten about it. I'd like to extend a great big thank you to Norm Sherman and all of the Drabblecast for including it in their fantastic podcast!

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Memory pirates

Being of nautical mind, I turned my memory palace into a memory galleon. My most important memories were kept in the captain’s quarters, my hopes in the crow’s nest, and the things that I’d rather forget in the brig. The day’s tasks would be scrawled across the snapping sails in brilliant vermillion ink, and day-to-day memories were boxed within the cargo hold.

As I aged though, I didn’t account for memory pirates, and when the first grappling hook of Alzheimer’s sailed across the deck and snagged itself against the starboard gunwhale, I knew I was in a for a fight…

Annie

Annie’s face emerges through the haze, aftershocks still rumbling beneath. Her expression is peaceful, but her verdant eyes are bright. Her head turns quizzically, seeing me in the rubble as her neck telescopes past fallen supports. Powerful LEDs ignite from her brows, driving back the gloom.

Her dainty ballerina’s feet pick across floor, and effortlessly she lifts the slabs that trap me. She exposes my shattered leg, and kisses me with a wicked barb, diluting pain with anaesthetic. I descend into airy darkness as the rescue-drone with the dead girl’s face carries me from powdery ruins and out to salvation.

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Gary's tension

Gary’s tension took on a new form. Yeah, he was always tense during interviews, but this was something different. He felt it deep in his gut, a sliding sensation, like a knot of worms languidly uncoiling themselves, and becoming a single, purposeful shape. The feeling grew, expanding upwards through his chest, squirming against his heart, and crushing air from lungs. Gary sat ramrod straight, sweating from his temples as he felt the first tentative brushes at the back of his throat.  Panic gripped him as he felt the delicate probing at his sinuses, and the first interview question was asked.

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Night Sortie @ Cast Macabre

A massive thank you (thank you thank you thank you!) to Barry J Northern for placing Night Sortie into the rotation for Cast Macabre!

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Night Sortie elsewhere

Wow!... A fantastically massive thank you to Erin Cole for selecting Night Sortie to form a part of the 13 Days of Horror competition featured at her blog.

It's a real honour, and reading the other contributions, I am truly humbled to be included!

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Night Sortie

Dusty wind howls through the buildings. Tiny flecks of red and brown and grey and black tumble through the spaces between concrete walls. Splintered pallets and packing crates litter alleys, snagging papers, leaves and rags. Punched out windows, black jagged yawning mouths and eyes. Dust drifts in, settles onto cobwebbed desks and cabinets. Lights flicker across the surfaces, glinting on the metal and shards of glass. Nightbird shrieks. Flapping wings.

Crunching gravel outside. A car rolls through the carpark, slowly picking its way along the fence. Headlights wink out, fading yellow, orange, blue-gray to black. Engine falls quiet. Doors open. Doors slam. More crunching… lighter. Boots, shoes. Three crunch and scrape through the carpark. One facing forward, two facing back. Dusty wind blows into their faces, coating their boots, their pants, their jackets, their hair. Dust devils whip up, swirl and dissipate into the night.
One sees movement, shouts. Weapons are drawn, levelled at shadows. Shuffling, dragging across the concrete ahead. Flashlights blaze, cutting through darkness. There! Pathetic thing, cowed by the light Milky eyes shine. Low moan, mouth agape. New bravery… arms reach out, changes direction. Gunfire – cracking, booming. Deafening silence. Body thuds to ground. Sweep around with light... nothing… no more groans, no more sound. Only one… lucky night.

Warehouse doors wrench open, grinding, scouring unoiled metal. Dust is shaken free of the doors, peeling paint flecks off, taken by the wind. Gloom within, smells of dust and staleness. No rot. Flashlights climb up high, heavy shelves stretching almost to the roof. One whistles, tuneless amazement. Pallets and boxes, stacked with cans and bottles. Tomatoes. Beans. Peas. Carrots. Corn Spaghetti. Meat. Pickles. One finds batteries, shoves the packs of cylinders into her backpack and pockets. Light glints off tools, ranked in neat lines, plastic wrapped. Axes. Mattocks. Shovels. Hammers. Nails.

Moaning explodes around them. Echoes bouncing off the walls. Where? Dragging, shuffling. Snapping jaws. Lunging. One fires, shells eject onto the floor, pinging, ringing on concrete. Fuck! Gritted teeth. Reload, reload. More gunfire. More thuds. One is surprised, rotten teeth fastening onto his calf, sinking in. Turns, fires. Thing not going to get up again. Anguish, crying. What do we do now? Swap uneasy glances. One looks up, stricken, resigned. Already changing. Unlucky night now. One more shot rings. Silent tears.

Two return to the vehicle. Carry all they can. No more movement in the warehouse, pile more into the car, one always watching behind. Three trips back and forth, scurrying,. panicked. Push closed the doors, harder with two. Spraycan rattles. Hissing. Red spraypaint X, stark against the rust and peeling paint. X for treasure – more left inside. X for a cross, commemorating the fallen.
Doors slam. lights flick on, engine roars to life. Gravel crunches, lurches out of the carpark. Glances exchanged. Remember him in life – it wasn’t his fault – it was best for him. Best for us. Lights recede into the distance. Blackness again. Wind dies down, dust settling. More to reclaim. Food. Tools. Return soon.

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