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GREEN SUNDAY Chapter 13 ‘Sunday Mourning’ (Edited) Sunday returns, finally.

Ok ok finally getting around to going over these edited chapters of GS fresh out of the girl and cat publishing bakery of fine editing. Thanks as always to Nat and her time and effort and really great comments.

I’ve fallen behind on these and now seeing a gap in writing I thought it was best to strike now and get them out of the way so I can move onto editing for my newer stuff and get onto a new project.
I’m taking a little break, which isn’t really a break and will last til january. I’m just not starting any new projects at the minute and focusing on editing and cleaning older stuff up as well as plotting new stories mainly a sloppy as shit Dexter fanfic. I’ve got big dreams people, I’ve got Jeff Linday on facebook and we’ve exchanged like five words haha. I’m sure he’s just chomping at the bit to have me take the reigns of his mythos haha.

Honestly, I don’t know why I’m doing it, I should be plotting out my fantasy story or laying the solid ground work for a new Green Sunday but I just felt like doing some Dexter stuff for fun. It just bubbled to the surface of my mind and I felt like hammering it out a little for when I eventually start reading the books again and getting straight in my head.

In January, I’ll be jumping into another novella probably, just to break the pace up a little, do something a tad different, a little fantasy/surreal horror. Which now thinking back sounds pretty much what Ladies Close Your Eyes turned into but I didn’t intend it to haha.

It’ll be another adapted comic strip and I have a rough idea which one I have in mind but I’m a fickle cunt so whichever sticks best in my head on the day will be what goes down, new year new head, new flesh.

So here we are back again, I’ve got all the chapters done now, just gonna doll them out to you on here and of course you can read them all, because I’m just putting them all up as they’re done on my inkitt page which I will leave a link to below.

I’m probably going to launch the full book on amazon some time next year when I get the cover back from an artist friend of mine and do some marketing giving away LCYE as a free ebook, which I’ll do on here and facebook and twitter and probably minds.

Here it is chapter 13 ‘Sunday Mourning’, let me know what you think and don’t forget to check on out on twitter and minds.

https://www.minds.com/CallMeRyk

As always the full chapter can be found on my inkitt page.

Sunday Mourning

See you…

–

A drone camera buzzed over the scene behind TJ’s house, out of sight, too high up to be heard. Its ambivalent gaze documenting everything. Its lens flitted about like that of an insect’s eye. The monitor feed from Evergreen’s deployment truck glared as he grinned back, the feed reflected in his goggles.

“She got too close to the perimeter of the game zone. Looks like she was taken out by beta team,” The nerd at the console said as he looked over the footage again. “Very clean; she won’t have felt a thing.” Murray straightened his glasses with a morbid sense of appreciation. “They really are the best, sir”.

“Uh huh.” Evergreen’s grin shrunk a few sizes, listening to the tech gush. “It’s time.”.

“Yes, sir, beginning stage three,” the tech said as he turned back to his console.

~

Helicopter blades cut through a violent wind, casting rain in wide dispersal patterns as the heavy behemoths rocked back and forth.

These were military transport helicopters, for carrying battlements or vehicles to the field: four in all, carrying heavy metal containers. They looked like smooth industrial shipping containers, but both the containers and the choppers were completely unmarked.

“Roger that. We’re estimated four hours out of the drop zone. Good morning. If this rain lets up, it’s gonna be a beautiful day,” the chopper pilot said over his radio.

~

“You kept me waiting,” Carpenter whispered as he twisted the barbed point of the arrow under Dave’s chin. Dave grimaced, dropping his torch and kukri.

“Killing me will do you no good. I’m not a part of the game; I’m just his assistant!”

Carpenter took Dave by his shoulders and threw him down on the dirty linoleum floor. Dave offered little resistance and fell at the side of the dead woman drinking the milkshake. His fall caused her to shift in her seat, sliding down the bench until her face rested right next to Dave’s as he attempted to dust himself off. By the dim light of his torch he could see he was in kissing range of the gaping exit wound in her face.

“Oh, shit!” He gaped.

“‘Oh, shit’ indeed,” Carpenter chuckled as he picked up both Dave’s torch and his kukri knife.

“What do you want?”

Carpenter put the torch under his chin and smiled like a ghoul in an old monster movie. “A way out.”

“Why would I know the way?”

“Do you like scary movies?” Carpenter said, smiling. He poked each yellow tooth with his tongue in turn. “You don’t think there was someone like you and your butt buddy up there the last time?” Carpenter let out a bitter little breathy laugh. He shook the beam of the torch around, feigning hysterics. “It’s a sick world we live in.”

He marched up to Dave and stomped on the leg closest to him; Dave let out an anguished cry like an injured animal.

Carpenter crouched down next to Dave, shining the torch in his face and Dave cowered under the beam, guarding his eyes with his hand. Carpenter saw it immediately and snickered to himself, thinking of something poetic to say at this karmic justice he’d send on its way. “Feeling all right? Fever? Dry mouth? Itching under the skin? E-rectile dysfunction?”

Dave looked up at him and swallowed a dry gob of spit.

“There’s a helicopter. North side of town, by the abandoned railyard, but it’s guarded; you’ll never make it alone.”

Carpenter gave him that wide devil grin and turned to walk away, tossing the torch and the kukri away as he left Dave scrabbling in the dark.

“I’m not alone; not anymore.”

~

TJ couldn’t move. His body was rooted to the ground by chains of empty regret. His limbs felt hollow and heavy at the same time.

“TJ, it’s Sunday, I know we just met, but you have to trust me. I used you; I’m not a good person. But I can make it up to you, if you live,” Sunday whispered in TJ’s ear where he lay on the cold, damp grass of his backyard. A light drizzle was approaching, accompanied by muffled threats of dull, aching thunder.

TJ remained perfectly still. Sunday swallowed and turned him over. His eyes were open, vacant and grey. His mouth hung open a fraction and fluttered as if he was trying to say something but didn’t have enough energy. “TJ, can you hear me? We need to move. You’re gonna come with me, OK?” She hooked her dainty little hands under his sweaty pits, lifting him with some effort. “Urf, fuck, you’re heavy!”

She turned him around and dragged him in the direction of his house. “Ergh! This would be a lot easier if you just – hrrff, hrrff – stood up and, you know, walked.”

She got him back into the kitchen, which felt a lot colder now. Closing the door, she looked out the window. His mother’s body, lying there, looked almost beautiful. Sunday breathed in and out, feeling her icy breath swirling around in her chest. “It could have been worse,” she sighed as the rain rolled in.

~

 

0

Green Sunday Chapter 8 ‘Motorpsycho Nitemare’ (Edited)

Friends, romans country men, lend me your braziers.
No stop that.
OK shit, why do I do these intros again? Oh yeah to make me look like a crazy dumbass, check!

As you can see making decent progress, getting a handle on getting the older stuff edited and working on new projects. I’ve even assigned days of ‘marketing’, which just boils down to a couple of hours of copy and pasting, spamming the shit out of Facebook and twitter. I laugh at your ban hammer Facebook, I laugh at it!

I’m also in talks with some other independent ‘zombie authors’ for some shared content and possibly some cross promotion in the future. So yeah plenty of nepotism yet to come, yay for cronyism! (I’m being sarcastic).

