The Deep Hours of the Night

[Moraven]

All right, here we go.

CHAPTER 2

The walk through town is eerie. Scott leads the way, his talons clicking against the pavement as he straddles the centerline of Highway 134. I try to ignore the sound of my own steps, so horribly the same as his, but I can’t do it. The wind rushes through the trees, rattling the branches together like the bones of a skeleton being shaken, the remnants of a dead body past the point of decay. Harrison is small--it has a lot of trees. As of the last few days, it also has a lot of dead bodies.

Scott has lined them up in most cases, like he did with the McMasters. Some lay in the yard, some are stacked against the wall like firewood saved for the harsh grip of winter. I see one, a woman, lying on a roof with her head ripped most of the way from her shoulders. She’s too high for me to make out the expression on her face, and I am grateful for that, for that small bit of peace in a destroyed town.

By all rights, Harrison has been raped. Not in the sense that anything sexual has happened here--though a few of the naked bodies, all young and female, make me wonder about Scott’s desires--but in the sense that 16th-Century armies raped the countryside on their way to the front. Doors have been kicked in, windows shattered; a number of houses have even been burned. The small of smoke and something sweet--burning flesh, perhaps--floats through the air.

Scott glances back at me. “Are you impressed, David?”

I glare at him, feeling my new skin pull taught with the movement. It’s not as pliable as the old skin, but it seems stronger. “Don’t ask me that. You know the answer.”

“Even the change didn’t convince you?”

“Not in the least.” I frown, glancing across the street to where a dead man hangs on his wall. It looks as if he has been nailed there; blood runs down the white siding in long, black rivers. “I may be like you, but I’ll never be you. I’ll never do any of this.” I cling to that thought, glad that it hasn’t abandoned me. At least not yet.

Scott shrugs. “You’ll come around in time. Just wait.” He gestures to Carson’s Supermarket, red eyes blazing. “Come on; I need to get something.”

We walk inside, and I shiver as the cool air touches my skin. Apparently air-conditioning works even after the end of the world. Who knew? The supermarket lies before me in long, gleaming rows, a grid with fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. They still work as well, and I wonder how long they’ll go before the generators seize up and no one comes to fix them. Or, of course, the bulbs simply burn out.

Blood streaks the floor. It looks like someone gutted a pig--or a number of them--and dragged the carcasses toward the back of the store. I try not to think about those bodies, about how they aren’t pigs at all.

Scott stops and spreads his arms. “They tried to fight me here. It was an impressive stand, as useless as it was. Old Mr. Carson had a shotgun in back, just in case, and he pulled it out to try and stop me. I’d already killed most of the customers, but he and his son holed up near the cardboard compactor with that shotgun and a machete. Shot me four times before I got to them.”

“And you lived?”

“Bullets can’t kill me, Buckaroo.” Scott laughs, barking out a harsh sound like car tires burning on pavement. “Just
like they can’t kill you. But you’re a special case.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” I glance at my wrist, still shocked by the blackened, cracked skin. The lacerations from the knife are gone, however, healed over into thick white scars. “So I take it you killed them, too?”

“I did. Cut the boy’s throat, then stuck the old man’s head in the compactor. Ever seen one of those at work? They’re not fast, David, but they’re strong. His skull popped like an over-ripe melon.” Scott tips his head back toward the manager’s office. “This way.”

Walking across the aisle, Scott ducks through the broken door--knocked right off its hinges--and I follow. I imagine there will be more stacked bodies inside, or at least one, but there aren’t. The office is as clean and empty as if the day had just ended. I think of the ever-dark sky and realize that, in a way, it just has. In the worst way possible.

Scott picks up a sheet of paper from the table and hands it to me. “Read this.”

I do, letting my eyes drift across the letters. There are only three lines, with a MEMO heading at the top:

To All Employees:


Due to the upcoming holidays, we will be working slightly longer hours. People need to shop, after all. Friday and Saturday nights now end at nine.

I set the paper down, raising an eyebrow. I still have them, though they are now thick and black, nothing like they used to be. “What’s the point?”

