roastpuff
Member
I'll go for m04r plz.
*ahem* Please sir, can I have some more?
/Oliver Twist.
*ahem* Please sir, can I have some more?
/Oliver Twist.
SHTF fiction: Final Hour
- Thread starter Caimlas
- Start date
- Status
No, you're right; it was appreciated. And no, it didn't really hurt. I did think it was slightly less craptacular than noted, but you set me straight. It's a story; I'm not that emotionally invested in this thing, yet.
I reserve emotional devastation for failures elsewhere in my life.
I'm sorry if I gave that perception; no, that's not the case at all. It's greatly appreciated; thank you.
Sorry; I've only got limited time for online access these days, and I'd just received an employment rejection letter before posting.
I didn't realize there were so many of you writer types around here, either.
Thanks for the feedback, guys.
Here's Chapter 3... if I'm going to be posting this stuff at this frequency, I'll probably run out of chapters before I
As such, I don't intend to rewrite anything until it's "done" in rough draft. That way I'm sure I get it, at least, "done".
Chapter 4: Sam's Grocery
The sun was setting by the time Jason arrived at Sam's Grocery, on the eastern side of town. Traffic had been light – unusually light - which Jason was thankful for given the national turmoil at the moment, and his interest in getting out to the farm as soon as possible. Everyone was probably home watching the news, he figured. Rapid City was far from any large urban center, and it was conceivable but unlikely any terrorists would deem the small city a target.
Sam's Grocery was located in what might be termed the ghetto of Rapid City, with many people nearby collecting welfare. There was a high low-class population of Mexicans and Native Americans on this side of town, and all the telltale signs showing lack of moral inhibition were evident – not only in the eyes and faces of the inhabitants, but also in the high amount of trash simply thrown on the ground and the poor upkeep of buildings. Just the same, there was also a substantial underclass of Asians – mainly Chinese – who were well on their way towards the American dream.
Sam's was owned by one Thomas Franklin, a diminutive, elderly Vietnamese man who had immigrated to Rapid City several decades earlier and made a mark for himself. The name of his store only vaguely illustrated his heritage, as his name had been Wi Sai Mai Chen before changing it to be more American. His store catered mainly to the local neighborhoods. As such, he carried an array of Mexican, Indian, and Asian specialty foods in addition to typically American fare and naturalistic food sources. Due to this variety, he got a lot of business from people who ordered food in bulk, were more health conscious, and enjoyed more cultural variety in their diets. Being as Rapid City was liberal for such a small city, business was good.
Jason parked near the door, hopped out, and walked to the store's barred front door. He could see inside and noticed the place was dark; the sign on the front door said the place was closed. Knowing better – Bruce lived above the store – he knocked heavily on the barred glass door (the store also sold beer and liquor) and called up to the second story windows above him. A taunt face popped out from a window.
“Ah, Mr. Kreign. You come for food mother ordered? Vey goot. I come down, let you in.” The elderly man slowly shut the window. Jason saw a light come on in the back of the store, casting a silloette around Thomas shuffling towards the front.. The old man unlocked the door and ushered Jason in.
“Glad you make it. Lot of criminals out this evening, some tried taking my beer. I take gun so they run away and I close store up tight, wait for you.” The old man moved towards the back of the store. “You follow, I show you food.”
The two maneuvered past rows of crates and shelves covered with every type of food imaginable. If it was pickled, could be eaten raw, involved fermentation, involved marination, or grew in ****, chances are Bruce carried it. Thankfully for people like Jason, the things he considered edible were kept near the back of the store.
Thomas stopped and pointed to over a dozen crates, pails, and boxes stacked in the middle of the floor. “Here you go, what you mother ordered.”
Jason looked at the pile and wondered what in the world his mother had in mind; this was probably half a year's worth of food for her and Dad, maybe more. He began to wonder, Am I underestimating this terrorist attack?
Thomas looked at Jason expectantly. “What you doing just standing there? Take food, go! I missing the news! Lot happening, very bad.”
Jason hurriedly began picking up two 50lb. bags of rice and hoisted them over his shoulders and started walking towards the door. “What's going on in the news, Tom? I've not heard anything in a couple hours.”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing! The news people are lying snakes. Just that we are under attack. They just repeat the same nothing like broken record. Bunch of criminals come and harass me to open store but my shotgun made them run away.” Thomas smiled and chuckled, the creases in his tanned skin around his eyes tightening until his eyes were almost slits.