I’m having so much fun with the other project I’m working on and it’s tricky to resist the temptation to completely pan everything else and work on that. I’ve been trying to increase my writing output to something resembling 2k words a day. So far life and work and just plain laziness and love of blenders is getting in my way. I don’t hold out much hope of winning nanowrimo as much as I see it as a fun way to get a really good start on new project I think has the potential of raising my profile significantly.
Right back to earth haha. This is the start of some interesting shit happening now, lots of action in this one, the next one is probably my favourite but this is fun too. Looking forward to getting this done and dusted so I can properly show this to people. I added someone on Facebook I’m interested for a cover design, it’s all coming together folks.

Enough blathering, you can find the full chapter for free as usual on inkitt at;
Motorpsycho Nitemare

–

The stillness of the early morning was deafening. Cold and brittle as the morning before, it was shattered by hurried footsteps and the sound of frantic panting. A red-haired man in sweats jogged with a limping gait, taking cold, wet, terrified breaths. He choked as much of the damp morning air down as he could to keep his limbs moving. Lactic acid seeped into every joint and muscle as he tried frantically to make his body work as it was supposed to.

A bright light pierced the mist of the ambivalent early morning, accompanied by an obnoxiously loud and tinny Harley continental engine tearing into life. A black-gloved hand revved it for the pleasure of the vibration in his gut. He grabbed his leather-clad crotch with his gloved hand to rearrange the furniture. The sound and smell of creaking leather brought a smile to his greasy, stubbly face.

“Let’s go fuck shit up.”

He pulled his denim waistcoat tighter across his skinny frame. The name “Lamchop” was embossed above the left breast pocket. The biker dragged a chain across his lap, the end of which had a barbed hook that he hung over the side of the bike. He nudged the kickstand with his leather boot and screeched off down the suburban street.

The town was so still, dead and dying. The red-headed jogger could’ve heard the engine on the other side of town, but he was sure it was closer. His eyes widened and his pupils shrank as he loped into the mist. He doubled his pace, his muscles crying out in pain with every terrified step.

The biker let out some slack in the chain, one hand on the handles of his bike. He let it swing idly at his side as he drove. Noticing a shape form in the mist, he took control of its swinging motion. With the strength of his wrist alone he began to spin the chain, building up speed, keeping full control of the bike as he did so.

The swinging chain reached terminal velocity. The shape was within striking distance. The biker released the chain as if launching a dog at an unsuspecting rabbit from the barrel of a gun. All the force from his wrist snapped it at the shape coming at him from the mist.

The chain struck with snake-like, snapping precision. It tangled around the feet of its victim, locking into place at the ankle. The savage, biting barbs rent flesh from the bone and stuck stalwart in the calf of the bait.

No noise was heard over the thunderous engine, no screams, no pleas for help. The chain stopped for a brief moment, slack as it was, then it took on life once again as the bike pulled away. The chain snaked up with a vicious, snapping sound, yanking its victim off their feet and dragging them across the neatly tarmacked suburban roadway.

The meat sack hit the ground with a sad, wet trumping sound. Bones in a bag of wet flour collided awkwardly as they were wrenched out of the mist with a hiss and a slick grinding sound. The biker stopped and, lifting his goggles, he looked back at the zombie he’d caught on the hook. A proud fisherman, the biker smiled and pulled his goggles back down. The creature writhed, ground down teeth falling from its mouth like popcorn. Its face was hot and slick from its date with the smooth tarmac, most of its features worn down. It reached its arm up, reminding him of the canteen scene from “Oliver Twist.”

“More? OK, well, why didn’t you say?” He laughed to himself and revved his engine once more.

The red-haired man in sweats reached his front door, his breath burning his lungs. The air felt like sandpaper, going in and coming out. His sweats were drenched and the cold tugged at him as he propped himself up against the door. He tapped on it.

“Sheila, it’s me. Let me in! They’re coming! For God’s sake, lemme’ in!”. He whispered in a low, raspy voice as he tapped the window of the door.

He looked back into the mist as he heard the engine’s noises carried by the empty streets. “Sheila, open the fucking door, or God help me, I wil- “An abrupt unlatching noise cut him off. His wife opened the door a crack and he slipped through it, as if by osmosis.

“Will, are you OK? Did you find any?” A slight woman with mousey brown hair stood in front of him, bunching up a plaid dress in her two skinny fists.

“I couldn’t. They were on me, these guys. They were staking out the pharmacy. They knew people would come for supplies. It was a trap; I barely got away!” His voice was hoarse. He took in large, gulping breaths as he spoke. Feelings of shame and guilt and terror fought for space in his brain. All thoughts were barged out of the way though by his singular desire for all the stale oxygen on the landing.

“I can’t last much longer without my insulin,” she said, whispering into her dress, a maudlin expression on her pale face. “If you were a real man, you’d get it.”

“Yeah, and if you weren’t a total retard you’d have stocked up before the zombie apocalypse. But we can’t all be perfect!”

“It’s not the apocalypse. The army’ll come. They will. We just have to last a little longer. I don’t know how much longer I can- “

“It’ll be OK, I promise,” he said softly as he collapsed on the stairs. “We’ll find a way.”

Just as he got a little comfortable and the air particles started forming an orderly queue into his lungs, a sharp tapping taxman knock set the couple’s teeth on edge.

“Who… who is it?” Sheila said

“Shhhh.” Will’s panic and anger flared into a harsh, sharp shushing noise.

“I’ve come to read tha meeta,” the voice beyond the door said in a faux, mocking English accent.

“W-what?”

“Shhhhhhh,” Will said again, sharper and louder.

“Yeah I can definitely hear a leak. You betta let me in or-”

A dead silence fell as the couple inside tried to stop breathing for moment. “Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.” The voice became lower and more caustic. All the humour drained out of it, sending a chill down the couple’s spines.

Will’s breath creaked out of his mouth. Then a jostling of the door handle sent him reeling up the stairs, fumbling for the banister.

“Where are you going?” Sheila screeched as he fled.

“Little pigs, let me in!”
Motorpsycho Nitemare

 

 

0

Green Sunday Chapter 7 “Take up Space” (Edited)

Time for exposition dudes and dudettes, I’m told I handled it less painfully than a full colonic irrigation by a clown making balloon animals, you be the judge.
Slightly hungover from a lovely wedding I went to last night, it was a good time, I didn’t know anybody there. It was an old good friend from uni and his misses only let him invite one of his uni mates, little did she know she invited the worst offender of them all haha.
It was a good night, I only wish I could have stayed longer if it wasn’t for my long journey and ill fitting suit.
Kinda makes me feel melancholic watching people so happy like that, so normal. Makes me wonder if I could ever have that without royally fucking it up. If it’s really that perfect or just seems that way and takes lots of work and compromise I’m too lazy/stubborn to do.
It’s a selfish thought to go to a wedding and think ‘but what about me’ I guess, but maybe it’s good I recognise that. I genuinely feel happy for them but it brings into question the life I chose. I wish I could see more of him and all my old friends but I’ve chosen a solitary path.
I knew I would have to take this journey alone, I had to seclude myself to find the best stories and be a success, there was no other options, to balance work and writing and friends would make me a failure at all three and too burnt out to do anything about it. I knew what I was doing but it still catches in my throat when I see that two people can be so happy and normal when I’ve always felt so broken and different. But there goes that narcissism again, too bad I spend all my money on knives and editing instead of therapy haha. Ah fuck it, as Tom Waits would; “It’s nothing that a hundred dollars won’t fix”.
Or a couple hundred thousand would be nice.
Anyway enough of this ceaseless faggotry, this chapter fills in a lot of the blanks so I hope you people appreciate this and I know you people exist. I was looking at the analytics for this on inkitt and Green Sunday has had just under a thousand reads since December/january I think, so they exist.

