I did a little better today. There isn't this urgency to write like there was last year. Then, I was thinking about the story all day, and had done some massive pre-writing. As I stated in an earlier post (I think) I didn't do that this time.
I'm almost at the end of rewriting, and while I know that I want all the characters to converge outside the city, I'm not quite sure how that will happen. The real bummer is that when I started this thing several years ago, I hadn't heard of The Walking Dead, either the graphic novel or the tv show. Now, I've changed from calling the zombies deadwalkers (too close to walkers} to rotters (thanks, Kirstin!). Floaters and bloaters were also suggested, but I think I'll pass on those.
The truly ironic thing is that I never used to like zombies (not that I really like them now) and thought every movie/book with them was dumb. Now look at me.
I'm not confident I'll reach 50,000 words, but I'll keep plugging away.
Excerpt:
Jeremiah
slips into his coat and buttons it, the silence like a living thing. A living
thing with teeth. Marie watches him without speaking, but she doesn’t have to
say anything because it’s already been said. Already he’s shrugging off the
past hour, letting it slide from his shoulders, from his mind. It has to be
this way.
“Take whatever you want,” she says,
her voice low and ragged. “You always do.”
He doesn’t respond. He won’t allow
himself to be drawn into it. Not again. It’s just the way things are. The way
they have to be.
Grabbing his pack, he quickly
empties it, organizing the things he’s leaving her in trade and the things he’s
taking: ammunition: four boxes of rifle shells and two for his pistols,
followed by water (he refills his jug) and some canned vegetables and fruits.
He’s not greedy.
“That’s it, Marie,” he says finally,
when he’s ready to leave. “Is there a back way out of here?”
“If there was another way out of
here, I wouldn’t tell you.” She’s
standing in front of the unmade bed, her hair wild, and she’s opening and
closing her fists.
“Marie…”
“Why’d you have to come here? You
just used me, like always.”
“You’re wrong,” he says, not looking at her. “I just wanted to trade. You wanted something more from me, like you always did.”
“You’re wrong,” he says, not looking at her. “I just wanted to trade. You wanted something more from me, like you always did.”
“And what’s wrong with that? Do you
think I like being alone? Do you think I
like it when men come in here to
trade and end up taking what isn’t for sale? Do you, Jeremiah? No, you couldn’t
possibly understand, because you don’t care about anyone but yourself. You
never did.”
Jeremiah shakes his head. It will do
no good to argue with this woman, who might be slightly unhinged now, which
isn’t surprising. This basement room, while an amazing accomplishment, is not a
place to stay mentally healthy. He has had enough of this windowless hole, and
he’s had enough of her, too.
“Well, I’ll see you, Marie.” He heads toward the door, a little worried
about what she’ll do.
“You bastard.”
He turns around just in time to see
her grab a pistol and point it at him, the barrel shaking while tears course
down her cheeks.
“Get out,” she screams while he
struggles to undo all the locks. “Get out before I blast you to hell where you
belong. I hope a rotter bites your head off, Jeremiah Stone.”
He slams the door closed just as a
bullet slams into the metal door not two inches from his head. It doesn’t punch
through, but leaves a large blister, which is quickly joined by six more.
Moving as quickly as he dares, he
heads for where he thinks the stairs are, but a shuffling noise from that
direction causes him to duck down another hallway. He presses silently against
the wall, knife in hand, because being quiet is the only way he’ll get out of
this place. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he sees a group of what he is
sure are rotters shuffle past. How the hell did they get down here?
When they start pounding on Marie’s
door, Jeremiah knows he can’t walk away. Pulling out his rifle, he steps out
into the hallway. To his horror, the door bursts open beneath the assault, as
if she hadn’t reengaged the locks.
Light floods out, illuminating the
ragged figures as they move into the room. When he bursts inside the room, the
first thing he sees is Marie sprawled across the bed, the mattress beneath her
soaked red, but not from the rotters who are fighting over which one gets the
prize. The smell of gunpowder is strong, and when he spots the pistol beside
her hand, he melts back into the hallway, not sure if he should feel better
because her death wasn’t as horrible as it could have been, or if he should
feel like crap because she killed herself.
Just another sin to add to the load
he already carries, he figures, climbing the steps two at a time. He’s
definitely going to hell.
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