AWOL: A Character Lost (3 page)

The cat walked over and sniffed the sealed double doors in the back and pawed at them to no avail. The cat made its way back across the small space to the door that led out of this room and into the cab. He pawed at the door, but it didn’t move. He tried a few more times before finally giving up. The cat was really getting agitated now, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He knew he had to wake the men, and he knew that if he didn’t this could spell trouble. He began to paw at Eric’s face as the noise got closer and closer. Eric didn’t stir so the cat started meowing. It was a last resort, but his instincts told him that was the thing to do.

Eric woke up slowly and shook the cobwebs free as the cat got quiet. “What the hell do you want?” Eric’s ears picked up on the noise. “What the hell is that?”

Eric turned towards the wall, and all he could see was metal. He got up and made his way to the door that led into the cab. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The cold air of the cab sent chills down his back, his breath white as he inhaled and exhaled.

He stood there a moment and listened. The noise was coming from the passenger’s side. He turned to look out the window, but it was covered with a heavy layer of snow. He climbed over the seat and tried to open it, but the snow was so heavy and thick against it that it wouldn’t budge. He tried the door handle, and he found the door unable to budge as well.

What Eric didn’t know was that the way the truck was positioned in the road allowed the wind to push a massive snow drift up against it. This snow drift stood tall enough that it covered the truck from the ground to the roofline on the passenger’s side.

Eric’s brain refused to work (still hung-over), and he was out of ideas as the noise kept drawing closer. It was then that he thought of the hatch.

He scrambled into the back and grabbed the ladder. He scurried up as quickly as his hung-over legs could climb. He popped the latch to the hatch and realized he would need a boost. In his current state, he had forgotten about that. Lucky for him, luck was on his side.

The character stirred. “Would someone turn off that damn leaf blower?”

Eric looked down at the character who had just woken himself up with that statement. The character looked up at Eric who was looking down at him.

“What the hell is that?” The character asked.

“I have no idea, but I know it’s bad, whatever it is. Can you boost me?”

Eric tried to open the hatch as the character got up on wobbly legs. He steadied himself and then went over to Eric who, at the moment, was in a bit of a jam. The snow had buried the hatch so deep that it was hard to budge. The buzzing sound was really getting loud now and very close. They needed to have eyes on the world outside.

“Shit! The snow’s too thick. Hand me something to jam it with, something to give me some leverage.” The character began to look around the room. The buzzing sound was so close now that it was almost making it hard to hear. Whatever it was that was coming at them was coming fast, and it wasn’t stopping. Eric was getting impatient. “Hurry up, will you?”

The character did the best he could to hurry up, but he was very, very, very, hung over. In a zombie apocalypse –
why did they drink so much?

The character stumbled onto a piece of wood they didn’t burn and handed it up to Eric. Eric grabbed it and started banging away on the hatch. The glass shattered as the wood went right through. Snow fell onto Eric and the floor below like a powder white waterfall. Eric shook the flakes free and then reached up and removed the shards of glass that were still left in the opening he had just made.

The buzzing sound was now echoing around the room, rattling things that were hanging on the walls, bouncing loose stuff lying on the floor, scaring the cat, who was now in the corner on high alert.

Eric reached up and pushed some snow out of the way. The problem was, all he could see was more snow. He tried to dig a little more, but realized that the only way he was going to make it to the roof was by tunneling. He was glad he wasn’t claustrophobic.

Eric looked down at the character. “Okay, boost me now.”

The character did as he was asked, and Eric scrambled through the opening, tunneling upward until he was able to pop his head out and see the bright blue sky and sunlight. He used his arms to push the rest of the way through and climbed out onto the roof like a corpse crawling out of a fresh grave.

What he saw sent him immediately back into the room below, almost falling off the ladder, as he slipped and scrambled his way to the floor.

“What is it?” The character asked.

“We’re in trouble.”

“It’s a snow blower, right?”

“An industrial sized one. It probably cleared off entire parking lots in its other lifetime,” Eric paused, “The problem is -”

The snow blower crashed into the passenger side of the truck and the truck swayed from the impact, but didn’t roll over. The noise of the snow blower died.