Jason, having lived around Rapid his entire life, knew there were some undesirable neighborhoods; certainly neighborhoods in which a young woman would not want to walk after dark. It's good that Tom has assimilated and become fully American, Jason thought. The NRA sticker on Thomas's front door – right next to the FDIC and Visa stickers partially evidenced this. “Did you call the cops, Tom?”
“Yes, but they not come. It's the same jerks that were banging on door two weeks ago drunk as fish at 4 in morning wanting me to open up and give them beer. Cops no care unless thugs break law. Being idiot isn't illegal here.” A smirk was now evident on Tom's face. Despite his initial demeanor of irritability, he would quickly open up to his better customers – such as Jason's family.
Thomas held the door open for Jason. “Anyway, thugs go away and when I go back to TV, no more talk about attack. Then they just stop and we hear no more, just so-called news of some kidnapped Texas girl.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“What, not even a scroll at the bottom of the screen with updates?” Frank bemused.
“No, just stuff about sports, the girl, and new law about...” He was interrupted mid-sentence by Jason's yelling. There was a dark shadowy figure standing next to Jason's Jeep, leaning over into the driver's seat, another person wearing a sideways baseball cap – somewhat more visible due to a nearby streetlight – who was now moving towards Jason with an aggressive stance.
Jason quickly dropped the bags he was carrying, and Thomas ran back into the store – presumably to get the shotgun. He hoped they didn't see his own shotgun sitting on the passenger side – even if he had left it unloaded – as it might escalate the situation needlessly if they were to grab it. Jason then realized that he'd taken not only his shotgun from his apartment, but also his 1911 – which he'd left under the driver's seat, loaded.
His pulse quickened. He looked over towards the first thug by his Jeep, who was now circling to Jason's side.
****, I wasn't paying attention! I didn't see if he took my pistol – or anything else – from the vehicle, he thought. Baseball Cap stopped about 15 feet in front of Jason, while Shadow Figure was now positioned next to him at 9 o'clock and the same distance away.
Baseball Cap spoke. “Yo dog, you gots me a smoke?” Jason fidgeted, trying to assess the situation. The man wasn't standing too well and he was slurring his speech. They were both probably drunk already. And, they were probably going to jump him if he went for a cigarette. Where the **** was Tom?
“No, sorry, I just ran out,” lied Jason. He rotated his body so that he could more easily engage – or run from – either of the thugs if they approached him. Jason had trained in unarmed combat in the Army, but he'd never had the opportunity to demonstrate those skills – not outside sparring, at least. He hoped to God he wasn't too rusty.
Unfortunately, they rotated with him, keeping Jason at a disadvantage. They started to move towards him. ****, ****, ****! Jason tried to back up and maneuver himself between them and his jeep; maybe he could get to his pistol. These guys were big, and melee combat sounded as inviting as the teeth of a bear trap.
At that moment, Thomas stepped from the store carrying his shotgun – an old and beaten double barrel model with a wood stock. The thugs were about 10 feet from Jason now, at his 3 and 9 o'clock positions, as he faced the door. Thomas was hopping mad, and he spit as he yelled – a large amount of his accent creeping back into his speech.
“Get fooking out! Police coming!” He closed the breech of his shotgun and raised it to point at one of the thugs. Jason took their recently distracted state as the opportunity he needed to run to his truck and make sure his pistol was still there. Reaching under the driver's seat, he felt the familiar touch of the checkered wood grip and wrapped his hand around it.
Jason was now about 20 feet from the thugs facing their 9 o'clock position. The thugs still standing there, unmoving, looking at Thomas. They'd lost all interest in Jason – he was no longer their primary concern.
Baseball Cap spoke. “****in' little chink, you ain't got the balls.” He whipped out a butterfly knife – seemingly with the twist of his wrist, out of nowhere - and his friend Shadow Figure followed suit – or tried to – and struggled to get something out of his rear waistband. Jason moved as quickly as he could, trying to position himself out of Tom's line of fire for both their safety.
