To combat the creeping dread and depression from the current world situation, I've been forcing myself to write whenever I have the time. Lately I've been working on a short horror story, but to also get into the headspace for writing/recording more Hunted I've been doing some very short little stories in that world. Here's two of them.
The Beginning
Music filled the room around John as his band started up. The old man nodded and slid a glass down the bar to a patron.
"Thank you kindly, John." She said, giving him a warm smile.
"Of course, ma'am." He tapped a finger on the old worn wood in time with the beat.
The bar had stood in this little pond of a town for years now. They were far enough out in the sticks that the Patriots didn’t pay any attention to them, but still fortified enough that the tribals wouldn’t try anything stupid.
He’d come to know everyone here; Ronde the barber, the Jawsons, Red and Ruks, Kelley. He could name everyone in this town, tell you about their troubles and triumphs, tell you their darkest fears. He always did his best to take care of them in his own way.
A cough to his right got his attention and he turned, smiling, to take their order.
A tall woman with skin almost as dark as his, half of her face and head were covered in scars, what hair she did have was pulled into tight cornrows. A much smaller girl stood next to her, eyes darting everywhere, hands shaking. She did her best to hide under the shaggy blonde hair that covered her head. "Evenin' ma'ams. Anything I can get for you?"
“Whiskey.”
“Comin’ right up.”
He grabbed a bottle from the middle shelf, something not too terrible for the ladies, and poured them both a couple fingers. “Here ya are, miss..?”
“Fionna. And you are?” She asked, downing the glass in one shot and leaving a twenty dollar note on the bar.
“Name’s John, ma’am.”
“Well John,” she said with a grin. “I’ve got a bit of a proposition for you.
The Sky Is Falling
Later she’d think;
‘If it weren’t for the engine they could probably hear my heart.’
‘At least they didn’t hear me crying this time.’
‘Is all this really worth it?’
‘Maybe I should talk to Doc.’
‘I wonder how many people have to deal with this?’
‘I wish I was normal.’
‘I wish I was fixed.’
‘I wish I was someone else.’
‘I wish I was dead.’
Later she’d think those things. But now, she couldn’t think of anything but the falling sky. About winds lifting her off the ground and carrying her away. About the earth opening up and swallowing her whole. About the chaos of the tribes, the Patriots, the raiders, the mutants, the monsters, the animals. The uncontrollable mass of dangers and unknowable actions of others that could end her in the blink of an eye.
She lay on the floor of the boiler room, tears streaming down her face, sweat pouring from her body, gasping for air that wouldn’t fill her lungs, digging her fingers into the wooden floor until they bled.
She lay there with her heart attempting to rip itself from her chest, her body burning and her head splitting. She lay there, mouth open, a scream caught in her throat.
Eventually it would subside and she would think all of those things; but for now, the sky was falling.
