Chapter 1 of my serial “Wyatt” (title subject to change on release)
Unedited
If a man offered me a cup of ice in exchange that I simply stab a man; I wouldn't think twice. The dagger would be deep in between his rib and the mini glaciers would be tumbling on my tongue, dancing till they are dead. I hate the heat. Rather, I hate sweating. I'd rather lose a finger from frostbite than have to use my shirt to wipe my brow again.
The ruins of Lost Vegas have changed but the heat stayed the same. You’ll think after years of being in this oven one would get used to it; You don't. You snap or you get stronger. Or both, I’ve fought a few tweakers in my day. It’ll put hair on your chest; very moist hair. Sucking down the last drop of water out of my canteen I realized this delivery was going to take longer than I had hoped.
It was supposed to be a simple delivery of some medical supplies to the North East section of Lost Vegas. Nowhere here is safe but at least that side of the city was pretty well established with a makeshift police force, sanctuaries and shops. The hospital needs the supplies but they are going to have to wait until the morning. I need to rest. The last thing I need to run into is one of those mutated lizards again with nothing on my stomach and two hours of sleep. Maybe a few hours in this abandoned house will do for now.
Nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. One story home with a detached garage in the back of the house. Bullet holes scattered all around the property. If you look long enough at the holes you can see the Little Dipper or someone staring back at you. Depends on the day.
The front door was cracked open; usually that would not worry me but this time the door was covered with blood. Looks like a fresh fight. A mess for the sake of making a mess. It doesn’t make sense how much blood is on this door; were they trying to paint it? Blood covered the knob and gathered together in a pool on the step of the door. The pool would then drag into the darkness of the door’s opening.
I’m a little worried about what I’m going to see once I open this door.
I readied my iron, Stacy, I don't know why I named it that. A merchant I met on the road, fancied himself a gun expert, told me Stacy was a Mauser C90-Something. He mentioned something about German folks but I wasn’t paying attention; I just like the shape of it.
The door pushes open with ease and the sunlight bleeds into the house. I can't see anything except the dusty furniture, patchy rug flooring and the blood soaked into it leading out of the room. I slow my breathing but I do not hear anything close by. Sparking the torch on my belt I close the door behind me. I couldn’t smell it at first with the door open but the stench of rotting bodies and mold was prevalent the moment the air circulation was cut off. Shining my light on the walls there are degraded family photos and paintings behind layers of dust. The photos were too damaged to figure out who lived here but based on abandoned clothing left around the living room and hallway I can only guess this used to be a home of a single mother. I followed the blood trail into the hallway. It turns left toward the kitchen. I turn the opposite way into the bedrooms; hopefully it's something I can loot out of them. The master bedroom has a queen sized bed with a giant crater in the middle. You can see right through the bed.
“What the hell happened?” I say leaning over the edge to look into the hole. There was nothing at the bottom of the hole nor from the roof above; nothing, besides overgrowth of vines and wildlife. If anything was here it’s long been obliterated or looted.
The smaller room I can only assume was the child's, fragments of toys from the times before the bombs dropped. Not one picture around. Which is weird but gives me a little hope that maybe this one family was able to get away. I don't know why I have this child-like hope to maybe run into these folks one day. Grabbing a half ruined doll off the floor... “Maybe you'll see them again.” I think as I stare at the one loose button it has for an eye.
...as I take a mental picture and watch as the doll disappears into the void of my grasp.
I ‘m in a warehouse.
Thousands of aisles, lined up side by side, stretched as far as the eye can see.
Shelves filled to the brim with everything; Books, weapons, survival tools, canned food, old records, a door knob, a house, a singular shoe. Everything.
I look down and I have no body. I am just a disembodied pair of hands. In one hand I held that doll. I float over to the nearest shelf. Moving over a bowling ball I found and a few light bulbs, I placed the doll down..
The label on the shelf glowed and displayed it’s location for me.
D-1E-M
Imagining myself looting a grocery store and bending down to pick up the only can of beans to have my hands meet up with another pair of hands. I lookup to the gaze of a woman. I’ll say something like “hey, I was in your house before.” and she’ll react like that wasn’t the creepiest thing she’s ever heard.
Before I forget to do it.
Grabbing my tiny notebook out of my back pocket; I write on a blank sheet the label that was given to me, I repeat out loud "D, 1E, M....Description: old-ruined-doll, one eye,really dirty" under the catalog “Important Miscellaneous” and close the notebook.
The Warehouse or what I like to call The Pocket is a place in my subconscious. As far as I know it is unending. I’ve spent what felt like days just walking into the void but at no avail I couldn’t find the end. I’ve stuffed so much stuff into The Pocket that I adopted the notebook to help keep an inventory of things.
Both bedrooms were clear. I head toward the kitchen and ready Stacy. At first glance into the dimly lit kitchen I can see the blood trail off into a closed door on the other side of the kitchen. It’s probably a door to the basement. I try my best to be quiet but the floor creaks louder the quieter I try to be. If someone is in the house they definitely know I'm in here now. Stacy in my right hand pointed at the door. I turned the door knob with my left; I pushed the door open, it swung open to nothing but steps and darkness.