Seconds later the truck started to get impacted, as bodies, one after another, slammed into it. The truck started to not only move off its spot, but started to tilt. The bodies kept hitting the truck, thud, thud, thud, they went, more impacts, multiple impacts. The force of those bodies was going to push the truck over. It was inevitable

Eric finished his sentence. “The problem is this. The zombie running the snow blower is clearing a path as he goes. This path has allowed the zombies, who can’t figure out the snow, an easy walk to get to us. There must be hundreds out there with more coming in the distance. All they have to do is get to the path.” The truck tilted and groaned. Eric started rounding up weapons and supplies, throwing them crudely in his backpack, and getting ready for the path into the snow. “We need to move and we need to go out the driver’s side door. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” the character replied.

Eric opened the carrier, and the cat ran inside. Most wouldn’t, but it knew better than to dilly dally. Eric scrambled into the cab as the truck groaned from the impacts and tilted, the springs screeched their disapproval.

Eric made his way to the door and dropped the carrier down into the snow. The truck tilted further, more impacts, the spike in the door was now the only thing holding the truck up. Eric could hear the spike starting to separate, screeching softly as it pulled free from its weld.

The character appeared behind him, holding onto what he could in order for support as the truck continued to tilt further with each impact.

The cat meowed as it sat in the snow and waited to go.

“You sure you’re ready?” Eric asked, pistol in hand, backpack on his back.

“Sure,” the character replied, shotgun in hand.

Eric shimmied out the window and jumped down into the snow. Once on the ground, he fired a couple of clean shots into a few zombies who were treading their way ever so slowly towards them. He picked up the carrier and started making his way towards the woods.

The character jumped out the window and was about to move when the truck tilted for the last time. The spike broke free with a metallic rip, and the truck started to fall. The character froze on the spot as the truck came crashing down on its side in a cloud of snow and debris

Eric, who had lost so much already, couldn’t believe he had lost someone else in this world. He hung his head as the cat meowed in the carrier. “So long my friend.”

Eric watched the zombies moving towards him and decided he better move. He fired off the remaining bullets in his gun and took out about three of them. He then turned and ran, making his way deeper into the woods.

The character (still clothed in what he was wearing in the last story – not naked like the first time he appeared here – not sure why) came crashing out of the zombie door and rolled across the floor until he came to a hard stop against the wall. He lay there a moment, catching his breath, letting the warmth of the room return heat to the cells of his body. He couldn’t believe that he had just learned what it was like to die.

The zombie door flashed out, and now there were 9 doors left.

The character stood up and dusted off the snow, checking his body for any signs of mortal damage. It wasn’t every day that you got crushed by a truck and lived to tell about it.

He looked around the round room, and his heart sank. He was back where he started before he went into the zombie story, which was good and bad, good because he hadn’t died, and bad because he was back to square one, the place where he was created.

“Hold on one second.” The words flashed on the wall, our communication, and then I finished up my blog post, saving it for later. Once finished, I returned to him. There was no use trying to do two things at one time. “I’m not much of a multi-tasker.

Ask my wife,” I replied, words of neon pink and green flashing on the wall.

“That was a pretty shitty way to end me in the last story. Getting crushed by a truck like that.”

“I see you remember the last story you came out of, or at least parts of it.”

“I just came out of it, so I think I would.”

“But you still can’t remember where you belong?”

“Can you?”

“Good point.”

“By the way, zombies on skies, and ones that use snow blowers. Don’t you think that’s all pretty stupid?”

“I thought it was pretty clever.”

“I bet your audience is laughing at you right now.”

“I tried to poke fun at myself a bit, during it.”

“Anyway, shit in one hand, wipe in the other. I guess I am off to the next story now.” He picked up the lamp on the floor and turned it on. He shined the light on door number 2 and frowned. He had forgotten what genre came next. “Vampires? I nearly get mauled by zombies, and now you want me to go after vampires.”

“I think Eric did a good job of taking care of you. You didn’t really get into that much danger.”

“I nearly froze to death, lost my damn feet, and I did get crushed by a truck at the end of it, but no, not too much danger. It was a regular fucking cub scout meeting.”

I had nothing to say. He had every reason to rant, stuck out here without his family, asked to go into all of these crazy stories, dancing for me as characters so often do for writers.

“Why vampires?”

“I have always enjoyed that genre, and they are pretty popular right now on my side of things.”

“Are you doing this for yourself or for your audience?”

“Believe me, I ask myself that question every day. On my blog, I wonder if it is traffic, likes, or comments that matter. Is it the subject matter that is more important? Is it what I write that is important? Do I do it just for me or to have an audience?”

