Previous story

The previous story was something that I had written about ten years ago while still living in Maine.  We didn't have a washer or dryer in or apartment so would frequently visit a small laundromat just off the interstate in Old Town.  The place seemed fine unless you had to use the restroom.  It was really creepy back there.  Hence the story.  I envisioned this as a lesson in being patient.  I don't know how many times I had to wait for abandoned clothes to be moved because I didn't want to mess with them.  People, however, didn't have the same qualms about moving mine.  I was never assaulted by anyone though so i guess I had that going for me.  I hope you enjoyed it.

New Untitled Story

                The man grabbed his sunglasses from the passenger’s seat and put them on, blocking the sun’s glare.  He looked at the digital clock and grunted disgustedly.  He snatched his cellphone up off the passenger’s seat and pressed the button which automatically dialed his office.

                “Green, Callahan, and-“ a cheery receptionist answered the phone.

                “I know who the hell I’m calling, Janet.  Just put Jack on the phone,” the man grumbled.

                “Yes, Mr. Green.  I’m sorry.”

                There was a click as Janet placed the man on hold.  It was only thirty seconds, but it seemed longer.  Under his pin-striped, black suit and white shirt he knew sweat was forming.  He turned up the air conditioning to combat the hot July sun.  The traffic was heavy and the man’s car slowly moved up the street, coming to a stop every few seconds when the traffic ground to a complete standstill.

                “Dennis?” an eloquent voice asked.

                “Yes, Jack, it’s me.  Traffic’s pretty tight.  I’m probably not going to be in until ten,” Dennis said as the traffic began to move again.  He looked at his clock again and saw that it was creeping up on nine fifteen.  “I’ve got a nine-thirty appointment.  Can you take that for me? I’ll buy the first round tonight.”

                Dennis could hear papers being shuffled on the other end of the call.  “Two rounds and you’ve got a deal,” Jack said with an audible smile.

                “Thanks, Jack.  I owe you one.”

                “Two,” was Jack’s only reply as he disconnected the call.

                Dennis tossed the phone into the passenger’s seat and slammed his hands onto the steering wheel.

                “Can’t you move that heap any faster?”

                The car ahead of him continued to move slowly toward the traffic light.

                “Damn it! The light’s gonna change.”

                As if in response the light switched from green to yellow.  Two cars separated Dennis from it.  The first went through easily.  The second passed underneath as the yellow went to red forcing Dennis to stop.  He mashed his foot down on the brake and the BMW immediately obeyed.

                Once he again had the green light Dennis slammed his foot on the gas and watched as the speedometer quickly rose from zero to forty miles per hour.  He glanced up into his rearview mirror and spotted the two baskets of laundry he placed there the night before.

                “Crap!” he called out to himself and switched lanes without looking.  He then jerked the wheeling, pulling the car into the parking lot of a strip mall where a Laundromat was located.

                I can’t believe I’m doing laundry, he thought to himself.

                Laundry has always been something his wife had taken care of throughout their six years of marriage.  That was, of course, until she’d left him two weeks ago.  Traded him in for a younger model.  One with less miles and a more powerful engine, no doubt.  The thought made him sick.

                Dennis found the parking space closest to the doors available.  He carried the two baskets into the building.  He walked up the counter where he found a heavy woman chewing bubble gum and reading a thing romance novel sitting behind it.

                “Ma’am,” Dennis said, glancing at his watch.

                She raised her meaty hand in a gesture which said: “Hold on.” And then blew a bubble with her gum.

                Dennis did.

                She turned the page, appeared to read a few more lines and then folded the corner over.

                “Can I help you?” she asked, still chewing her gum.

                Dennis stared for a moment, disgusted by every open-mouthed chew.  “Yes,” he said and indicated the two baskets behind him.  “Can you get these washed and dried for me, please?”  He grabbed for his wallet.  “I’m willing to pay whatever it takes.”

                “Sorry,” she replied and continued to loudly smack her gum between her teeth.  “We don’t do that he-ah.  You have to go to Bangah fah that,” she said with a thick Maine accent making washing clothes sound like a sick sexual favor that only specific ladies would perform.

                She opened her book and once again began to read and chew.

                Dennis looked from her to his baskets of laundry and back to her again.

                “Where can I get some…?” he started to ask, but was cut off as she pointed to a wall dispenser.

                “Detergent’s over they-ah.” She answered without even looking up.

                He walked to the dispenser and deposited a few coins.  He scanned the room which was nearly empty, but all of the washers appeared to be in use.  He sat on a bench at the front of the building.  To his left was a seemingly oft-used pinball machine, a piece of cardboard underneath one leg prevented it from rocking.  Beside that was a small table on which stood a coffee maker.