Unfortunately for Shadow Figure, Tom's shotgun was pointed directly at his vitals, as the Chinese man was short and the thug was tall. Tom pulled the first trigger, sending a percussive hornet's nest of buckshot slamming into the center of the man's torso. Tom quickly twisted – very quickly, for someone of his age – and got the barrel between him and the approaching Baseball Cap. Baseball Cap ran into the end of the barrel with his chest before he could change momentum and received the second tube of indiscriminate justice for his efforts. He crumpled to a heap at Tom's feet immediately. Neither thug moved.
Jason stood at the corner of the store's building, his pistol raised where the two thugs had been just moments before. He wasn't shocked – he'd seen hurried self-inflicted deaths like this before. He was both amazed and impressed by Tom's rapid response, however – very much so.
Thomas spoke first. “Well, what you waiting for?” It was more a statement than a question. “Police be here soon I think. Let's get food stuff to Jeep so you leave – I help. Cops never know you here.”
As such, I don't intend to rewrite anything until it's "done" in rough draft. That way I'm sure I get it, at least, "done".
Chapter 4: Sam's Grocery
The sun was setting by the time Jason arrived at Sam's Grocery, on the eastern side of town. Traffic had been light – unusually light - which Jason was thankful for given the national turmoil at the moment, and his interest in getting out to the farm as soon as possible. Everyone was probably home watching the news, he figured. Rapid City was far from any large urban center, and it was conceivable but unlikely any terrorists would deem the small city a target.
Sam's Grocery was located in what might be termed the ghetto of Rapid City, with many people nearby collecting welfare. There was a high low-class population of Mexicans and Native Americans on this side of town, and all the telltale signs showing lack of moral inhibition were evident – not only in the eyes and faces of the inhabitants, but also in the high amount of trash simply thrown on the ground and the poor upkeep of buildings. Just the same, there was also a substantial underclass of Asians – mainly Chinese – who were well on their way towards the American dream.
Sam's was owned by one Thomas Franklin, a diminutive, elderly Vietnamese man who had immigrated to Rapid City several decades earlier and made a mark for himself. The name of his store only vaguely illustrated his heritage, as his name had been Wi Sai Mai Chen before changing it to be more American. His store catered mainly to the local neighborhoods. As such, he carried an array of Mexican, Indian, and Asian specialty foods in addition to typically American fare and naturalistic food sources. Due to this variety, he got a lot of business from people who ordered food in bulk, were more health conscious, and enjoyed more cultural variety in their diets. Being as Rapid City was liberal for such a small city, business was good.
Jason parked near the door, hopped out, and walked to the store's barred front door. He could see inside and noticed the place was dark; the sign on the front door said the place was closed. Knowing better – Bruce lived above the store – he knocked heavily on the barred glass door (the store also sold beer and liquor) and called up to the second story windows above him. A taunt face popped out from a window.
“Ah, Mr. Kreign. You come for food mother ordered? Vey goot. I come down, let you in.” The elderly man slowly shut the window. Jason saw a light come on in the back of the store, casting a silloette around Thomas shuffling towards the front.. The old man unlocked the door and ushered Jason in.
“Glad you make it. Lot of criminals out this evening, some tried taking my beer. I take gun so they run away and I close store up tight, wait for you.” The old man moved towards the back of the store. “You follow, I show you food.”
The two maneuvered past rows of crates and shelves covered with every type of food imaginable. If it was pickled, could be eaten raw, involved fermentation, involved marination, or grew in ****, chances are Bruce carried it. Thankfully for people like Jason, the things he considered edible were kept near the back of the store.
Thomas stopped and pointed to over a dozen crates, pails, and boxes stacked in the middle of the floor. “Here you go, what you mother ordered.”
Jason looked at the pile and wondered what in the world his mother had in mind; this was probably half a year's worth of food for her and Dad, maybe more. He began to wonder, Am I underestimating this terrorist attack?
Thomas looked at Jason expectantly. “What you doing just standing there? Take food, go! I missing the news! Lot happening, very bad.”
Jason hurriedly began picking up two 50lb. bags of rice and hoisted them over his shoulders and started walking towards the door. “What's going on in the news, Tom? I've not heard anything in a couple hours.”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing! The news people are lying snakes. Just that we are under attack. They just repeat the same nothing like broken record. Bunch of criminals come and harass me to open store but my shotgun made them run away.” Thomas smiled and chuckled, the creases in his tanned skin around his eyes tightening until his eyes were almost slits.