“Yeah, and blah, blah, blah. That shit means nothing to me. I need to move on in order to find my family.” The character paused for a moment. “What happened to Eric and his cat?”

“They made it safely to a compound, and now they are home. The zombies were eventually defeated, and it all ended well.”

“So, a happy ending.”

“I usually try to write them that way. I don’t like sad endings. I might put you and my other characters through hell, but I try to give all you guys a nice finish. I also want my audience to be entertained, and not depressed. I write what I like to read. It is as simple as that.”

“I guess that gives me hope.” He reached for the door handle to the door marked “vampire” and stopped. “By the way, can you give me a name this time? Eric never even asked for it.”

“Oops, skimmed that part. Will do?”

He turned the handle. “Wish me luck.”

“Take comfort in this. It looks like if you die in the wrong story, you at least get pushed back into here.”

“Yeah, but that means I have to go through the next door and die again, which sucks, believe me.” He shined the light on Door 3. “Actually that one isn’t so bad. I could see myself in a western.”

“There’s something off about that one. I can feel it, but I’m not sure what.”

“In your mind, it could be anything. I’m sure it’s not a simple western, and that I will find out what evil lurks in due time.”

“That is, of course, if you come back to this room. You might be home in the next story.”

“Honestly. I hope not.” He opened the door and stared out into a new story, a new place, and a new time. A cold chill filled the room, and a bluish full moon light poured its rays on top of him. A wolf howled somewhere in the distance. The character looked up with a-
why me
-look stretched across his face.

“Good luck,” I replied, it was all I could say to give him comfort.

“Thanks.” The character turned off the lamp, placed it at his feet, and stepped into the next story.

The door closed.

The round room fell back into darkness.

I went back to finish my blog post.

The character appeared in the middle of a road –
paved
– which was good. The road was deserted and empty, not a soul around for miles. A cloudless sky stretched out over his head filled with thousands of stars, and a bluish full moon light colored the world.

A small house stood in front of him, a cottage of sorts with no lights burning inside. A white picket fence ran the length of the yard, and the trees of the forest were pressed in so tight that it looked like the fence was holding them back from approaching further. A small gate was centered right in the middle of this fence, and once opened; a concrete sidewalk lay at your feet. This sidewalk lead across the lawn to a small porch, which had a lot of flowers growing on it –
garlic flowers
, but the character didn’t know this. All he saw were flowers.

The character walked up to the fence and stopped. He ran his hands over the smooth white surface and took a moment to look around. This was the only house he could see. The rest of the world was populated by the woods and the road, which wound its way out of sight in either direction through the thick dark trees and forest.

A wolf’s howl sent cold chills up his spine and across his body, pulling him from his observations. That howl didn’t seem so loud when he was back in the little round room of the author’s mind; but now that he was out here, that howl seemed like it was pouring out of everything. It permeated the world.

“Hey buddy. You might want to get out of there.”

The character turned around to see who had said that as a cold wind tore into his flesh. He pulled his hat down over his ears, adjusted his gloves, and trained his eyes towards the sound of the voice. It had come from a bush just off the side of the road.

“Who are you?” He asked, as the wind rushed across him again. He was glad to still be dressed in the clothes he had on in the zombie story. Their layers were keeping him nice and warm.

“You need to get off the road. Death is coming.”

The wolf howl again and it was closer.

“Where are you? Why don’t you come out?”

“I’d be dead if I did,” the strange voice replied.

The character heard a rustling behind him. He turned and saw a werewolf racing across the lawn, heading right in his direction. A shot from a gun blasted off into the night as the beast leaped over the fence. This silver bullet went whizzing over the character’s head and hit the werewolf dead center of its skull. This shot killed it instantly and knocked it off its flying path. The beast fell to the ground, tumbled, rolled, and came to a stop.

“I told you to get off the road. That was just a scout. The rest are coming.”

The character turned to his left and saw a small pack of werewolves walking down the paved road towards him. They weren’t in a hurry like the one that nearly killed him a second ago. They were taking their time; and if they weren’t foul, evil beasts, you would think they were just out for a casual night-time stroll.

These creatures were big ugly things walking on all fours, covered in silky grey fur, and from their paw to the top of their back they had to be at least 8 feet tall and about six feet from snout to tail. They had gigantic claws – 4 in all – on each paw, big white teeth that sparkled in the moonlight, and from their mouth a salivating liquid dripped that smoked when it hit the ground. They had red eyes that blazed inside their eye sockets, but these weren’t normal eyes. Somehow their eyes were able to shine like a spotlight or a car’s headlights. So, as they walked, they each had a small red spotlight in front of them to light their path. They had green noses that could sniff out any predator or prey, and their back sides ended with a long scorpion stinger and tail. This tail reached up into the air as they walked, ready to strike on an instant.

