RIDE! ~ pt.7
Oct. 30th, 2011 11:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonAlright, I want to close my little experiment in serial narrative off by thanking some of the good folks who made this possible... first and foremost to my editor Jennifer Word who was kind enough to go over this 38 page "short" story for me, all despite a gruelling schedule at the time, and helped me keep the wheels rolling on RIDE!. Also a big shout out to Julie Jansen and Axel Howerton for getting the coffin hopping:)
RIDE!~Pt.1
RIDE!~ pt.2
RIDE!~ pt.3
RIDE!~ pt.4
RIDE!~ Pt.5
RIDE!~ pt.6
Five minutes to go:
Darkness has almost completely fallen and Mitch burns full speed ahead.
The last light drains from at the skyline horizon, leaving only a receding gray haze that drifts faintly over the passing streets and rooftops. Without the illumination of the city to compensate, Mitch isn’t a hundred percent he’s even going the right way. So far he’s been navigating by muscle memory alone, the countless circuits he’s cut through Terminus have hotwired his instincts and shepherd every sudden turn, twist and pivot he’s taken.
He does his best not to second guess himself, knowing doubt is the enemy now, doubt will get him lost and close the window on his escape.
Almost there, Baby… almost there, the thoughts whispered to sooth his Ride, just hang in there a little longer for Daddy.
Sporadic flashes of crimson lightning briefly illuminate lurking Infected ahead, as they drag themselves in tics and shudders across the road before being swallowed back into the shadows again. The road is flooded with them now. Mitch isn’t sure whether that’s due to the growing dark or if he’s just had the shit fortune to roll into a migratory herd of the Ambulatory Dead.
It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself weaving wild through a forest of downed tree limbs, car crash mounds and grasping hands, I’m almost there.
On the bright side at least, it seems they’re having as much trouble seeing him as he is of them. Most of the creeps don’t even notice until he’s but a few yards away.
Mitch dodges a snarling old woman with her hair still in rollers, pops over a massive branch and indulges his impulse to take the next corner in a sharp shriek of brakes before banking out of the way of an overturned police cruiser.
A demonic belch of thunder tears through the sky and another red bolt ignites the road…
… and up ahead… is it?
Yes!
He recognizes it instantly. Her Old Man’s street, with the tiny, rickety white church across the street and the empty lot he’d wait in before sneaking in through Val’s window for intermittent nocturnal distractions.
The block is relatively deserted too. A few creeps shambling around the mowed lawns or belly crawling along the sidewalk.
Mitch opens up the reserves, pours out one last burst of speed and closes the distance to roll up swiftly on the third house across the street from the church.
The Old Man’s house sits squat and architecturally unremarkable from the two homes flanking it. They all have matching, fenceless lawns, matching car ports, matching gray walls. Windows boarded up hurricane style and a few bodies lie face down in a shroud of buzzing flies. He spots Val’s Chevy parked out front, the windshield smashed in and the driver side door wide open.
Terror plummets into his stomach with a dry gasp.
No. She’s fine. You talked to her on the phone. Remember?
Mitch catches movement through the gloom ahead. He dismounts his Baby for the final time and runs up the lawn to the front door, stopping halfway as he simultaneously realizes…
One-It would most likely be boarded up from the inside.
And..
Two-That the Old Man’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.
But…
And Mitch pulls out his phone, clicks the screen on and checks the time.
10 Seconds to go:
Mitch drops the phone. He looks around desperately for any sign of the truck – parked maybe across the street or maybe he was in the wrong driveway or maybe…
… no maybe.
Gone.
He pulls down his respirator mask. Nods sadly and whispers: “No blame, Val.”
Mitch just stands there shocked a second before realizing there is a steady tide of Infected pouring down the road he just traveled, spilling around the corners on the other end of the street in a silhouette wave, dragging themselves out of the adjacent homes, staggering out of the backyard and into the driveway.
He just now realizes their collective groan, undulating along with the blowing wind. Somehow, he had just tuned it out.
With a nod, he begins walking forward towards the front door of the Old Man’s place. Along the way he reaches into his saddlebag and withdraws a can of red spray paint.
He arrives and immediately begins tagging the door.
It’s not his best work, a scrawl of his usual Wild Style virtuosity. But it bears proudly his tag, his vandal alias, his nom de guerre, the one he spread across a hundred walls within the city – “HERE!”
He turns around and can see them descending in on him, closing the small puddle of life between him and the Infected.
Pulling off his helmet, he spots something.
There inside the church, through the small attic window – a light. Faint. White. A shadow pauses, turns to Mitch and the light douses.
“Pfff…,” Mitch snorts dismissively, throwing the helmet with all his might towards the church and misses the cross that he was aiming for. He tears off his respirator. He reaches into his saddlebag and produces the joint he packed. He lights it up, quickly sucking at the ember to get it going and not even feeling the usual rasping cough the first hit offers.
He reaches into the bag and produces the last Roman Candle.
Lighting the fuse off the joint’s ember, igniting a shower of sparks, he holds the Candle high above his head, untangles the bicycle chain wrapped around his wrist, knowing the first few creeps to step up are going to get a lock shot to the face for their troubles, and he stares deep into the moss green clouds and blood soaked lightning, laughing into the falling sparks and looks back over at the church.
And the candle fires a brilliant volley of Christmas Reds, Arcade Bulb Yellows, Summer Vacation Greens and a blue the color of Val’s eyes up, up high into the indifferent Heavens as the last light wanes; as damnation closes around him.
