It wasn’t the lack of humility or the indecency of the George Town Suburbanites that bothered him; it was their lack of awareness, self or otherwise. Nothing of the outside world seemed to affect them anymore; the wall separating the sanctuary from the chaos had created a seemingly impenetrable bubble that only Gordon seemed to be on the outside of. There was no shock or horror anymore; there was just the mundane. It was like the world was still turning just as it had been, the dead rising nothing more than a generational shift akin to the ‘Swingin’ Sixties’, a changing trend to become accustomed to and another expense to budget for.
Apparently, Gordon was the only one here left unadjusted to this new order. Nobody saw the problems the apocalypse created; they saw only opportunities for a new game, a new piece of merchandise or a new way to provide entertainment to their closed off little world. Last Christmas had been one of the final straws for Gordon. One of his colleagues, Donny – a man who insisted on calling Gordon “G-Man” and, despite everything, still only concerned himself with the “3 B’s” (Beer, Bitches and Ball Games) – had brought into the office a Shuffler they had captured, dressed him in full Father Christmas regalia, and hung him from the ceiling with a set of Christmas lights, illuminating the swinging corpse like a piñata at a David Lynch party.
Gordon shuddered at the memory, staring at the spot on the office carpet where the sack of meat and bones had once dripped blood and flesh. And the thought of the poor cleaner (her name may have been Margo) who had been left to clean it up later that same night. She who strayed too close, not realising the Shuffler hadn’t been put down and was still very much “alive”. That had been a dark time, even for the end of the world, and it was standing, hands clasped together and head bowed, that Gordon had decided that things needed to change here and that he would be the man to do it.
Gordon was so busy thinking about his place in George Town, Donny’s Christmas cadavers, and the ill-fate of Margo that he didn’t realise the crowd that had gathered around him at the window until he heard them gasp, derailing the train of thought he’d embarked on. Following the gaze of his colleagues out onto the Deadlands, he thought for a moment that the audience had formed to watch another game of Shuffle-Streak (the rules of which were to run through the Deadlands without a stitch of clothing on and attempt to come back wearing that of a Shuffler) – until he saw what it was they had gathered around for. Until he saw them.
It was a young family, slap bang in the middle of the Deadlands. There were four of them; the daughter, about 16, and her younger brother no older than eight or nine, were wedged in between their parents as they slowly made their way across the burned ground, George Town only a few well-placed steps ahead of them. Gordon heart’s picked up the pace as he watched them, quickly crossing his fingers and muttering a quick prayer to whatever god was listening.
All work had stopped in the office now as everyone gathered around the window to watch. The family hadn’t yet been spotted, moving at a snail’s pace. No need to run, no need to rush. The phrase “Slowly Slowly Catchy Monkey” echoed in Gordon’s ears as he did his best to ignore his colleagues who, with Donny leading the charge, had started making bets as to whether or not they’d make it across and who’d be the last one standing. The little bit of hope that had filled his heart seconds ago vanished, to be replaced with the feeling of sick climbing up the back of his throat, and a mounting sense of dread that was made only worse as he turned back to the window to watch events unfold.
*
In the end, it was the boy who was the last one standing. The thing that Gordon would never forget was that the boy didn’t look scared or upset, he just looked lost. Confused. He was probably waiting for his Dad to get back up and lift him the rest of the way or for his sister to get up and tease him for being too slow. Or maybe he was just waiting for his mother to hold him close and tell him everything would be all right. He probably didn’t know what was happening as the cloud of corpses floated over and began to shower down on him like dead rain.
The office was silent as they watched the boy being torn apart, the only sound coming from money as it exchanged hands. Everyone went back to work with pockets as empty as their souls. But Gordon stood there for some time in a daze, still staring out of the window as the cloud got up and moved on to their next feed. Memories of the bedtime stories he grew up with came back to him then; the ones where the heroes saved the world and rescued those in danger. He realised now, finally, that these were just stories after all. War isn’t won by bedtime stories, he thought. No, it wasn’t. The reality was very different. Reality was people betting on a life and watching death as a sport. Reality was that Gordon’s plan to change things in George Town had just caused the death of four people.