“Nope” I think, closing the door back.
I check all the cabinets of the kitchen, and of course everything is looted. Greedy bastards took everything. Well everything except the fridge I haven't checked yet. I have a bit of PTSD from the last few times I've stuck my nose into an old fridge. It's odd because I've gotten used to the smell of gunpowder, rotting bodies, and just the lingering musk of the rads/fog/etc of whatever is in the air now outside but it's something about 30 year old milk I'm terrified of. Holding my breath, I place my hand on the handle of the fridge and give it a tug. The handle is stuck. I give it another yank and the whole fridge shakes, knocking down the boxes of old cereal and miscellaneous items. But nothing.
“Alright” I bear hug the fridge and slide it out away from the wall. Like one of those fake kung fu teachers demonstrating (bullying) one of their students; I sweep my leg behind the fridge and push it to the ground. The kitchen shook, knocking a few plates from the cabinets off onto the ground behind me.
Plates crashing onto the ground, the fridge dropping like a meteor, and the floor creaked like I was assaulting it; I’m not even trying to be quiet anymore. If someone is in the basement and I can lure them up; that’ll save me from having to go down there. Similar to the ocean, the dark doesn’t scare me. What strives in the depths does.
Placing my foot on one end and squeezing my fingers in-between the door, with a bit more effort than expected, pry the fridge open.
The stank hit me harder than stubbing my toe on a bed rail and knocking the nail off.
Lifting my mask up from underneath my shirt, I lean over to see the origins of this smell. It was a body. An adult. It doesn’t look like they were trying to use this fridge as a place to hide from the radiation. I heard rumors in the Waste that someone found a child like that but the child was alive. This guy didn’t seem so consensual, It looks like they were forced into it. Maybe the owner of the blood from the front door? No. The blood-trail didn't go to the fridge so this body must have been here before this altercation.
Unfolding this person's body and laying his limbs array so that I can loot them easier. This used to bother me. ‘Til this day im not fond of the whole ordeal but it was either get used to it or never get supplies you need.
Coat pockets, jeans, in the boots, a secret department inside his hat; I checked everywhere and all I could find is a few shotgun rounds but no shotgun around. Ill pocket it for now. Maybe Ill run into one later.
Before bunkering down for the night I attempt to create my own bootleg alarm system. I open the door to the basement and throw the dead body of the fridge guy into the void, closing the door afterwards. Sealing the stank of the fridge back, I lift the fridge and lean it in such a way against the basement door. The door swung away so the idea was if someone did open this door the fridge would tumble over making all sorts of noises and warning me of an intruder. It was getting dark so I couldn’t give every opening to this place the ol’ Fred Jones treatment so I settled for grabbing some of the unbroken glass cups and placing them on the door handles of all the now closed doors of the house. House now clear, except the basement, I bunker down in the bathroom. I'm not a small man but I still found a way to get comfortable. Backpack swapped to my front I slid in the tub, legs propped up on the corners like I’m giving birth. Staring at the ceiling I drift to sleep.
I dreamt of stories from before the bombs dropped. My adopted mom would tell me of times when her mom would wake her up to old music on Sundays, forcing her to clean even though the house was already clean. It sounded annoying but she always had a bit of glee in her eye, like she missed it. Dinner parties galore seemed like; countless get-togethers of friends and family. The celebrations of simply being alive. What a time.
Dreams were cut short. I'm woken by some banging and intelligible mustering. No peace and quiet ever. Definitely happy my little “alarm” actually worked but I’m a little frustrated it worked. Maybe if I just lay here, what or whoever will go away.
The seconds felt like hours as the short dragging steps creeped around the house.
Impatience got the better of me. I, like the pound of feathers that I am, push myself out of the crevice. I can hear whoever is in the kitchen. There is still a bit of light shining through the kitchen.
It's a wanderer. It must have come from the basement. The fridge was gone, it fell down the stairs. Wanderers are a pain in the ass; less so alone but I'm not sure if others are lurking around. I need to be prepared for the worst. I sneak up behind it and get a closer look at it. This wanderer is of the body that I threw down the stairs earlier. Luck is an understatement for the mess I dodged. It could have reanimated when I was bent down stealing out of his pockets. What if he actually bit me? How long would I have until I too was walking down the strip mindlessly? How long until I eat my first human? What does humans taste like? What if I like it? Would I be conscious enough to understand what I’m doing? I wonder if I'll just be floating in the void watching the actions of my new zombie body like a late night television show. This isn’t the time to think about this.
Now directly behind it I wrap my arms around its waist. Locking my hands, my stomach to it's back, I lift it toward and above me to try and suplex the thing. Of course, It panicked and jolted around like a greased up fish causing me to overshoot the suplex making me slam it into the table behind us.
A crash, a tiny moan then silence. Maybe now I can get some sleep.
What do you think?
Wyatt by George Collins