Jason, having lived around Rapid his entire life, knew there were some undesirable neighborhoods; certainly neighborhoods in which a young woman would not want to walk after dark. It's good that Tom has assimilated and become fully American, Jason thought. The NRA sticker on Thomas's front door – right next to the FDIC and Visa stickers partially evidenced this. “Did you call the cops, Tom?”
“Yes, but they not come. It's the same jerks that were banging on door two weeks ago drunk as fish at 4 in morning wanting me to open up and give them beer. Cops no care unless thugs break law. Being idiot isn't illegal here.” A smirk was now evident on Tom's face. Despite his initial demeanor of irritability, he would quickly open up to his better customers – such as Jason's family.
Thomas held the door open for Jason. “Anyway, thugs go away and when I go back to TV, no more talk about attack. Then they just stop and we hear no more, just so-called news of some kidnapped Texas girl.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“What, not even a scroll at the bottom of the screen with updates?” Frank bemused.
“No, just stuff about sports, the girl, and new law about...” He was interrupted mid-sentence by Jason's yelling. There was a dark shadowy figure standing next to Jason's Jeep, leaning over into the driver's seat, another person wearing a sideways baseball cap – somewhat more visible due to a nearby streetlight – who was now moving towards Jason with an aggressive stance.
Jason quickly dropped the bags he was carrying, and Thomas ran back into the store – presumably to get the shotgun. He hoped they didn't see his own shotgun sitting on the passenger side – even if he had left it unloaded – as it might escalate the situation needlessly if they were to grab it. Jason then realized that he'd taken not only his shotgun from his apartment, but also his 1911 – which he'd left under the driver's seat, loaded.
His pulse quickened. He looked over towards the first thug by his Jeep, who was now circling to Jason's side.
****, I wasn't paying attention! I didn't see if he took my pistol – or anything else – from the vehicle, he thought. Baseball Cap stopped about 15 feet in front of Jason, while Shadow Figure was now positioned next to him at 9 o'clock and the same distance away.
Baseball Cap spoke. “Yo dog, you gots me a smoke?” Jason fidgeted, trying to assess the situation. The man wasn't standing too well and he was slurring his speech. They were both probably drunk already. And, they were probably going to jump him if he went for a cigarette. Where the **** was Tom?
“No, sorry, I just ran out,” lied Jason. He rotated his body so that he could more easily engage – or run from – either of the thugs if they approached him. Jason had trained in unarmed combat in the Army, but he'd never had the opportunity to demonstrate those skills – not outside sparring, at least. He hoped to God he wasn't too rusty.
Unfortunately, they rotated with him, keeping Jason at a disadvantage. They started to move towards him. ****, ****, ****! Jason tried to back up and maneuver himself between them and his jeep; maybe he could get to his pistol. These guys were big, and melee combat sounded as inviting as the teeth of a bear trap.
At that moment, Thomas stepped from the store carrying his shotgun – an old and beaten double barrel model with a wood stock. The thugs were about 10 feet from Jason now, at his 3 and 9 o'clock positions, as he faced the door. Thomas was hopping mad, and he spit as he yelled – a large amount of his accent creeping back into his speech.
“Get fooking out! Police coming!” He closed the breech of his shotgun and raised it to point at one of the thugs. Jason took their recently distracted state as the opportunity he needed to run to his truck and make sure his pistol was still there. Reaching under the driver's seat, he felt the familiar touch of the checkered wood grip and wrapped his hand around it.
Jason was now about 20 feet from the thugs facing their 9 o'clock position. The thugs still standing there, unmoving, looking at Thomas. They'd lost all interest in Jason – he was no longer their primary concern.
Baseball Cap spoke. “****in' little chink, you ain't got the balls.” He whipped out a butterfly knife – seemingly with the twist of his wrist, out of nowhere - and his friend Shadow Figure followed suit – or tried to – and struggled to get something out of his rear waistband. Jason moved as quickly as he could, trying to position himself out of Tom's line of fire for both their safety.