“That it doesn’t matter!” Scott pumps his fist up and down in the air. “The point is that it doesn’t matter, that none of this matters. There are no more holidays, there are no more long shifts bagging groceries for old ladies who can’t even carry them out to their cars. Everything like that has ended. Ended! Do you understand?” He’s at my throat now, his talons wrapped around it. I can feel the pressure, but my breathing continues without a problem. As long as God has forgotten me, I’ll keep right on trucking despite anything.

I push Scott away, thrusting my palms against his chest. “You brought me all the way in here just for that?”

“Not at all.” Scott reaches down and plucks something else off the table, something I missed seeing before. But it’s there now, and as he pulls it into his hand I get the distinct impression that it is a piece of fire. It makes no sense, only adding to my confusion, but that’s what it looks like: a small piece of fire, self-contained in a sphere and not burning itself out. “But I wanted you to see it. The memo, I mean.”

“Why?”

“To prepare you.” Scott slips his hand into his jacket; when he pulls it out, I see no evidence of anything akin to fire. “We want you to be ready.”

I shake my head and push past him. Ignoring the blood-trails, I walk through the door--it opens automatically when I step on the sensor-pad--and back onto the sidewalk. Nothing has changed, which isn’t surprising, but is more than a little unsettling. The sky, though, seems slightly brighter. Wishful thinking, probably.

Scott comes out behind me. He is sort of muttering under his breath, though he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds almost as if he’s having a conversation on a cell phone, a very hushed conversation, of which I am privy to only one end. He slides around in front of me and turns, one hand raised.

I know he wants me to wait before I speak--he’s probably read the question on my mind already--but I decide it doesn’t really matter what he wants. “When do I get to meet him? And where is he?”

Scott’s muttering continues; he doesn’t even glance up to show he’s heard me.

“When?” I almost shout it this time, fighting down the urge to backhand him across the face with my talons. It wouldn’t do anything--if Mr. Carson’s shotgun had no effect, a few gashes aren’t going to do much more. “When, you son of a bitch?”

Nothing. I **** my fist back, figuring it will get his attention if nothing else, and then Scott blinks. He looks up, eyes hard. “Don’t do that. You’ll regret it if you do.”

I stop and let my hand fall back to my side. “When do I get to meet him?”

“My Master?”

“Your Master, Lucifer, the Devil, Satan--whatever you want to call him. I don’t care. You said I would meet him, now that I’m like this, and I want to see you pay up. Staying in town is pointless. There’s nothing here.” The word nothing catches in my throat, and I know for a moment how a fish feels when it swallows the hook. The fact that there is nothing alive, truly nothing, is staggering.

Scott’s eyes open wide, then shrink back. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

A little ball of tightness forms in my gut, an ice cube slowly melting over my intestines. “What do you mean?”
“Lucifer is not the Master I spoke of. Oh no; not by a long shot. He has something to do with this, of course, and he loves every minute of it, but it wasn’t his idea. It wasn’t his plan.”

“What? Then who--”

“Another.” Scott paces around me, slowly circling. “You can blame the Church for this one, Buckaroo. Blame them, and judge them as harshly as you want. When they put together your precious Bible, they left out a great deal. There were some things they found that were just too unsettling to put in. People would have run from the faith, and they couldn’t have that. A following was what gave them their power. So they cut a number of books out and burned the manuscripts. There may still be copies somewhere, but they’ve been lost since before the invention of the printing press.”

“But you know them.”

“By heart.”

I fold my arms over my chest, listening to the breeze rattling the trees and trying hard not to look at myself. “So tell me.”

“Listen to you; commanding me as if you’re the one in charge here. Your invincibility has gotten to your head, I’m afraid.”

Before I can even flinch, Scott’s foot catches me in the back. I sprawl forward, finding that I can still feel pain just as clearly as ever. Holes in my flesh throb where his talons dug in and I gasp as I fight back a scream. I don’t feel blood--I wonder if I even have blood anymore--but that doesn’t take away from the sheer pain of it, like white fire lancing to my spine.