“At least I fucking tried!” Mitch roars at the shadow hiding in the church, at the advancing dead, at the love that escaped without him.
***
RIDE!~Pt.1
RIDE!~ pt.2
RIDE!~ pt.3
RIDE!~ pt.4
RIDE!~ Pt.5
RIDE!~ pt.6
Five minutes to go:
Darkness has almost completely fallen and Mitch burns full speed ahead.
The last light drains from at the skyline horizon, leaving only a receding gray haze that drifts faintly over the passing streets and rooftops. Without the illumination of the city to compensate, Mitch isn’t a hundred percent he’s even going the right way. So far he’s been navigating by muscle memory alone, the countless circuits he’s cut through Terminus have hotwired his instincts and shepherd every sudden turn, twist and pivot he’s taken.
He does his best not to second guess himself, knowing doubt is the enemy now, doubt will get him lost and close the window on his escape.
Almost there, Baby… almost there, the thoughts whispered to sooth his Ride, just hang in there a little longer for Daddy.
Sporadic flashes of crimson lightning briefly illuminate lurking Infected ahead, as they drag themselves in tics and shudders across the road before being swallowed back into the shadows again. The road is flooded with them now. Mitch isn’t sure whether that’s due to the growing dark or if he’s just had the shit fortune to roll into a migratory herd of the Ambulatory Dead.
It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself weaving wild through a forest of downed tree limbs, car crash mounds and grasping hands, I’m almost there.
On the bright side at least, it seems they’re having as much trouble seeing him as he is of them. Most of the creeps don’t even notice until he’s but a few yards away.
Mitch dodges a snarling old woman with her hair still in rollers, pops over a massive branch and indulges his impulse to take the next corner in a sharp shriek of brakes before banking out of the way of an overturned police cruiser.
A demonic belch of thunder tears through the sky and another red bolt ignites the road…
… and up ahead… is it?
Yes!
He recognizes it instantly. Her Old Man’s street, with the tiny, rickety white church across the street and the empty lot he’d wait in before sneaking in through Val’s window for intermittent nocturnal distractions.
The block is relatively deserted too. A few creeps shambling around the mowed lawns or belly crawling along the sidewalk.
Mitch opens up the reserves, pours out one last burst of speed and closes the distance to roll up swiftly on the third house across the street from the church.
The Old Man’s house sits squat and architecturally unremarkable from the two homes flanking it. They all have matching, fenceless lawns, matching car ports, matching gray walls. Windows boarded up hurricane style and a few bodies lie face down in a shroud of buzzing flies. He spots Val’s Chevy parked out front, the windshield smashed in and the driver side door wide open.
Terror plummets into his stomach with a dry gasp.
No. She’s fine. You talked to her on the phone. Remember?
Mitch catches movement through the gloom ahead. He dismounts his Baby for the final time and runs up the lawn to the front door, stopping halfway as he simultaneously realizes…
One-It would most likely be boarded up from the inside.
And..
Two-That the Old Man’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.
But…
And Mitch pulls out his phone, clicks the screen on and checks the time.
10 Seconds to go:
Mitch drops the phone. He looks around desperately for any sign of the truck – parked maybe across the street or maybe he was in the wrong driveway or maybe…
… no maybe.
Gone.
He pulls down his respirator mask. Nods sadly and whispers: “No blame, Val.”
Mitch just stands there shocked a second before realizing there is a steady tide of Infected pouring down the road he just traveled, spilling around the corners on the other end of the street in a silhouette wave, dragging themselves out of the adjacent homes, staggering out of the backyard and into the driveway.
He just now realizes their collective groan, undulating along with the blowing wind. Somehow, he had just tuned it out.
With a nod, he begins walking forward towards the front door of the Old Man’s place. Along the way he reaches into his saddlebag and withdraws a can of red spray paint.
He arrives and immediately begins tagging the door.
It’s not his best work, a scrawl of his usual Wild Style virtuosity. But it bears proudly his tag, his vandal alias, his nom de guerre, the one he spread across a hundred walls within the city – “HERE!”
He turns around and can see them descending in on him, closing the small puddle of life between him and the Infected.
Pulling off his helmet, he spots something.
There inside the church, through the small attic window – a light. Faint. White. A shadow pauses, turns to Mitch and the light douses.
“Pfff…,” Mitch snorts dismissively, throwing the helmet with all his might towards the church and misses the cross that he was aiming for. He tears off his respirator. He reaches into his saddlebag and produces the joint he packed. He lights it up, quickly sucking at the ember to get it going and not even feeling the usual rasping cough the first hit offers.
He reaches into the bag and produces the last Roman Candle.
Lighting the fuse off the joint’s ember, igniting a shower of sparks, he holds the Candle high above his head, untangles the bicycle chain wrapped around his wrist, knowing the first few creeps to step up are going to get a lock shot to the face for their troubles, and he stares deep into the moss green clouds and blood soaked lightning, laughing into the falling sparks and looks back over at the church.
And the candle fires a brilliant volley of Christmas Reds, Arcade Bulb Yellows, Summer Vacation Greens and a blue the color of Val’s eyes up, up high into the indifferent Heavens as the last light wanes; as damnation closes around him.
“At least I fucking tried!” Mitch roars at the shadow hiding in the church, at the advancing dead, at the love that escaped without him.