Unfortunately for Shadow Figure, Tom's shotgun was pointed directly at his vitals, as the Chinese man was short and the thug was tall. Tom pulled the first trigger, sending a percussive hornet's nest of buckshot slamming into the center of the man's torso. Tom quickly twisted – very quickly, for someone of his age – and got the barrel between him and the approaching Baseball Cap. Baseball Cap ran into the end of the barrel with his chest before he could change momentum and received the second tube of indiscriminate justice for his efforts. He crumpled to a heap at Tom's feet immediately. Neither thug moved.
Jason stood at the corner of the store's building, his pistol raised where the two thugs had been just moments before. He wasn't shocked – he'd seen hurried self-inflicted deaths like this before. He was both amazed and impressed by Tom's rapid response, however – very much so.
Thomas spoke first. “Well, what you waiting for?” It was more a statement than a question. “Police be here soon I think. Let's get food stuff to Jeep so you leave – I help. Cops never know you here.”
ChopperKen
Member
Thanks Caimlas, see ya here wednesday!
357fan
Member
Good stuff. I think you got name confused when Jason and Thomas are going into the back of the store. You slip a "Bruce" in there, unless I'm mistaken.
Keep up the good work.
Keep up the good work.
Caimlas, one request...
Could you post a continually updating word doc with your added chapters at the top of your first post? It'd make it easier for us instead of scrolling through all the posts.
Want to see some excellent writing? Dig up Lights Out by Halffast. He wrote a great 40 chapter novel.
Otherwise, pretty good writing. I like the story, especially as the bad guys start getting it right away.
Could you post a continually updating word doc with your added chapters at the top of your first post? It'd make it easier for us instead of scrolling through all the posts.
Want to see some excellent writing? Dig up Lights Out by Halffast. He wrote a great 40 chapter novel.
Otherwise, pretty good writing. I like the story, especially as the bad guys start getting it right away.
DRZinn
Member
Likin' it so far. keep it comin'.
357fan
Member
Good stuff! Keep it coming, please.
I've been as sick as a dog for the last week and have barely gotten out of bed, so I've uh not gotten much done. But I'll post another one of my chapters, I s'pose.
This will be it for a while as I recover and catch up with Life. A week or so.
This will be it for a while as I recover and catch up with Life. A week or so.
Chapter 6: Road Trip
Frank stood in the hall, his arms heavily burdened with his possessions. He was straining to hear a response to his inquiry: was anyone there? Should he put the boxes down? The hair on the back of his neck unexpectedly started to tingle.
He heard the chain being drawn on the door directly across from his – Susan and Michelle's apartment. The door slowly opened and Susan cautiously popped her head out.
“Frank, what just happened a couple minutes ago? It sounded like gunfire!” the attractive middle-aged woman said, keeping the majority of her body still inside the apartment.
“A couple gang types tried to steal my friend's van, and my fiend didn't agree with their behavior.” Frank understated the event in the hopes that it Susan wouldn't be too horribly upset. Hell, he was pretty sure he did it for his own benefit, too.
“Oh, that's horrible,” she said with sincerity. Her expression changed as soon as she'd finished speaking it, however. She looked down at the gun in her hand, put it in her belt, and then stepped into the hallway with a chuckle. “Better him than me!”
Frank, conscious of his friends down by the van waiting for him pushed the conversation. “Susan, do you have plans?”
“No, we don't. We were going to go to the store, but I don't know if it's safe now for us, not if you men were attacked.”
There was an exchange of glances between the two, both trying to read the other. Knowing Susan wouldn't ask, Frank spoke.
“Do you need us to help you in any way? We were headed for western South Dakota, and our vehicle is pretty full. But I'll do what I can.”
Susan looked at Frank tearfully. “Frank, this is just too much. Things don't look good – I just saw something on the TV that made me think the government is trying to hide the severity of this attack to prevent panic. I need to get Susan out of town, for her safety.”
“I can't just leave you here alone!” His arms and back were starting to feel the weight of all the things he was carrying. “I'll be right back. I think I can take you both, so get ready. I just need to check.”
Frank ran down the steps as quickly as the weight in his arms would let him. Mitch was just wiping the dirt off his palms and getting up from underneath the van, and Bruce was standing 15 yards off from the vehicle beside some shrubs, looking around.
“Hurry up, Kreign, we need to get this party underway!” Bruce yelled as he jogged over.
“Bruce, Susan and Michelle are up in their apartment,” Frank started to speak, but was interrupted by Bruce.