As always you can find the full chapter on inkitt by following this link;
Take up Space

~

The sun rolled down the hill faster than usual. Candlelight lit TJ’s mom’s little dining room. The sounds of knives and forks scratching plates filled the silence.

“So how did you and TJ meet?” TJ’s mom asked, cutting through the awkward silence of this intimate little meal. The table consisted of her and her son and a strange, green-haired girl he’d brought in off the streets who smelt faintly of dried blood.

“We met at the mall actually,” the girl said, turning a wry smile up at TJ who was sweating into his food.

“I’m sorry, did you tell me your name? I get a little ditsy sometimes,” his mother said; something wasn’t quite right. Like she’d walked out of one dream and into another unannounced.

“Sunday,” she said.

“Well that’s a pretty name. TJ, don’t you think that’s a pretty name?”

“Err, yeah,” TJ said, looking up from his plate of macaroni and cheese to glance across the table.

“Do you live around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before. I mean, I think I’d – I mean -”

“Ah no, I just got here. Err, my… dad travels a lot for work,” Sunday said, choosing her words surgically.

“Well I think the candles were a nice touch. We don’t get to use the dining room much these days; it’s just been the two of us for a while now.”

“Yeah, well, it was TJ’s idea; he said it would give the room some atmosphere, right?” Sunday said, watching TJ squirm.

“TJ and I aren’t used to entertaining. After his father left, we mostly kept to ourselves.”

“Mom,” TJ whined.

“That’s right, TJ hates me telling everyone our life story.” His mom smiled with a melancholy intake of breath. “Oh, you’re finished?”

“Yes, thank you. It was lovely.”

“What a polite girl,” TJ’s mom said as she collected the plate in front of Sunday, a warm smile on her face. “You’re welcome to stay in the guest bedroom across from me if you’re too tired to make it home.” She fluttered out of the room with the dirty plates.

“No, that’s OK. I think I’m just gonna bunk with TJ and fuck his brains out all night.”

TJ’s perfectly timed sip of milk sprayed down his shirt.

“That’s nice,” TJ’s mom said from the kitchen, clearly not having heard anything she’d said.

Sunday handed TJ a napkin and smiled trollishly. He snatched it from between her two fingers and began to dab his shirt.

“Do you think we should tell her?” he whispered.

“Why worry her? Nothing should happen tonight as long as we don’t light the house up like a Christmas tree. Or make too much noise. I thought the candlelight thing would be cute,” Sunday said, reclining in her dining chair.

“But she has to know.”

“She’ll find out.” She closed her eyes for a moment, putting her hands behind her head.

“Are we gonna die?” TJ said, a hint of anger in his hushed voice.

“Yeah, probably”

TJ’s mom barrelled into the room with some sort of lopsided cake and plonked it down in between the two of them, oblivious to the mounting tension she had just crudely carved in half.

“Dessert.”

~

The door to TJ’s bathroom opened like a sealed vault door, or an alien craft billowing steam. It had been closed for a good hour and a half. Sunday walked out barefoot wearing an old XXXL ‘Walking Dead’ T-shirt that went down to her knees. She rubbed her whole head with a towel as if she was trying to polish a lamp.

Her legs, clean, were surprisingly dainty-looking, covered with little cuts and plasters, but her skin looked soft and smooth. TJ stopped dead on his made up futon on the floor. She opened one eye underneath the towel and saw he was looking at her. She dropped the towel on the floor and crossed the room to the window.

“Thanks for the shirt.”

“Err, no problem.”

“Let me guess, you wanna know if the curtains match the drapes?” She smiled as she turned back towards TJ.

“Err, wut? No! I wasn’t!” TJ’s face turned a purply red colour and his tongue swelled up in his head.

She perched on the windowsill and looked out at the cool, quiet trees swaying in the dark. There were fires burning in the distance, muffled screams carried by the shiftless night. The smell of the smoke was sweet and homely to her. She sighed after taking in a lungful through the small crack in the window.

She cocked one of her legs up on the sill and TJ almost burst a blood vessel.

“Err, I made up the bed. I’m fine here,” he said, motioning to his crude futon.

“OK,” she said dreamily, staring out the window.

“What’s happening?” He bit his bottom lip as he said it, not wanting to know.

He could see her blank expression reflected in the black window. “It’s a game.”

“What?”

“I was brought here to play,” she said, her voice trailing off.

TJ furrowed his brow and got quiet. She looked over at him as he hung his head, trying to make sense of what she had said.

She sucked her bottom lip and sighed again. “They did it before, to my town. I was working in some fucking diner and then one day…”

“Please, I don’t understand.”

“This happened before, in Arkham; that’s where I’m from.”

“But, the TV, it said only one person survived,” TJ stuttered.

“The TV lied. Me, that guy you met before, and a few others: we’re all leftovers, survivors, but now we’re ’players.’” She turned her face back to the window, but didn’t look outside; she didn’t look at anything.

“How do I play – the game, I mean – how do you win?” TJ rose a little from his futon. A frustrated resolve boiled beneath the surface; he was sure there was a straight answer somewhere under that mess of green hair.

“You just have to survive.”

“What’s happening?” he asked again.

“In three days this place is going to be a ghost town. It’ll be wiped off the map, blamed on a nuclear plant leak or a fire or terrorists, whatever.”

“Three days? Why just three days?” TJ’s voice took on a frantic tremble.

“It’s how the game works. The zombies are just the first part; the second day is when it starts getting messy.”

“Messy? What the fuck does that mean?”

“If you win three games in succession you get to leave: a new identity, a new life, somewhere far away.” As she said it, she turned her head away as if she almost believed it. “The winner is the person that scores the most points. Points are allocated per zombie and recorded by a series of drone cameras flying overhead, as well as security cameras they’ve hacked throughout the town. There are no points for killing people, but on the second day, a backed contestant is worth double points.”

“Backed contestant? What does this all mean?”

“To be a contestant you have to have a backer. There are thousands of people watching: some just gawkers, stumbling onto the deep web; others are rich sickos who want to pay to control someone, someone like me. They take bets on who wins and they pay to keep you alive or watch you die.”

“Can we escape?”

“You can try.”

“What about phones? The Internet?”

“All cut off. Only they can access the net through their own satellite. That’s how they broadcast through the deep web.”

“What happens on the third day?”

“The third day, all bets are off. This town will burn.” She stood up, walked away from the window, wafting a sweet scent as she passed him, and climbed into TJ’s bed, which had never looked so neat.

“How did you survive?” TJ asked, still prone in his futon.

Her body was rigid and she spoke while still facing away from him. “I didn’t.”

~

 

 

 

 

0

Green Sunday Chapter 17 ‘Fatal Hesitation’ (Raw)

Ah dayjob how you get in the way of the things I truly love. Like online gaming… oh yeah and writing and blogging and junk haha.

Ok too tired and out of fucks to give a full update, I’ve mainly been doing innane shit to make paper while I write in my mind in the shower and read on public transport. Other than that I’m proofreading the last chapter of GS while listening to Filthy Frank music. And the editing is coming along, I should have that all out maybe as soon as the end of the year then I’ll probably put it on amazon or something if I can’t find an agent by then to take it on.

As usual you can find the full chapter on inkitt fresh and raw and uncut and all that good stuff.

Fatal Hesitation

“WAIT!”

Sunday, half conscious, her face pressed against a concrete pillow as a giant boot rested it’s weight against her. Applying more pressure a pound at a time and stopping at this rude intervention.

The giant foot came off of Sunday’s pretty face and she lolled lifelessly into the dry gutter. Jeffrey turned theatrically to focus on this voice. Coming to him over the sounds of small fires burbling against a slight breeze, an idyllic scene.