As Gordon continued to gaze out, he didn’t know whether he was grieving the family, the death of his heroic plan, or because he was the reason that the family had gotten there in the first place. There was no question that it was because Gordon had leaked the George Town co-ordinates to those beyond the wall that the family had found themselves stranded in the middle of the Deadlands.
*
There was no question that, in his foolhardy act of bravery and nobility – when he had sent a message beyond the walls (it was easy, they still had electricity, and wi-fi; what more do they need to survive?) to tell the world that there was a safe place for them, a place they’d be welcomed with open arms – he had sealed the fate of anyone who would try and brave the Deadlands for the opportunity to enter George Town.
*
He thought then of the father he’d just seen torn to shreds and his wasted sacrifice, wishing more than anything that he could trade places with him, away from the world of desk-bound dreamers he lived in and foolish acts of heroism that got people killed.
But instead, Gordon went back to work, his heart weighing heavy as he took his seat, slid out another form from the pile of mounting paperwork and let his brain go numb again, telling himself that at least he had tried. At least he had made the effort. And that was enough, right?
Feedback
by Charles Maciejewski
Everyone's a critic.
Millie smiled as she pressed ENTER. Uploaded, £5 paid. 'Congratulations. Your story has been submitted.'
Hi Millie.
I see some merit in your first draft, but I'm afraid, at the risk of sounding too critical, that I'm not going to be as complimentary as the other reviewers. Your story, 'Ghost in the Machine', and the tag line, 'A spurned evil entity seeks revenge', whilst being a bit hackneyed, at least suggests a tale of wickedness and evil that the competition asks for.
Whilst it contains elements of horror, of the blood and gore variety, for me it fails to adequately describe the terror that your character should have experienced. It is the build-up of terror and tension that keeps a reader engaged, and I found this lacking in your story. There is no twist.
The biggest issue is, without doubt, your overuse of clichés. My blood ran cold; ran like the wind; death warmed up; eye for an eye. I could go on. Likewise, your location: a creepy old house at night with a howling gale and driving rain. Come on. Write something a bit more original.
I'm sure you can address all of this in your next draft, which I look forward to reading.
Hi Colin.
Thanks for taking the time to offer feedback. As to clichés, whilst common thought is that they should be avoided like the plague (oops) :-), I believe they can still be used to good effect, if the story is well written. I will consider all that you have said prior to Draft 2.
Millie. Millie. Millie.
Very disappointed that you didn't take anything I said on board.
I find it quite rude that you completely ignored my constructive criticism. The minor changes you have made added little to your tale.
You are quite correct in stating that clichés have a place, if the story is well written. They have no place in your story.
Please, at least, inject some terror into yo
ur character's thoughts as she is pursued. The current dialogue she has with herself conveys nothing of the fear she should be experiencing.
I know you can do it.
Colin.
Wow! You don't beat about the bush, do you! :-) I'm sorry that you feel disappointed in my failing to take up your kind suggestions, but as the writer, I feel it is my prerogative to determine the course my story takes. I have had a number of my stories published. Have you? I appreciate your honesty, even if I do find it a bit direct. I see from your profile that you are a writer too, so I'm sure you understand what I mean. I see you haven't submitted any stories yet.
I look forward to reading one.
Millie.
Instead of a story, how about a little scene.
Imagine a young lad is away from home. School camp, perhaps.
So he meets a stranger, let's say, a man. They get talking. The man states that he knows the boy's mother – has, in fact, had a number of conversations with her. A reader might not think too much of this chance meeting. Now if you add just a few words, such as, "The boy noticed the outline of a knife in the man's pocket", the reader’s interest is piqued, and a sense of foreboding is introduced. In the boy's mother, however, these few words will create a real sense of fear.