“Now!”

The character turned to see who had said that. It was the voice of the person from the bush who had greeted him when he first got here, a woman, about five three wearing jeans, long warm coat, gloves, hat and scarf.

At least twenty people, maybe more, jumped out from their hiding places and ran out into the road after this command. The forward progress of these beasts was blocked, temporarily. Guns blazed and bullets soared as the people, men and women alike, put the ambush to the beasts. These creatures darted and moved their survival instincts on high alert. Some went down quick, but most of them didn’t. The wolves went on the attack, and it was ferocious.

The character watched, frozen in place, as one woman lost her head to a fatal swipe. Blood erupted like a geyser from the open wound, and her body took two steps forward before falling to the ground. Two men on either side of her were showered in the blood, and it blinded them. They tried to clean their eyes, but the wolf who had taken out the woman, tagged one man with its tail, and lifted him into the air. This tail didn’t send out venom but electricity; so, as the man hung there suspended, he was sizzling like he was in an electric chair. He shook violently, screaming in pain as he died. While the one man was frying alive, the wolf stood up and gripped the other man in its gigantic paws. The man squirmed and fought, but the wolf just opened its mouth and clamped down on the man’s head. A sound of crunching bone filled that part of the fight as the werewolf tore off the man’s head and spit it out. The creature dropped the body onto the ground, and the man bled out.

However, not to be out done, the people were handling themselves adequately well; and they were keeping the fight equal. It was the woman, the one who had tried to warn the character, that was doing the most damage. She took out at least three of them by herself, two with the gun and one with a silver blade she pulled from her belt. She killed the one with the blade by jumping on its back. It bucked, of course, but she had great legs, so she held on, shoving the blade into its head and twisting it until it reached the brain, killing the beast once the point of the blade hit the sweet spot.

The character, still frozen in place, hypnotized by the continuing carnage around him, was pulled out of his frozen stance by a growling sound. He turned to see one of the beasts staring him down like he was dinner. The character looked up at it, painted red in the spotlight of its eyes, like he was on some macabre stage. It growled with gums pulled back in a sneer, teeth glinting, and the mouth dripping saliva onto the ground that erupted into smoke. A whistling sound found the character’s ears –something sailing through the air. Then he heard a thump like a knife being punched into a watermelon. The werewolf staggered sideways and fell over then its eyes went dark, like someone had just turned off a pair of car headlights.

The character looked down at the werewolf, and he saw a long silver arrow sticking out of its neck. He looked up at a nearby tree, and he saw a man shimmy down from there to the ground below. He had an empty quiver on his back, but no bow in his hand. The character assumed he was out of arrows, so he had decided to join the fight by using the silver sword in his hand.

As the fight dwindled, the remaining werewolves, six in all, decided moving on was the best idea. They were bloodied and beaten when they finally took off down the road, the lights of their eyes evaporating into the distance.

“Are you okay?” It was the woman, the one who tried to warn him before.

“I think so,” the character replied.

“You don’t look it.”

“If you only knew,” he paused, thinking of the author, warm and safe at home in his office while he stood here in the cold, terrified and unsure. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. I guess it just has me on edge.”

“You must not be from around here.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, shaken, but fine.”

“My name is Becky, by the way. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“No.”

“That’s my house right there,” Becky replied, pointing towards the house the character saw when he first arrived here. “You are more than willing to stay if you want. There’s a good size bed in the bonus room, food on the table, warm fire. Think it over.”

“I will.”

She turned and paused, then turned back to the character. “Got a name?”

The character thought about that for a moment, happy the author had decided to give him a name this time. “Martin.”

“You don’t look like a Martin.”

The character wanted to say, the author of this tale gave it to me, I have no choice; but he just played it off as if he thought of it himself. “A lot of people say that.”

She turned from him to the remainder of the people who were gathered in scattered patches around the now dormant fight.

“All right folks. Let’s huddle up.”

The people gathered around her.

“I know we have suffered a lot. We’ve lost a lot, and we still didn’t get all of those bastards. Tonight, we need to clean the road, bury our dead, and burn the werewolf carcasses. Is everyone up for that? I can understand if you would rather go home. I won’t stop you.”