TJ stood, shoulders knotted around his ears. His hands behind his back in the entrance of the multi-plex.

“I got your doll or whatever!”

“Lamby? Gimme!” The hulking sub-human lurched towards TJ, his knuckles dragging along the smooth tarmac. Looming over TJ, his warm breath swirling all around him.

“Err, fetch?” TJ squirmed and then tossed the small plushie into the middle of the street.

“LAMBY!” Jeffrey leaped in the direction of the doll like a giant horny dog.

TJ’s panorama cleared of this giant monstrosity. He had the room and the presence of mind to run to Sunday’s side, like the good white knight he dreamed of parodying. He tripped over his feet and stumbled to a crawl beside her lifeless body.

“Sunday?” He said as he craned his chubby body over her, her portly romeo, maybe a little too late.

“LAAMMMBBBBYYY!” Jeffrey sifted through the debris. He tossed cars and bikes like tissue dispensers. Tossing up concrete chunks the size of dirty Brooklyn pigeons. Until his frantic eyes focused on something fluffy and white. “Lamby! I finally found you. The monsters, they took you away from me.” Jeffrey folded into an almost curtsy as graceful as possible. He pincered it with a giant finger and thumb not unlike the claw grabber machine it just came from.

He picked it up. Childlike glee projected on the grotesque potmarked mountain range that was his face. He floated it in front of his sloped brow turning it gracefully in his monstrous hands. Seeing it in it’s entirety sent a wave of clumsy emotions across the mottled canvas that was his face. Confusion and sadness, taking the express train to rage and desperation. The cogs began to turn with great purpose. As he realised what he was holding in his fingers and thumb was actually a plush snowman. The orange carrot nose and bead smile, a mocking endictment of a viscious ruse.

“This not lamby! Where lamby? WHERE LAMBY?”

~

“Ooh the fack are you?” The pilot said with no hint of incredulity that he was indeed being fucked. His face scrunching up looking like a map of the London underground.

“I’m your new co-pilot.” Carpenter said as he grinned and prodded the pilot in his soft side with the barrel of the assault rifle. “And mind your language, there are children present”.

“What the fack are you talking about mate? I don’t see any kids. This is all in your ‘ead mate, you want to mind yourself, you’re out of your depth ‘ere son. My guvna’ will ave your balls as a wedding present for ‘is missus”

“Start the engine”

“You’re asking for it son.” The pilot said as he started to spin the blades with a beligerance of a teen going to be late to her own sweet sixteen.

“Phweeeep!” An obnoxious whistling cut above the background hum of the engine and the quickening blades overhead.

“See you’re in for it now.” The pilot said as he turned the engine back of with an anti-climatic sigh from both him and the engine.

Carpenter looked over the control panel, peaking out the domed front window. A man in the same tactical gear as him stood statuesque in front of the helicopter. Laura by his side. An uncomfortable smile and a raised brow on her face as the figure raised a shiney pistol to the little girls head. “Drop the gun and step out of the helicopter.” The statue said grinning, reluctantly wearing the mask of the dutiful villain.

Carpenter tossed the rifle out of the helicopter door, landing soft in a bush. He de-choppered one angsty step at a time.

The statue moved around the side of the chopper to meet him. He was just under six foot, average height. He wasn’t wearing a gas mask, just a smirk of indifferent malice.

“My name’s Malcolm, I’m a fan” The man said as he dropped the little girl by his side to raise a hand for shaking. The shiney pistol was a lot larger close up, a chrome desert eagle, very ostinatious. “Go play over there now, there’s a good girl” He said as he shooed Laura with the gun.

Carpenter looked at his hand and looked back at Malcolm.

“It was smart to use the kid, not very chivalrous, but effective. Might be a little played out now” He lowered his hand and raised the gun at hip height. “We’re just going to wait here until the end and then a team can pick you up for nap time, easy.” He smiled like a dentist and tongued his front teeth. “The girl can come too, she’ll be fine, what with her big mean protector, wont she?”

Carpenter grimaced at this guarded insult. The tactical gear also came with a lovely usmc knife which Carpenter was yet to use. But there it was still hanging vertically on the front of his tactical gear. He reached for it slowly, eyes locked with Malcolm.

“Ah now that’s not very smart is it?” Malcolm hardened his face and rattled the gun around like it was getting too heavy for him. “Leave that alone”.

Carpenter eyes didn’t move. His hand possessed, unsheathed the blued knife from it’s molded kydex sheathe.

“Be a good lad an put that down eh.” Malcolm stretched his arm out, the heavy gun jossling in his grip. “We have a large investment in you, don’t make me shoot”.

Carpenter’s arm dropped to his side holding the swathy knife. His feet fluttered dreamily and he floated forward carried by an ill wind.

“I SAID STOP! NOW!” Malcolm squeezed the gun hard and it shook visibly in his grip “I WILL SHOOT YOU!”

Carpenter couldn’t hear him over the sound of his heart beat marching closer to his ears. Beating like the wind against an ancient castle wall. The blade cast no light and no shadow. It whispered promises to him of perfect cuts and no drag, slices of neat flesh falling into place. Enchanting dancing rivulets of blood pirouetting on its head as it hummed a death rattle in D. Torrents of blood beat inside his ears, he could almost hear the music. It was something like how he imagined Wagner. Ride of the Valkyries with a steady staccato drum beating faster and faster until you know it had to stop.

“STOOOPPPP!”

CLICK CLICK!

Malcolm caught Carpenter’s wrist with rattlesnake speed and grip. All the blood drained from his arm as he squeezed and gave him a quick love tap to the temple with the barrel of the eagle. A seering white light and a ringing noise in his ears as Carpenter went down onto the grass, soft and limp.

Malcolm turned to face the Laura as if his hips were that of an action figure with kung fu one hundred and eighty degree turns. She stood with the little gun in her hand clicking furiously trying to find the unspent cylinder.

CLICK CLICK CLICK!

The gun jumped out of her hand with the last clicking, giving off a soft squeaky pop and a brief flash and sizzle.

Malcolm crouched and picked the little gun off the ground.

“I must have missed this.” He tried to open the cyclinder but it was fused shut. He threw it in the dirt and stood back up putting his hands on his knees with an unhealthy clicking sound. “Looks like a misfire, you’re lucky it didn’t take those pretty hands clean off. Looks like both of our lucky days eh?”

“Is the badman dead?”

“No, he’s just sleeping, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll take you somewhere safe, the game is almost ov-.”

Malcolm’s breath was caught by a pair dirty hands wrapped around his throat. Dirt under the nails digging into his protuberant adam’s apple.

A wirey grip, thin hands tightening around his throat. An intense urge to kill coiled around his throat and gave zero ground to a hungry lung or a thirsty vein. Malcolm fell to his knees blue lipped, his face turning a shade of mauve. Spittle on his lips sputtering out. The last cubic milliteres of oxygen expelled from his lungs.

His vision went white and spotty. He couldn’t feel his lower extremities but he remembered he had a gun, a big heavy one. He sent a signal to his arms if they were still listening. His hand hovered next to him, dragging the heavy gun to his side. His grip locked onto the handle like an action figure with kung fu grip.

His arm floated up as if carried by a rising tide of water in an airtight phone booth. Carpenter couldn’t hear or see a thing, blood in his eyes. The israeli kiss on the side of his head the desert eagle gave him opened a theatrical wound. It bled hysterically like a wwe wrestler doing an impression of a tampon.