I hope you see what I mean.
Colin. I do see what you mean. The thought of what you described would make any parent's hair stand on end. However, my character is totally different, being an adult and not a child. She is being pursued and threatened by an entity that, whilst it exists, is intangible. Your feedback has been very thought-provoking and interesting, but I have chosen to go with the suggestions made by others. I mean no disrespect. I will be uploading my final draft shortly.
No Millie. You don't see what I mean. Reconsider. Seriously.
Colin. The competition guidance states that we should not take criticism personally. I try not to. But your last comment wasn't a critique. I found it threatening and very upsetting. I don't know if this was your intent.
Regardless, I have decided to block you from contacting me prior to submission of my final draft, so do not bother trying to reply.
Hello Millie.
Do you like my new profile? I like the name Collette.
The beauty of being a fiction writer is that. . . we – make – things – up. Don't worry. I can assure you this will be the last you'll hear from me.
But before I go. . .
Remember the scene I spoke of? The boy's not away at school camp, but with his Scout Group. The 78th, isn't it?
Nice photo of him in your local newspaper by the way. And on your FB page. And your blog. He looks very smart in his Scout uniform. As cute as a button. As cute in the flesh as he is in the photos. . .
Us
by Hillier Townsend
Dear Person Who's Reading This:
Chances are good you've been wondering about this place for a long time. Probably told gory stories about Us to your friends as a kid; hid under your blankets when a friend told you one. Later, you sucked down the rumours about where we came from, what we did behind closed doors – maybe started some yourself. Always wanted a peepshow, didn't you? Well, lucky you, you little perv! You're here – and thanks to this letter, you'll be the only one who can fill in the blanks when the shit hits the fan.
I'll start you at the beginning: Little Ginny is dead. That's the Ground Zero of this whole deal. To be upfront, she wasn't my favourite person here in our happy little compound. She had a real attitude. Plus, I'd just about faint if she came around a corner when I wasn't expecting her – never quite got used to her, um, “visage”. But I never gave her shit about it. No need to add insult to her injuries, acquired when a whackjob decided to protest animal experimentation by breaking into a lab and slicing up the first white-coated demon he could lay his hands on – which turned out to be Little Ginny. Ironically, her job there was to sanitise the lab equipment. She'd never even seen those tragic lab chimps, let alone vivisected one.
It was Ginny's additional bad luck to be a part-timer; ergo, no benefits. So the lab owners graciously paid for a cut-rate repair job – head to toe, no do-overs – and considered themselves damn generous. As if, right? What a mess. (Not that I'm much easier on the eyes. Totally my own fault, I own it. Like all punk-ass dudes, I thought I was invulnerable – which is why I did not avail myself of the protective power of a helmet and face shield prior to spinning out on loose gravel at 70 mph.)
Anyway, Little Ginny came here to live with Us, and now she's dead. Killed by – ready for this? – Sasquatch meat. More precisely, meat put out to catch Sasquatch.
Which, of course, could only happen here in way-backwoods Maine – where we breathe balsam air that makes every day smell like Christmas; where we found peace and an escape from a soul-killing world; travelled from diverse directions and all walks of life to this compound of small, sweet cabins in a place with nothing but boulders the glacier didn't want, wicked-tall pines, and plenty of distance from everywhere except a small town wherein dwell a few kind souls willing to manage our disability benefits, send in supplies, and keep mum about Us and where we live.
Back to poor Little Ginny. It's because of Tommy and his genetic misfortunes that the Sasquatch thing got started in the first place. Tommy is a young guy – younger than me – with lots of energy. He needs to go rock-climbing, swimming, that sort of thing. Being away from the world for just about his whole life has been harder on him than on any of Us, so no one blames him for ranging far and wide once in a while. Every time before he left, he'd promise he'd be careful not to be seen, not attract Their attention to Us.