She looked around the small group, who were bloodied, beaten, and bruised. No one was leaving.

“At least I can bury my Silas.”

Becky turned to see a woman kneeling beside her fallen husband. He was badly mauled. She was currently trying to put his left eye back into its socket. This woman was around sixty years of age, like her husband, with long grey hair and kind eyes. She was dressed in warm clothes just like everyone else.

In the distance, the sound of hooves destroyed the still quiet of the night.

“We know what’s coming next. Remember our plan and stick to it.”

The character looked up the road as the people retreated to their hiding spots. Becky saw the character frozen, again. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into the bushes. The character ducked down beside her as the group coming up the road drew closer.

The horses they were riding were big black stallions, with strong muscular legs, black onyx hooves, brown manes and tails of thick coarse hair, and sharp eyes that sparkled in the bluish light of the full moon.

The riders on these horses were vampires, but these weren’t textbook vampires. They had flesh colored ram horns on their heads, speckled skin of black and brown, no hair, and no eyebrows. Their eyes looked like uneven ovals with two yellow dots in the middle of them, and they had two fangs in their mouth for sucking blood and no other teeth. They wore dark red shirts and black silk pants with no shoes on their feet.

As the horses and the riders passed, they didn’t stop when they saw the carnage in the road. They just rode through it like it wasn’t even there. Silas got his head stomped out by one of the horse’s hooves, and his widow ran out of her hiding place in pure hysterics. She had managed to piece him back together, but now it would be impossible to do that. It was more than she could take.

One of the riders turned sideways in his saddle – brown and leather with boot straps and a saddle horn that ended in an ivory skull. This skull’s empty eye sockets lit up with green fire as the rider pulled up on the reigns. The horse stopped as the other vampires and their horses made their way on down the road.

Two men came out of the bushes and tried to pull the woman back to safety, but it was no use. The character watched as the rider pulled out a bull whip. He held the handle in his right hand and let the rope part of it roll out to the ground. This whip didn’t have a normal tip on the end of it. What it had instead of a tip was a large leathery hand. The rider raised the whip, as the two men left the woman in the road; they knew she was done for. A second later, the rider cracked the whip, and it went flying through the air. As it flew, the hand turned into a fist so it could travel faster. When this hand reached the woman, it opened, and latched onto her neck. She stumbled backwards from the impact, but somehow stayed on her feet.

The character wanted to get up to help her, since the two men had left her stranded; but Becky grabbed his shoulder, stopping him. “It’s too late for her. Once they get you, they have you.”

The character, reluctantly, stayed put.

The old woman was writhing in pain as the hand tightened its grip, digging deeper into her flesh. The rider turned back to the front of his saddle. He raised the reigns and snapped them. The horse took off at a gallop, and the old woman was yanked off of her feet. The character watched in horror as she went bouncing by, head banging on the ground, blood flying, arms and legs flailing, skin being torn to shreds. Her screams evaporated into the distance along with the horse and rider.

Becky looked at the character who looked like he was about to vomit. “Come on,” she replied. “There’s nothing we can do for her now. Let’s clean this mess up and get home.”

Becky climbed out of the bushes, and the others followed her lead. She went over to console the two men who had tried to save the woman. Needless to say, they weren’t in the best of shape.

The character turned to the side and puked.

Becky came back over to check on him. “We need some help. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” the character replied, wiping his mouth clean. Confident he wasn’t going to puke again, he made his way over to the group, who were gathered together on the road. Most of them looked pretty stunned, but they were keeping it together. Becky introduced the character to them, and then they all began the task of cleaning up. The werewolf bodies went into one burning pile, and the dead bodies of their falling friends in their own plot of dirt and earth.

When they finished, the sun was coming up.

*

The character stood in the shower and let the warm water wash over him. It felt good, and it seemed to be reaching all the spots he needed it to reach. When was the last time he had a shower? He had no idea.

While he stood in the healing warm water, he thought of the road and the werewolves, the riders and their horses, and the woman and the sounds of her dying screams as she was drug off into the distance. The pounding water of the shower wasn’t strong enough to drown that noise out.

He turned off the shower and toweled off. Becky had given him clothes from her deceased husband, and they fit him adequately enough – jeans, warm shirt, socks, and shoes. She had also given him a pair of boxers, but the character (like most men) felt uncomfortable being that close to another man’s junk. He decided to free ball it instead.