Malcolm lifting the gun up to his head height. Hovering where he imagined the gnarled head of Carpenter sat aloft. His arm jossling like a marionette puppetted by a drunk with low blood sugar. Struggling to keep the gun from plummeting into the ground as it so desperately wanted to do. Drawn magnetically to the earth. It swayed back and forth like a heavy pendulus artificial growth on the end of Malcolm’s arm.

Carpenter’s hand’s just seemed to get tighter and thinner, a wire man come to life to choke the life out of the world. His hands didn’t exhale a millimetre. A bottomless well of loathing self and otherwise driving his muscles like the hands of a clock. Unfeeling cogs clicking into place, murder o’clock.

Malcolm’s index finger tickled the heavy trigger. The shaking of his numb digit squeezing it pound for pound until…

BANG!

~

 

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Green Sunday Chapter 6 ‘Smooth Sailing’ (Edited)

Another day another edited chapter, it’s almost over people, almost over and almost I mean never and by ‘over’ I mean bitches. That doesn’t make sense.

Ok well day job grinding and shitty and deadend as it is has given me the desired resources of my condensed wasted time to allow me to have more of this silly ass zombie novel I’m not entirely sure why I wrote edited haha. Of which will be coming soon.
I’ve only got one chapter left to proofread and then it’s all downhill from there.

In other news I’m reading some cool noir shit, some grade Richard Stark shit and it’s starting to show in some of the recent stuff I’ve done. I’ve actually made a start on one of those novellas I was toying with to keep me busy until nanowrimo when I unleash the beast of my next hurried giant word salad hah.
It’s turning out really nicely, I mean I actually gave enough of a fuck to open up google maps and plot routes for the story, research locations and plants and other such real life shit. I virtually walked the route of this story I’m doing and I think it’s turning out really nice, my style is evolving and it’s a lot of fun. It still has that evocative bullshit I like but it’s framed by this anal attention to detail which really nails the tension down.
Anyway the first chapter of that should be ready soon enough so you can ignore it at your leisure haha.

As per usual you can check out the full chapter on inkitt.

Chapter 6 ‘Smooth Sailing’

Peace out.

~

Roy held the camera low, trying to be discreet. It created a shaky low shot of TJ’s front door. A doorbell ringing sound; a cool morning mist starting to creep up on them.

“Who’s there?” TJ’s mom said from an upstairs window. The camera panned to the window as she leaned out in her yoga gear.

“Oh hey, Mrs Kincaid, a lovely morning, am I right?” Zed said with a tinny laugh, like he was selling Jehovah.

“Oh you’re those nice neighbour boys. TJ’s not home right now; he’s out getting milk; he can’t come out to play.”

“Err, yeah, you see… TJ kinda said we could come and borrow some of his stuff for our show, for the Internet”. Roy stumbled over his words, his frantic nerves stripping all charm from his voice.

“Oh well, he didn’t say anything to me about it. But I suppose, since you only live next door, and it’s for the Internet, you said?” TJ’s mom ditsily mused on what that might mean as she leant out the window.

“Err, yeah,” Roy said, a tired indifference climbing into his voice as he realised he’d been up all night. Was he holding up the camera or was it holding him up?

“The door’s open; his room is at the top of the stairs. How’s your mother doing, Teddy? You boys want some green tea and rice cakes?”

“Err, no, we’re good, thanks; she’s fine,” Zed said, surprised at how easy that was.

A brief cut and it was a shot of TJ’s stairs as they climbed up towards his room. All TJ could see was a POV shot of the back of Zed’s legs as he went up, followed by Roy.

Zed stopped on the stairs and turned to Roy with an odd smile on his face, the camera uncomfortably close.

“Dude, why’d you stop?” Roy said, behind the camera.

“How much you wanna bet the fat fuck’s a brony?” Zed sniggered childishly, forgetting the blood under his fingernails.

Another brief cut and whoever held the camera was elbow deep in TJ’s drawers. “Where the fuck is it?”.

“Dude, I found it.” The camera panned impatiently to Zed who stood in front of the closet, smirking.

“Friendship is fucking magic.” Zed chortled as he spoke. Parting the clothes in the closet, Zed revealed a secret ‘My Little Pony’ poster on the back of the wardrobe. “I fucking knew it.”

“Yeah, that’s great; the dude’s a fucking faggot who wants to fuck a horse. Can we get back to finding the weapons now, so, you know, we can fucking live through the night?” Roy snapped, gripping the camera harder, until it was audibly creaking.  He span the camera around and it fell on the red toy box at the bottom of TJ’s bed. “Here we go.”

“Yeah, I’m betting porn and an inflatable pony.” Zed chuckled in the background as Roy lay the camera down on TJ’s bed. He knelt in front of the box. Zed went through TJ’s action figures and miscellaneous cosplays, giggling fecklessly in the background.

Roy opened the box. “Look at this shit – fucking mall crap! Gotta bag this shit up.”

“Then what?” Zed said, some ice closing in on his voice.

“We gotta deal with Gil. If he’s bit, we gotta cut his head off; that bitch too, just to make sure.”

“I don’t know-”

“It’s fucked. It’s so different from how I thought it would be.” Roy sighed as he started to pack the weapons into a ‘Naruto’ duffel bag. “Fucking otaku pussy.”

He put his hand on his knee and eased himself off the ground.

Zed sighed; the character he had created had crumbled and he felt like a kid. His skin sticky and dry from where he had washed off Christie’s blood. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

Roy fumbled as he picked up the camera and turned it off.

Another cut. The camera seemed to be resting on the edge of a sink, turned on by mistake as if placed there in a hurry.

Scuffling sounds, sounds of muffled whimpering. The camera was out of focus. A blurred figure came into frame and snatched it up. Fumbling sounds of plastic creaking. It was still being held low, around waist height; there was nothing to see just yet.

“You’ve got to do it.”

“Why do I have to do it?”

“Because I’m holding the camera,” Roy said, a cold smile in his voice.

Roy raised the camera, like a shield, to put the spotlight on Zed’s pale and drawn face. Zed sat on the bed in his room; he knew it had to be him. He swallowed hard, took TJ’s crappy mall sword in both his hands and unsheathed it a little to check it didn’t stick. He hesitated. “Oh, fuck it,” he said as he unsheathed the sword all the way. He threw the cheap scabbard across the room and held the handle as if it was a machete. The sword wasn’t quite a katana; it was one of those cheap ninja swords with a straight blade and no guard. He grabbed at his knee a little, rose with a jerky jolt of energy and began to march out of his room. Roy struggled to follow him out into the hall.

“Wait up, dude.”

They got to the inner door of the garage and Zed stood sullen with his hand on the doorknob.

“I thought he locked himself in?”

“He did, but I’ll try the door and then we can go around the front and open the garage door. He might be OK. Garage door makes a lot of noise,” Zed said.

“Yeah, best episode of ‘Zombie Stump Fuckers’ yet.”

Zed sneered and a sickly smirk passed over his face. He swallowed hard again and twisted the knob. The door opened with an uneasy jerk. Zed froze. He stopped breathing and then breathed out. Then in again with a low, shallow, silent breath.

He began to open the door wider, inch by inch, praying for it not to creak. It did. He took a deep breath and launched himself into the garage. Roy followed. The camera fell on Zed as he swung the sword awkwardly, nerves and adrenaline making it shake in his hands, creating an annoying rattling sound.

“What the fuck?” Roy said as he panned the camera up to a tense close up of the garage, lined with black bin bags. He zoomed out to Zed in his uneven warrior stance, a small pool of congealed blood on the floor. “Where’d he go?”