But last summer he got careless. A pack of bird-watchers he should have heard coming tumbled through the underbrush and got an eyeful of Tommy swimming naked (or rather, “without his clothes” – because with all that hair, Tommy is never technically “naked”). They howled and he ran, leaving huge misshapen footprints two inches deep in that black gunk around the pond. You can guess the rest.
Life was basically hell after word of the sighting got out. Our last chance for a normal life in a place of our own, our sanctuary, threatened every time a bunch of college kids or a New Age wiccan-shaman-witchdoctor or, God help me, a fucking TV crew, came sniffing around for “Sasquatch”. We took turns as lookouts, our stomachs always in knots, ready to sound the alarm if any of Them got too close. Tommy was over the top with guilt – panic attacks every other minute.
Then some asshole managed to bumble his way practically to our doorstep. He set out a two-inch, dripping-raw T-bone infused with enough downers to drop Godzilla, never mind lead Sasquatch back to civilisation by one hairy paw.
That delicacy is what Little Ginny, out on her daily meditation walk, found, cooked, and ate. Dang! Who knows why she wolfed down a random piece of meat? Maybe she thought it fell out of one of the boxes of supplies delivered by the townie chick who actually looks me in the eye. Maybe Ginny was just desperate for a good piece of beef. Maybe she'd cracked up. Who the hell knows? All we knew was that one of our own was dead because They couldn't leave the hidden hid.
We also knew that eventually They would find Us.
But that wasn't foremost in our community's mind. Bloody-red revenge for Little Ginny's death was all that most of Us could think about. March into town and burn it to the ground, slaughter anything that moved – even those few kind souls.
In the emergency meeting held the night Ginny died, Georgie swore that one of the townies must have blabbed about Us or blogged about our location. THAT'S CRAZY!! I scrawled on the whiteboard in big black letters. If someone had posted our actual location, the media would already be on Us like flies! Georgie backed down, but Marilyn and a handful of others were bent on grabbing the next bunch of Sasquatch hunters that showed up and “rendering Them fit to join Us”. Give me a break! my marker blazed across the board. That's straight out of “Freaks”. I pounded the wall with my fist, frustrated but also scared by their stupidity. Look, what happe
ned to poor Ginny sucks – but we need to do something that keeps Them AWAY – not that attracts MORE attention!!
That's when all seven feet of Tommy slowly telescoped up from where he sat at the front of the room. “I'm going,” he said, brushing long red strands away from his lips to draw deeply on an unfiltered Camel. He exhaled, the strands lifting gently with the smoke. “It's on me. My fault. I have to make it up to Little Ginny – and you guys.” All of Us, all at once, started talking him out of it. . . but as he went on, we could see that there was indeed something to what he said about him leaving being a good thing. As “Sasquatch” he'd be famous, he said. He'd meet people, travel – have a fan club, probably. Everyone would think it was cool that Sasquatch was smart and kind and funny. It'd be awesome!
“Once I'm out there,” he said finally, sweeping a powerful, copper-haired arm over our heads and toward the south, “there'll be no reason for anyone to come here. I'll tell 'em I'm the last one – the last Sasquatch anywhere. You'll be safe. Like before.”
It's true that while many of Us had misgivings about him leaving, in the end no one tried very hard to stop him. However things would turn out for Tommy, we were pretty sure he was right about things going better for Us.
And they did. Space cadets no longer prowled our perimeter hunting mythical monsters. We could kick back in our deck chairs, drink a few brewskis, and watch the sun sink below the pines with no worries about being spotted. Kayla's reports from the Internet she hacked into behind the police station after dark assured Us that Tommy had become a celebrity sure enough: got his picture taken with Stephen Colbert, got all the interviews and groupies he wanted, lived la vida buena right up until last night when Tommy's manager, ‘Bucky’, and a few of Bucky's dickhead buddies, thought it would be a gas to take Sasquatch clubbing.
Twisted 50 Volume 1 Page 18