A scowl creased Bruce's brow followed by grunt of displeasure as soon as he heard Susan's name. “Ah, ****...”
“Bruce, I know you don't like Susan, but she – and her young daughter, remember – need our help.”
Bruce sighed. “I know you're right. But look – the van really is full after that stuff in your hands. It'll be a tight fit for the three of us. I could maybe squeeze another seat's worth of space in if I had some tie-downs and...”
“Already on it, Bruce,” Mitch intoned from behind the van as he pulled out the bars for a rooftop carrier. A ****-eating grin covered his face.
“You little devil,” said Bruce, a resigned smile creeping across his lips. "I like this guy already."
Bruce set down the boxes at the curb and ran back up into the building. He began rapidly knocked on Susan's door, but it swung open as soon as he'd started. Susan and Michelle were bickering back and forth about what Michelle could and could not bring.
“Michelle, you don't need your makeup kit! They don't have the room! Just a suitcase full of clothes and extra shoes!”
Susan, too, was getting prepared – quickly. She had a medium sized (one could say “carry-on sized”) suitcase on the bed mostly full of socks, underwear, t-shirts, and several pairs of pants. There was a second larger suitcase in the living room with items such as kitchen knives, silverware, a couple pots and pans, some blankets on bottom, and miscellaneous valuables like quilts.
Susan and Michelle were also now in similar states of dress: blue jeans, sneakers, and t-shirts. For the most part. In the case of Susan, the outfit was completed with her hair up in a quick bun with the assistance of a pencil. Michelle was running around the apartment picking up things she'd left laying around which she saw as important – and hadn't realized Frank was there yet. As a result, she'd yet to have put a shirt on. Frank turned away out of both courtesy and embarrassment.
“Uh, Susan, is there anything you'd like me to take down to the van?” He intentionally blocked his view of Michelle and raised his voice so she'd know he was there as he spoke. Michelle looked up and hastily darted back into her room, slamming the door.
“I've got two crates of food and camping equipment in the hall closet, can you grab that?”
Frank threw the tent and tension-packed sleeping bags over his shoulder and gave a hoist to one of the milk crates. The crate must've weighed close to 100 pounds due to the canned goods, and he stumbled slightly due to underestimating it. He slowly carried the container down the hall towards the steps and awaiting van.
By the time Frank had handed the goods and gear over to Mitch and gotten back up to Susan's apartment, the two women were moving towards the door with suitcases in hand and backpacks hastily slung over their shoulders. Frank grabbed the final case from the closet and followed the two down.
Bruce was waiting impatiently near the door with his rifle, and Mitch was standing idle near the open rear double doors of the van.
Mitch had quickly shuffled around some gear and had much of the lighter items tied down tightly to the roof.
Speaking abruptly he said, "Ladies, those bags go on top. Frank, put that back here. Hurry up and get in." Almost before Frank had cleared the van's doors, Mitch had slammed them shut and run up to the driver's door.
As Frank himself ran up the passenger side of the vehicle to get in front, Bruce was already straddling the front passenger seat, topping off a rifle magazine from an open ammo can sitting on the floor between his feet.
"Frank, I'd better ride shotgun." With a grin, he finished, "As they say in the movies, I've done this before."
Frank climbed into the back, squeezing onto the end of the bench next to Michelle. He started to buckle his seat belt from habit, but Mitch had already thrown the car into gear, so he hastily pulled the sliding door shut.
The van slowly lurched forward off the lawn and over the curb, onto the street. It accelerated very slowly.
"Say, what exactly is pulling this beast, Mitch? It's godawful slow, even for this load," Bruce asked inquisitively as he started to examine the non-standard gear shift stick jutting from the floor.
Mitch lit up, ear to ear. "Oh, just a 6 cylinder diesel with a 21 speed gear box. I got it from an old hippie in Oregon a couple years ago. You would not believe how good the mileage is!"
"No ****?" Bruce was interested, but only slightly. "It's so sluggish. I'd hope it could at least get up to speed."
"We'll be able to do 70 miles an hour, easy, and still get good fuel mileage. I've gone 1,200 highway miles on a single tank before."
Michelle spoke up from the back middle seat. "Or, at least we might, if we could get to the highway at all."
They'd turned a blind corner onto a one-way street leading to the interstate. They could see the highway overpass only a half mile away, silhouetted by the setting sun, but the traffic between them and the overpass was gridlocked.