Just at that moment, a clichéd woman’s scream rang out and they both knew where he was.

“Mom?” Zed’s voice broke as he spoke, the sword shaking in his loose grip.

~

 

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Green Sunday Chapter 16 ‘Kill too hard’ (Raw)

The end is nighe, it’s coming thick and fast now, only two chapters left to proofread for the raw version of the manuscript. I’ll probably chop it all up later because some of the chapters are a little too long. I call it ‘Dan Browning’ for the people with short attention spans as my audience most certainly is. To quote the loveable Donald Trump “I love the uneducated” haha.
I know I said I hate having these chapter excerpts side by side but I’ve been too busy submitting to indie publishers and literary agents on top of being enthralled in a new synopsis for my next book (which is almost done, shaping up nicely) to think thoughts unrelated to writing.
So a ridiculous blog about current events or things I’ve raid and enjoyed is hard to fathom. Even a rant about a knife I like would be pale in comparison to the passion I feel for my latest creation pre-creation.
I’m really happy with it, the synopsis is really taking shape, making it mine, reminds me a lot of true detective, the first season of which I loved. I’m not sure if I’m excited or scared to actually start writing it. Am I ready for what could be a real success? Or will I ruin it just despite myself? Regardless I’m pushing forward with GS. I was reading bios of agents and trying to pitch to them and I literally had to social justice up my pitch to sell to some people. Threw a little lgbtqrstuvwxyz-sploitation in there to get their tumblr accounts hot and bothered. It’s true people, Sunday is now ‘Gender non-conforming’ whatever that means haha.

I have officially sold my soul haha.

Ok enough of that bullshit, I’ve got shit to do. So as usual you can find the rest of the chapter on inkitt by following this link I am about to post below.

Chapter 16 ‘Kill too hard’
~

An old fashioned touch tone phone rang on a ratty looking desk.

The small messy office filled with the tinny analogue ringing sound of the old phone.

Mojang clung to the grenade launcher the wooden sawn off stock firmly poking his ribs. He ducked behind the desk taking the small phone with him.

He took the phone receiver out of the cradle with a plastic clicking sound. He pressed it to his greasey looking ear.

“Hey boss!”

“Bernie, you double crossing pinche’ puto!”

“Come on, it’s not just me”

“What are you talking about you fat lousey fuck?” Mojang spat into the receiver.

“It’s the fans man”

“The fans?”

“They’re bored Mo, we’re winning too much. We make it look easy, there’s no drama, no suspense. Long story short they’re replacing you”

“What the fuck, with who?”

“Ahem”

“You? Your fat ass is replacing me? No way, put me through to the top guy, there’s no way they can do this, this is our last game, we’re out, we’re clean. They promised-“

“Sorry Mo, this comes from the top. Our approval ratings are tanking, they thought they needed to shake things up”

“No you motherfucker you put him on no-“

Click

The phone went dead. Mojang bit down on the receiver. Snapping it in half over the desk and throwing the rest of the phone on the floor.

He cracked open the grenade launcher, seeing there was a hot grenade still in the chamber. He clapped it close and stiffened his lip.

“Fffuck!” He threw the heavy grenade launcher across the desk and hurried over to the window. Barred, on top of that it was covered in a heavy mesh, impossible to remove, there was no way he was getting out. He clanged the cage mesh looking like a kid in a playpen too long for his nap. His face welling up with sweat and nervous tears.

“FUCK ME! FUCK ME!”

A clatter outside hushed him as he ducked behind his desk again. He scrabbled for the grenade launcher on the desk.

“No please, no, I’ll suck dick, I’ll suck your dick” A muffled woman’s voice said behind his door. An angry banging “FUCK MOJANG, LET ME IN YOU LIMP DICK MOTHERFUCKER!”

The noise quickly stopped after a brief gurgling sound. An ominous silence fell on the garage, not a croak or a death rattle to be heard. All the blood was already on the floor.

Then a dull banging noises started against the thin door. Accompanied by stifled whimpering noises. The noises got quieter as the dull banging sound against the thin door got wetter sounding. Each banging noise accompanied by soppy slapping noises.

The pathetic bolt lock popped off, screws popping out and rolling on the concrete floor. The door swinging open on just one hinge.

Mojang peaked over the desk and saw the door way was empty from his angle. The flimsy door itself was pasted in blood and brain matter with a big crack down the middle. Strands of long hair sticking out of it.

He recoiled as a mass like a dead animal was slung hard across the desk like a deer hitting the hood of an suv. His face was splattered with blood and brains as the girls body was tossed with some force. Her limp limbs twisted around in every direction, her head was caved in, using it to open a door will do that.

Mojang winced, using the barrel of the grenade launcher to turn her face around. He used his other hand to move her hair out of her face. Her eyes were half open, they rolled loosely around in her head like dolls eyes. He swallowed and closed her eyes feeling bad for a minute before he remembered he locked her out.

The Lancer stepped into the door, his feet made a metal stiletto sound. They were covered in some sort of skin tight metal sandal. On the concrete floor they sounded like tap shoes or a dog with long nails on a hard wood floor.

“We can talk about this, I’ve brought in a lot of business, we’re the best, we win, we can do better. Fuck man we can do whatever you want, I’ll learn to fucking juggle if that’s what you wa-“

“Sorry, you’re cancelled.” The Lancer said a cold chill riding his words all the way down Mojang’s spine.

He squeezed the grenade launcher with it’s wood inlays. He fingered it delicately as he looked at the girl sprawled across his desk like a tigerskin rug.

He took a deep breathe and scrunched up his face, ringing out vicious tears from his one good eye.

“Fffuck you silver surfing faggot!” He lifted the grenade launcher up and turned his body so he was pointing it at the Lancer with one arm out stretched. His face twisted into his death mask, what would be left of it.

The Lancer let out a breathy laugh and wicked smile with those strange eyes. He dropped into a pounce closed the gap with a murderous intention as fast as falling.

Mojang fell back, his heart leaping to meet the challenge. His feet stumbling over a broken phone cord. His finger squeezed the trigger and he proceeded to make an even stupider face.

The building popped open like a giant shook up soda can. The sheet metal peeled back and curling up with the flames licking them. The explosion viewed by an indifferent drone flying overhead. The flames reflected in its ambivalent lens.

~

 

 

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Green Sunday Chapter 5 ‘Little man what now’ Edited

 Here’s the latest edited chapter. It’s a slight change of pace, I hope you like it, it’s more development on a few of my favourite characters.
A bit of an update on my shiiiieeettt! I tried to start one of those novellas I talked about, just some short, under 40k story to keep me sharp and maybe pimp out to some anthology or something. But this new project I have pinned for nanowrimo is just too tempting to not fiddle with and instead I spent all day writing and assigning chapter titles from Nick Cave and Tom Waits songs haha.
It’s going to be in four parts, I’m really going to get my teeth into some neo-noire on this one kids. I have a good feeling about it, I can see it coming to an airport newsagent near you haha.
So that’s what I’ve been doing in between blogging and trying to get this zombsploitation printed.
As usual you can find the full chapter on my inkitt page for viewing on phones and tablets or whatever. Now begone with you I have a psychological thrill ride to plot haha!

Cheers.

Green Sunday Chapter 5

~
“MOOOOOOMMMMMM!?!?” TJ screamed, frustration and a hopeless terror filling the emptiness in his chest. He heard the shower turning off and waited a few seconds. TJ breathed restlessly through his mouth, his throat burning, child tears queuing at the corners of his eyes.

“WHAT?” he heard as the bathroom door opened.