Scott comes around in front of me and crouches down. He lifts my head up by my thin hair and presses his nose close to mine. I can smell his breath. I remember leaving a piece of meat under my bed once as a boy, forgetting about it until it rotted and the smell permeated the entire house. Scott’s breath is like that, only worse. I try to twist my head away, but his grip doesn’t waver.

“Are you listening to me, David? Are you really?”

I nod, hair pulling against my scalp as I do.

“Good. Then don’t forget this, no matter what. I made you like this. I found you, and I brought you in. The next time you want something, you will ask. You will not tell me. There is a huge, oft forgotten difference between the two. See that you don’t make that mistake twice.”

I try to nod again, and he jerks my head up.

“Promise.”

“I do.” I choke the words out, feeling the pain in my back intensify. I don’t know how, but it does. “I do!”
Scott lets my head fall; my jaw snaps against the pavement with a jolt. “Good. Now get up.”

Breathing in ragged spurts, I drag myself to my feet. There is a strange knitting feeling--that’s the only way I can think of it, though it is something else at the same time, something warm and powerful--and the pain subsides. I slide my hand around my back, tentatively, and find that the wounds are gone. They’ve healed, in a matter of seconds. My white shirt, the one I’ve been wearing since the first day of this nightmare, still has holes where the talons punched through. I straighten up, keeping my eyes on Scott the entire time.

“Are you ready, then?”

I nod. “What are we going to do?”

“Some traveling, I think, in order to reach my Master. It’s too far to travel instantaneously, so we’ll have to find another means of transportation. But that shouldn’t be too hard. There are a lot of cars around whose owners won’t be needing them anymore.”

“And then?” I want to ask more about the instantaneous traveling, which I’ve witnessed and wonder now if I have the ability to do, but I keep the question back. I’m getting too fast a crash course on Scott’s world as it is. I don’t know if my brain, still struggling to grasp what has happened in Harrison, can handle any more.

“And then you join us, fully. You are one of us, but not yet committed to the cause. That has to change. And I have no doubt it will, once you speak with my Master and see what he has to offer.” Scott leans in. “That is why I showed you the memo; that is why I told you about what happened to Carson and his son. Not for the sake of it alone, but so you would see that our cause is the only one that will survive. The only one that matters. You’d be a fool not to join us.”

Scott begins walking again, and I stumble along behind. Questions that I don’t dare voice roll though my head, one after the other, my mind reeling. A nagging feeling eats at the corners of my consciousness, screaming that there’s something I’m missing. The carnage around me says that Scott’s job, harvesting those left by God, is complete to the fullest extent of the term. But if a cause exists, one that I need to join…I push the thought away, shivering. It could mean everything, and it could mean nothing. No use getting caught up on the details before I know what they are.

Scott forces open the door on a garage and slips inside. I stand in the street, waiting. A cloud slides across the moon, and I wonder for the first time how the wind has continued to blow. Somewhere there must be temperature differences. And, if there are differences, then there is probably sunlight. The earth can’t have stopped spinning, but something has dimmed the sun--at least over Harrison. I watch the cloud, the ice cube in my gut returning so cold that it burns.

At least over Harrison. Perhaps only over Harrison.

Scott backs a beast of a pickup out onto the street, kicking up gravel as he misses the pavement with the left tires. He leans his head out the driver’s side window, teeth bared. He looks happy and infuriated all at once, like a man who’s just found out that his house has burned down but that his insurance placed the value at twice as much as it should have. He pounds a hand against the door, chipping away hunks of red paint. “Come on, Buckaroo! Let’s get a move on it.”

I grimace and walk toward the truck. As I do, I glance back up at the cloud that had to have come from somewhere. I open and close my eyes, and I could swear it looks brighter. That thought is instantly replaced by another--a whole new flurry of thoughts, actually. Stretching up from the west and running eastward is a long white line, reminding me for a moment of the scars on my wrist. The line runs perfectly straight, growing longer as I watch, and only one thing can be at its head.

An airplane.