Frank stood in the hall, his arms heavily burdened with his possessions. He was straining to hear a response to his inquiry: was anyone there? Should he put the boxes down? The hair on the back of his neck unexpectedly started to tingle.
He heard the chain being drawn on the door directly across from his – Susan and Michelle's apartment. The door slowly opened and Susan cautiously popped her head out.
“Frank, what just happened a couple minutes ago? It sounded like gunfire!” the attractive middle-aged woman said, keeping the majority of her body still inside the apartment.
“A couple gang types tried to steal my friend's van, and my fiend didn't agree with their behavior.” Frank understated the event in the hopes that it Susan wouldn't be too horribly upset. Hell, he was pretty sure he did it for his own benefit, too.
“Oh, that's horrible,” she said with sincerity. Her expression changed as soon as she'd finished speaking it, however. She looked down at the gun in her hand, put it in her belt, and then stepped into the hallway with a chuckle. “Better him than me!”
Frank, conscious of his friends down by the van waiting for him pushed the conversation. “Susan, do you have plans?”
“No, we don't. We were going to go to the store, but I don't know if it's safe now for us, not if you men were attacked.”
There was an exchange of glances between the two, both trying to read the other. Knowing Susan wouldn't ask, Frank spoke.
“Do you need us to help you in any way? We were headed for western South Dakota, and our vehicle is pretty full. But I'll do what I can.”
Susan looked at Frank tearfully. “Frank, this is just too much. Things don't look good – I just saw something on the TV that made me think the government is trying to hide the severity of this attack to prevent panic. I need to get Susan out of town, for her safety.”
“I can't just leave you here alone!” His arms and back were starting to feel the weight of all the things he was carrying. “I'll be right back. I think I can take you both, so get ready. I just need to check.”
Frank ran down the steps as quickly as the weight in his arms would let him. Mitch was just wiping the dirt off his palms and getting up from underneath the van, and Bruce was standing 15 yards off from the vehicle beside some shrubs, looking around.
“Hurry up, Kreign, we need to get this party underway!” Bruce yelled as he jogged over.
“Bruce, Susan and Michelle are up in their apartment,” Frank started to speak, but was interrupted by Bruce.
A scowl creased Bruce's brow followed by grunt of displeasure as soon as he heard Susan's name. “Ah, ****...”
“Bruce, I know you don't like Susan, but she – and her young daughter, remember – need our help.”
Bruce sighed. “I know you're right. But look – the van really is full after that stuff in your hands. It'll be a tight fit for the three of us. I could maybe squeeze another seat's worth of space in if I had some tie-downs and...”
“Already on it, Bruce,” Mitch intoned from behind the van as he pulled out the bars for a rooftop carrier. A ****-eating grin covered his face.
“You little devil,” said Bruce, a resigned smile creeping across his lips. "I like this guy already."
Bruce set down the boxes at the curb and ran back up into the building. He began rapidly knocked on Susan's door, but it swung open as soon as he'd started. Susan and Michelle were bickering back and forth about what Michelle could and could not bring.
“Michelle, you don't need your makeup kit! They don't have the room! Just a suitcase full of clothes and extra shoes!”
Susan, too, was getting prepared – quickly. She had a medium sized (one could say “carry-on sized”) suitcase on the bed mostly full of socks, underwear, t-shirts, and several pairs of pants. There was a second larger suitcase in the living room with items such as kitchen knives, silverware, a couple pots and pans, some blankets on bottom, and miscellaneous valuables like quilts.
Susan and Michelle were also now in similar states of dress: blue jeans, sneakers, and t-shirts. For the most part. In the case of Susan, the outfit was completed with her hair up in a quick bun with the assistance of a pencil. Michelle was running around the apartment picking up things she'd left laying around which she saw as important – and hadn't realized Frank was there yet. As a result, she'd yet to have put a shirt on. Frank turned away out of both courtesy and embarrassment.
“Uh, Susan, is there anything you'd like me to take down to the van?” He intentionally blocked his view of Michelle and raised his voice so she'd know he was there as he spoke. Michelle looked up and hastily darted back into her room, slamming the door.
“I've got two crates of food and camping equipment in the hall closet, can you grab that?”