“WHERE’S MY STUFF???” he shouted, to stop from bursting into a tearful downward spiral of self-loathing and impending doom. He inflated his chest to keep his lungs from collapsing.

“YOUR LITTLE FRIEND FROM NEXT DOOR CAME OVER WHEN YOU LEFT. HE SAID, YOU SAID HE COULD BORROW SOMETHING FROM YOUR ROOM; IS EVERYTHING OK?” Her voice trailed off at the end and TJ felt pricks of looming dread on the back of his neck.

“YEAH MOM, JUST STAY INSIDE, I’M GOING NEXT DOOR!”

“OK.”

He picked himself up off his bedroom floor; he felt like throwing up. His legs were hollow and he struggled to stand, but he had no choice. He swallowed hard and put his hand on the knob of his bedroom door. He closed his eyes and whispered a pathetic prayer to any god that would listen. When he opened his eyes he was outside the door of his neighbour’s house.

The house was almost identical. It had been built at the same time, but apparently everything was the opposite way around. TJ had never been there before because his neighbours were massive douchenozzles. He had hated them since childhood, when they had poured lemonade on his head and rolled him in the sand pit. He got a good look at the interior purely because the door swung wide open as he put his hand on the knob.

The hallway was a crime scene: pictures smashed on the floor, furniture looking off kilter, shoes tossed aside, small drops of blood and a telling trail leading up the stairs. It looked staged, fake, like the set of some cheesy rural crime drama.

He stepped in through the door frame, gingerly trying not to touch anything or make a sound. But his visions of a silent entry were dashed by the distinct sound of glass crunching under the rubber sole of a ‘Dora the Explorer’ slipper. He mused to himself: why hadn’t he changed into some more practical shoes? Before he could put more thought into that vital question, his attention fell on a flashing battery light shining through a bloody shirt.

He pinched the corner of the shirt, bending at the knee as he leaned over an upturned wardrobe at the bottom of the stairs. He pulled the damp shirt towards him and it drew across the device with a slow stickiness, the damp blood throwing up a musty copper smell as he pulled it closer to him.

He pulled the shirt all the way off, revealing a small digital handycam: the same one they had used in the backyard to record their show. He picked it up slowly, by the handle strap, and turned it around to look at the viewfinder.

~

Frantic steps fell on the cold sidewalk across town. A shoe fell off in a desperate struggle to get off the street. Ankles twisting, people falling into the road. A quiet, slow rolling panic pouring out into the morning light.

The door of a small mom and pop grocery snapped shut. Three shadowed figures watched from the slats in the wood and glass storefront door as a slow boiling chaos milled around outside.

“What’s going on? Who are those people? Is it the army?”

“Shhh.”

An obnoxious car horn tore through the furious cacophony of anxious whispers. The small road, one of three that led out of town, was blocked by two large trucks, guarded by faceless men in black tactical gear. The car horn didn’t seem to bother them; they stood like wind-up toys, waiting to be over cranked.

The small town was a flat plateau; it was elevated, secluded, surrounded by a dense wood on one side, mountains all along the other, leaving few routes out. People came to live here for that seclusion. For the peace and the pine smell, fresh mountain air, clean water. Most of them commuted to work and lived in lavish suburban homes. The local businesses slowly starved together, only kept alive by a small contingent of hipster college kids, back for the summer, spending their parents’ money.

The roads leaving town were boxed in by these small storefronts.: some empty, some almost empty, boarded up; half the town seemed to be in boxes already. The trucks completely sealed the town. The line of cars was large. It was made up of early morning commuters and families leaving to visit relatives out of town. Mixed in were a sprinkling of nervous people who had seen something that deemed a quick exit. A subtle base level of fear was snowballing, passed back and forth between the people in the traffic jam, like a Ping-Pong ball covered in PCP. Impatient fingers drummed on steering wheels; a roll of cold sweat wiped away by a clammy hand; cacophony of throats clearing, reminding others of their existence. Children in buggies were reassured by uncertain tones from nervous parents.

A feeling of drunken mass hysteria was winding up for a curveball, the traffic jam growing larger and longer and less uniform, the people feeling more boxed in by the small sleepy store fronts. Glass and soft woods gathered dust, the bones of an old town looming over them like gravestones. A claustrophobic feeling closed in on them, suffocating their better senses, changing them into cornered animals.

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Chapter 4 Every day is like Sunday

Ok finally got the latest chapter properly edited at great expense to me I may add haha. As always do yo extreme paranoia and neatfreakedness this is but a snippet of the whole chapter which is enormously long. I’m almost finished the book at large, and I may go back and break up some of the chapters so that people feel smarter when they read it “Look ma I read a whole chapter, aint I just Albert Hemmingway junior?”. But no seriously, it’s almost done in it’s delicious raw form ready for editing. It’s shaping up to be around 80k give or take a few thousand words.
Anyway I hope these changes tickle your fancy and if you want to read everything out so far you can find them on inkitt in a lovely mobile format for all your doodads by following this link;

‘Every day is like Sunday’
~

On the edge of town, a sign read ‘Sage Valley – Population 979’. Halogen lights burned cold with a tinny buzzing sound that was both soothing and nauseating.  Early morning was shaking its head and wondering what had happened. It was dark, the air was thick and electrifying. A gas station sign flickered on and off; it was empty, a dead time. The cold concrete forecourt stood bare and desolate and dirty and drab. Cricket sounds etcetera etcetera.

The stale, sterile light inside the gas station lit everything with an off-colour, sickly blue tint. It was just a small town gas station, like the kind you’d see in any crappy slasher movie: a one storey affair with a minimart inside, stocked with essential corn and meat-based snacks and energy drinks, the kind that turned your piss green and soupy.

“Daryl! You better not be sleeping again. Anyone else steals any gas I’m gonna take it out of your ass!” A booming, cigar-scarred voice came from somewhere in the back, through the thin corkboard walls of the gas station. A young man, with his feet up on the counter, slid the magazine covering his pock-marked face off one eye and opened it. He fixed his chair to the upright position, surreptitiously letting the magazine fall into his half-cupped hands. He gave an ever so effortless yawn.

“Shut up, you old fuck! I’m still living! Nobody out here!” he said, in a semi-raised voice, which he then lowered to address himself. “Gotta be four in the morning. No one needs gas in this goddamn town no more. Everyone driving those piece of shit roller-skate cars they got.”

Daryl rearranged himself in his seat and got as comfortable as he could get with his eyes open, reclining only slightly before pausing to look around and take a whiff of the cool night air cut with the smell of disinfectant. On top of the latent smells of puke and piss, there was a definitive lingering scent of cheap booze: burn your gut worse than drinking straight from the gas pump, but it was cheaper to drink from the bottle.

He resigned himself to the fact that nothing was going on. The roads were dead and dark and he rationalised a resting of the eyes, letting his heavy lids close and his vision become hazy as he blinked at the transparent glass doors of the minimart. Just as he hit the point of no return with his dozing, the doors parted soundlessly and then closed again, giving him pause as to whether he saw anything at all.

His eyes opened and rolled to attention as if he were waking from a coma. He could have sworn he saw someone come in. He strained to hear: padding, damp noises. A stray wandering off the street drawn by the smell of stale complex carbohydrates?

He straightened in his seat and stepped back into his body. He looked around. “Err, can I help you?”

A rustling sound, cans rattling; instant foreboding crossed the brow beneath his trucker cap. A cold damp grease formed where he had rested the magazine while he was sleeping. Sweat rolled off his forehead now as he felt the urgency of being alone. “Hello?”