[Moraven]

Umm, that stared-out word is c-o-c-k, in the sense that he draws his fist back to throw a punch. I guess that terrible kind of talk isn't allowed on here.

[ysabara]

Don't post all of it though~ it might come back to bite you when you try to get it published.

That said ~ your excerpt was fabuluous. Unlike the esteemed commenters above (hi Timelord), I don't like reading first person immediate but you managed to keep me reading from go to whoa. I think it works really well as a short story but can definitely see potential in aexpanding it to novel length.

Good luck whatever you decide to do.
Y

[Moraven]

Could it really be a problem for the publishing end of things? and how so? I wondered about that but I wasn't sure how it all worked. Because if it would keep it from being published, then I for sure won't post it all.

Also, I noticed you're from Australia. I studies abroad there last semester, and it was about the best thing ever.

[ysabara]

I think that some publishers don't like it if a substantial amount of the work is available on the public domain. from what I've heard about 10% of your novel is acceptable ~ but don't quote me. If you need input a Critique group is a good way to go.

I'm glad you liked Australia. I'm partial to it myself

Where did you do your placement? I'm in country Victoria ~ in a place you've probably never heard of

Y

[Giovanna Clairval]

Hi Ysabara

*laughing to herself over herself*

I was so drawn in I didn't even realise that it was "immediate" first person.

I usually don't like "immediate", but I use some of it in sort of dreamy scenes within a larger chunk of past tense first person.

That means I liked instalment #1 and #2.

Ys is right though. Posting more than ten per cent is not a good idea.

So David did change...

[Moraven]

David did change...I think then I will be able to play up the terror of being something other than human, and have conflicting desires within David. That will make his character a lot stronger in the ensuing struggle than just a man running for his life.

I think what I'll do is just post the third chapter and then have to call it good. Wouldn't want to screw up any chances of it getting published.

I was in North Ryde, NSW, Ysabara--just a bit outside of Sydney. Macquarrie University, to be more exact. I wouldn't say I put in a great effort at the Uni, but I had loads of fun. I figured I might as well just enjoy being there more than work hard, because who knows when I'll be back.

[Giovanna Clairval]

On the other hand, when we were talking of publishing online, we were talking of "visible" place, such as blogs, websites, with the all thing out to dry.

*she's very frustrated at the idea of not reading the darped thing anymore...*

You could post excerpts now and then. Many Chronics do this.

[Jarshen]

Just adding to the others. Really like this, and like Ysabara not fond of first person.

This was sexy, not usual. Saw a film being played along. I loved the way I liked Scott and David, just the others name brought me in. Yeah extend please.

[timelord4]

Macquarrie Uni. My son's at UNSW, and if that's anything to go off, you would have had lots of fun at Macquarrie.

Ysabara's right about the publishing firms not liking too much of your stuff out there. You are pretty safe here in one respect. This is a Critique Forum. Usually in their small print they'll ask if you have posted in a Public Forum or Critique Forum. You answer: Critique Forum. This was explained to me by an international best selling author, and she said you must make the separation between the two. (Don't ask me why, they both seem the same to me!)

That said, I think if you limit your postings to 10% per novel, you should be alright.

And! I LOVE FIRST PERSON, PRESENT TENSE! (Pokes tongue at Y).

[ysabara]

Pokes tongue right back at Timelord :P

What were you studying Moraven?

[Moraven]

timelord: Ok, cool; I know right where UNSW is. Me and my roommate when there for a concert...right near the end of our time in the country. And yes, we had a blast for sure.

Ysabara: I was pretty much studying "Australian Culture". At my Uni here in the States, we have to take three classes, separate from our major, that all fit together into a theme. If you study abroad, they let you create your own theme (instead of the ones they already made at the Uni). So I took Culture 100, Arts 100, History 109, and English 361. Worked out pretty well.

[ysabara]

Australia has a culture?

[The Bloated Shaganat]

Les Paterson...

[Hilarious Joke]

I just read your first post then, was really good! And its not a genre I'm that interested in!

I subscribe to the Jonathan J Schlosser fan club and say, post on!