Frank threw the tent and tension-packed sleeping bags over his shoulder and gave a hoist to one of the milk crates. The crate must've weighed close to 100 pounds due to the canned goods, and he stumbled slightly due to underestimating it. He slowly carried the container down the hall towards the steps and awaiting van.
By the time Frank had handed the goods and gear over to Mitch and gotten back up to Susan's apartment, the two women were moving towards the door with suitcases in hand and backpacks hastily slung over their shoulders. Frank grabbed the final case from the closet and followed the two down.
Bruce was waiting impatiently near the door with his rifle, and Mitch was standing idle near the open rear double doors of the van.
Mitch had quickly shuffled around some gear and had much of the lighter items tied down tightly to the roof.
Speaking abruptly he said, "Ladies, those bags go on top. Frank, put that back here. Hurry up and get in." Almost before Frank had cleared the van's doors, Mitch had slammed them shut and run up to the driver's door.
As Frank himself ran up the passenger side of the vehicle to get in front, Bruce was already straddling the front passenger seat, topping off a rifle magazine from an open ammo can sitting on the floor between his feet.
"Frank, I'd better ride shotgun." With a grin, he finished, "As they say in the movies, I've done this before."
Frank climbed into the back, squeezing onto the end of the bench next to Michelle. He started to buckle his seat belt from habit, but Mitch had already thrown the car into gear, so he hastily pulled the sliding door shut.
The van slowly lurched forward off the lawn and over the curb, onto the street. It accelerated very slowly.
"Say, what exactly is pulling this beast, Mitch? It's godawful slow, even for this load," Bruce asked inquisitively as he started to examine the non-standard gear shift stick jutting from the floor.
Mitch lit up, ear to ear. "Oh, just a 6 cylinder diesel with a 21 speed gear box. I got it from an old hippie in Oregon a couple years ago. You would not believe how good the mileage is!"
"No ****?" Bruce was interested, but only slightly. "It's so sluggish. I'd hope it could at least get up to speed."
"We'll be able to do 70 miles an hour, easy, and still get good fuel mileage. I've gone 1,200 highway miles on a single tank before."
Michelle spoke up from the back middle seat. "Or, at least we might, if we could get to the highway at all."
They'd turned a blind corner onto a one-way street leading to the interstate. They could see the highway overpass only a half mile away, silhouetted by the setting sun, but the traffic between them and the overpass was gridlocked.
357fan
Member
Great work! Keep it coming.
No kidding. My first novel was rejected over 100 times by various agents and publishers. So I did it myself, proved it was sellable, got a big contract (coming out Summer '09) and the POD version was #3 on Entertainment Weekly's bestseller list last week, so
.If you're going to be a writer, the single most valuable thing you've got going for you is feedback. Note, that just because somebody tells you something don't make it right. But what you need to do is look for the reactions of your target market. If the work is sellable, then the critics can shove it. The key is that it is good enough and entertaining enough for people to want to buy it.
In the meantime, listen to people that have a clue. My first book only exists because of the literary professionals who took the time to beat me over the head with a cluebat. Pax ripped me apart, and I wrote better because of it. Curly was downright mean and questioned my literacy, but the book was better because of it. Toni Weiskopf of Baen gave me great advice, and Lucienne Driver of Spectrum pointed out some serious flubs. Pay attention to people that know what they're talking about.
And I disagree with about half of Elmore Leonard's points and one of Robert Heinlein's. Which is blasphemy, I know, but everybody has their own style, and you've got to do what works for you, not what works for somebody that came before you. If it is good, it is good. If it sucks, it sucks. Regardless of your methods.
And despite what anybody says, just keep writing. Posting it online is great, provided your skin is thick and you're brave.
I am no literary critic, but I am an average Joe Sixpack and I buy and read many books. Dude, you write it and I will buy it and I am not easy to please. I'm impressed. Your story flows easily without extraneous, useless descriptions. I hate overly wordy stories. that is, words that do not contribute to the story.
The Unknown User
Member
- Joined
- Apr 28, 2007
- Messages
- 712
What? Someone had to do it.
Seriously, though, I love your writing, even if it is imperfect. You make some minor grammatical errors here and there, and I've caught one spelling error so far. I'm only into the second chapter, though.
357fan
Member
Any more yet? Any movement on a compilation of chapters so far?
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