It's going well. Some passages I don't change much, because I can't write it any better, while others have been completely redone or even cut. I remain optimistic.
Excerpt:
Jack
snatches the sheet off the bed and opens the window, punching the screen out.
As it falls, he quickly knots the threadbare sheet around one leg of the bed,
convinced that it’s not in his best interest not to meet this Reverend Moon,
whoever he is. Relying on his luck,
because it’s all he has, Jack swings his legs over the windowsill and begins
lowering himself down the side of the house just as the door bangs open.
Two men thrust their heads out
through the window, looking down at him silently, with vacant expressions. Jack
finds their stares unnerving, and loosens his grip on the sheet so that he
slides down even faster, his bare feet barely touching the smooth siding of the
house.
One of the men disappears from the
window and Jack gets a bad feeling in his gut. Sure enough, the tension in the
sheet abruptly slackens, sending him hurtling down. Luckily the window above
the back yard, which although has dead and dying grass and plants, is still a
softer landing than the sidewalk would have been.
Jack rolls as he lands, his fingers
grabbing at the sheet, which has followed him down. Jumping to his feet, he
jets out of the yard, the air cold on his skin. There’s a wooden privacy fence
surrounding the yard but that poses no problem, because the gate is wide open
and he hurtles through it and then he’s on the street, still running as hard as
he can, the sheet flapping behind him like a white tail.
By the time he slows, stitch in his
side and his lungs burning, the house is far behind him and he’s in the
warehouse district again, which is really annoying because no way in hell does he want to meet up with those Lord of the
Flies jokers again.
Tying the fabric toga-style around
him (yay for frat parties), Jack pauses to get his bearings. There’s a faint
scent of the river beneath the usual reek of rot and sewage, and it’s toward
this he starts walking. He could really use some fresh (fresher) air, and then
maybe he can find a way out of this damned warehouse district and into the main
city where there’s hopefully some food.
It’s
not long before clothing tops even his desire for food, the wind whipping
through the buildings, his feet sore from walking on the cracked cement. It’s
slow going, because if he cuts his foot, he’s dead.
“Come on, Lady Luck,” he mutters,
hunching his shoulders. “Don’t fail me now.”
As if the fickle lady has heard him,
he rounds a corner and stumbles, nearly falling headlong onto the street.
Cursing, he regains his footing and looks around to see what it is.
“Oh, God.” Jack turns away from the
corpse, the sight of its half-eaten face making his empty belly churn, but not
before the practical side of him notes the size of the unneeded clothing.
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