Sounds of gumming and biting, ripping, crinkling: a dog for sure. He curled around the counter, picking up a tire-thumping bat from under his seat. He walked briskly to the front of the counter. Reaching the door, all his nervous energy left him with a cough. And he became lifeless and limp, trying to hold the bat firmly in a clammy palm. It dangled by his side like a twig.

“Who’s there?” Daryl called out, like all those clichés in the movies. And he cursed himself for falling into that trap. But a new, sudden fear of the unknown twisted in his guts now and he felt compelled to ask.

The scuttling sound of bare feet on linoleum sent a cold shiver up his spine and a dry gob of spittle down his throat. The noise moved deeper towards the back of the store. He felt his feet dragging him listlessly in the direction of the sound, the bat swinging at his shins.

“Hello?” he called out again, groping at the wet walls of his sanity, trying to come up with any number of reasonable conclusions to this event. A dog? A cat? A racoon? A crazy homeless guy? A drunk chick? Some hungry pothead or all of the above?

He turned down the snack isle, which was oddly paired with feminine hygiene products. He rested his shaking hand on the side of the metal shelves. He forced himself to look around them to where the noise emanated. His body felt numb. Pulses of adrenaline coursed through his brain and sent shocks all the way down to his fingertips.

Hunched over a small mound of assorted snacks and raw or semi-raw meat products, was what appeared to be a child. He saw its naked back. The skin looked cold and drawn and wet, like a fish or a lizard. It was so pale it looked blue. The child hunched over the food, making soft sopping gnashing sounds.

~

For the rest of the chapter mosey on down to inkitt sil vous plait;

‘Every day is like Sunday’

 

 

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Chapter 14″Legendary Weapons” (Raw)

Bonjour chaps and chappetes, or all the three people that read this shit. As you may have noticed I haven’t posted for a while. I’m not sorry, life and my day job has been on top of me like a horny silver back that thinks my ass is full of bananas. And I went on holiday, I know woe is me, I went to Barbados to drink drinks with tiny umbrellas in them. Also been doing a lot of baking and cooking like a manwife but that’s neither here nor there.
Well I’m back on track now for a couple of months so I should be posting regularly again until July. As you can see, got a new raw chapter of GS and a new edited chapter which I’ve yet to work through but I will. Also got a lot more money at the ready, what with all the day jobbing so I can afford a lot more chapters to be professionally edited and maybe a few more knives to review so hold out for that.

Without further ado I’ll get on with schlocking the new chapter. Lots of lovecraft in this one, lots of action. It’s a pretty fun set up to probably the most fucked up action/gore wise the entire book goes into. So it was pretty fun to write, a lot of my heart and baby batter went into it and I hope you enjoy it. As usual for copyright/paranoia purposes this is just an excerpt and you can check the full chapters in order on inkitt linked below.

Chapter 14

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An obnoxious beam of light perforated the dry dusty dark. Translucent fingers of light fumbling over burnt play mats and wooden toys. Simple wind up toys melted and disfigured by a burnt out fire. Frilly petticoats of little cotton dolls, singed beyond repair. Cheap plastic action figures curled into a praying position by a burst of intense heat. Grey and black ashes making a shifting carpet of despair. The light brisk morning air breezed through the holes in the roof of the burnt out nursery.

Bodies strung nonchalant from the buckling ceiling of the single storey building. The beams of which were melted and twisted. But remained the only thing keeping the building together. The bodies, some of which were burnt, most of were not. Fresh looking ones, some with biker gear indicating how disposable they were, some without. Their heads crushed or missing or pulled apart like soft pizza dough.

The bodies swayed in the delicate breeze, suspended by their feet to the steel beams in the ceiling. Exposed as they were by the collapsing asbestos tiles. Tied there with skipping ropes and belts and ties and anything on hand. Clear tape and shoe laces worked well. Despite the noisey crinkling sounds it made as the bodies swung.

As the bodies parted, swinging free. An inhuman gargantuan figure appeared. Hunched over a toybox turned altar for some obscure obsession.

Whispering, whispering, hoarse whispering. A sudden shrill whistling sound. Followed by sharp clap and a low rumbling shook the foundations of the building. Tossing up sickly plumes of grey and black dust and ash.

“It’s time Lamby.” Jeff said as he picked up the plush lamb off the toybox altar and shoved it gracelessly into his fanny pack. Zipping it up litigiously, he began to walk out of the crestfallen building.

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TJ lay on his back on the floor of his living room, his eyes open but seeing nothing. The room spun around and he felt black wings circling. The ceiling fan getting closer and closer and he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, a three hundred pound greasey paper weight staring into nothing.

“TJ can you hear me? We don’t have time for this.” Sunday knelt at his side, pushing the coffee table off at a jaunty angle making a loud screeching noise. “TJ, I need you to wake up” She took one of his sweaty hands and cupped it in her cold palms. “I need you.” She placed his large hand with its chubby digits on her chest. And delicately probed her humble breast with the large clumsy instrument. “Shit if that didn’t work” She said as she dropped his meaty forearm onto the carpet.

“I didn’t tell you anything about myself. I know this isn’t the best time.” She turned around on the floor to sit beside him. Lifting her knees up to rest her forearms on and cradle her head as she spoke. “But I get it, it hurts, I know that more than anyone.” She turned her head away from him, resting on her forearms across her skinny knees. Her face becoming drawn and moist “Losing someone, sucks, fuck that sounded dumb.” She laughed at herself as she sniffed back a few tears.

“I came from a town just like this, it wasn’t exactly like this, close enough.” She lifted her head up and looked at the catatonic TJ. She smiled as she wiped her nose on the sleeve of an old disturbed hoodie she found in the closet. “I was pretty normal, went to school, most of the time, went for walks, took out the garbage.” she took a sharp inhale of breath.

“My parents died when I was really young. Me and my brother spent most of our childhood in foster care. Oh yeah forgot to mention, I have an older brother, Adam, Adam Evens. That’s my last name, Sunday Evens, pleased to meet you.” She said as she smiled reaching over to shake TJ’s limp hand before dropping it back down onto the carpet.

“He pretty much raised me, taught me how to fight, don’t know who taught him. Taught me how to fix cars, I’m pretty handy with a blowtorch. That was the first job he got, worked in a body shop. As like an apprentice to this skeezy old fuck who was always trying to pick me up. I was like fourteen, he wasn’t a bad old guy, just kind of a freak” She looked straight at the wall “Aren’t we all?”

“It was hard, but we made it, we were something close to happy. Didn’t have anyone to tell us to get up or go to bed or do our homework, but we did it. We had to, we were all we had in the world, an island in a sea of shit.” She slid her forearms off her knees putting her hands on the side of her calfs and began to squeeze them tight.

“Then all this shit happened, exactly like this. The zombies, then those weirdoes appeared. Started rounding people up, they took him, he tried to protect me, he died.” She squeezed her calves even harder, digging her fingers into her legs. “I swore, I fucking swore, to god or odin, or Krishna, that I would never, NEVER! Let anyone protect me ever again.” She bit her lip and kept her eyes locked forward. Her heart started to race her breathe became heavy and laboured. “I would use people, I would become a freak, I would kill, but I would never let anyone die to protect me.”

She turned to TJ who hadn’t moved an inch other than deep rhythmic intakes of breath.

“Didn’t hear a word I said huh?” She sighed “It’s probably for the best”.

~

Thanks for checking it out, tried to get a little heart more than meat in this one. Give a little glimpse into the character of Sunday. Anyway if you liked the excerpt don’t forget to check out the full chapter on inkitt and to read the corresponding chapters.

Chapter 14

Peace out!

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