                At least they have coffee; he thought and walked over to it.

                He poured himself a steaming Styrofoam cup and added cream and sugar.  He returned to the bench and pulled the cellphone from his suit jacket pocket.  With his thumb he stabbed the button which autodialed the firm.

                “Janet, put Jack on,” Dennis said firmly when the phone was picked up.

                “Uh, Mr. Callahan is in a meeting.  Your meeting,” Janet replied.

                “Okay, then let him know I’m not going to be in at all today.  Something came up.  Can you please reschedule all of the appointments that he can’t cover for me?”

                “Sure, Mr. Green.  Is everything okay?” she asked with obvious concern.

                “Just peachy,” Dennis replied and hung up the phone.

                The bell over the door tinkled and a balding man walked into the room.  He passed within a few inches of Dennis and brought with him the smell of coffee, stale cigar smoke, and body odor.  The jeans he wore were greasy and paint stained.  By the looks they may never have seen the inside of a washer.  The man walked to a nearby bench and sat down heavily.

                “Mistah, if yer looking for a washah there’s one ovah they-ah.”

                Dennis eyed him with mistrust.  He stood and surveyed the room again, this time finding a washer that seemed not to be running.  He stacked the two baskets and brought them with him.  This washer was in the far back corner which may explain why he hadn’t noticed it initially.  As he approached, however, he spotted a   hand written note on its surface.  The short note was unsigned, but the message was simple.

                Do not remove my clothes from this washer or you’ll be sorry.

                Dennis chuckled as he read the note for the third time.  “You’ll be sorry,” he said and laughed again.  “Sounds like a threat from a fifth grader’s attempt at a horror story.”

                He crumpled the scrap of paper and tossed it onto the floor in the corner of the room.  He opened the washer’s lid and for an instant his head was surrounded by swirling particles, like dust.  They floated around his head like a swarm of bees, so real he could almost hear them buzzing.  He inhaled, frightened, and choked as he breathed some of them in.  His eyes watered as he gasped for air.  He managed a strangled sounding cough and was finally able to clear his throat.  Composed, he began to remove the clothing from the washer.  Seeing no basket he simply dropped them onto a nearby table.

                “Don’t remove my clothes from this washer or you’ll be sorry,” a voice said.

                Startled Dennis glanced around the room.  The man who smelled of stale smoke and sweat was standing before a dryer.  A young mother sat reading, looking up every few seconds to speak sternly to her son and then return to her reading.  Near her a young couple was talking animatedly about a program that was on the television.  It looked like something from the early eighties.  The voice had come from none of them.

                “Just my imagination,” Dennis said to himself.  “Just stress.”

                Dennis loaded the washer as best he could from memory.  He’d never joined his wife in laundry, but when he was younger he did on occasion be in the basement when his mother was performing the task.

                As he closed the washer’s lid he felt a wave of lightheadedness come over him.  He staggered backward, bumping into the table he’d put the orphaned clothes on.  He felt on the verge of collapse.  His mouth was dry and his stomach was doing somersaults.  He got a small cup of water from the bubbler on the back wall and sat down.  Colored spots appeared before his eyes and the room seemed to be spinning.  He drank the water down in two gulps and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  He stood on wobbly feet and filled the cup once more, finishing this one just as quickly.  He wretched once and moved quickly toward the door which said, ‘Restroom’.  The door led to a small, gloomy area behind the dryers.  The controls for all the machines were contained there and it was incredibly noisy.  Dennis spotted the door for the bathroom and felt around for the light switch.  The overhead fluorescent flared to life with its characteristic hum.  The bathroom was small and dirty, but would do.  Dennis dropped to his knees on the filthy floor in front of the porcelain bowl and gripped both sides so tightly his knuckles turned white.

                The walls were covered in writing.  Some were confessions of love while others were failed attempts at poetry.  All were the products of idle time and an available pen. 

                Some day I’ll come back here and write something on these walls, Dennis thought.

                He felt his stomach turn and he wretched.  He vomited his breakfast, still slightly recognizable as bacon and eggs, into the toilet.  He wiped his mouth and nose with a wad of toilet paper and began to stand, but before he could turn for the door his knees again felt weak.  He pitched forward, breathing heavily, and again resumed his iron grip on the toilet bowl.  He vomited again this time seeing threads of blood.  He gasped for air between wretches.  There was more blood.

                That can’t be good, he thought.

                Dennis saw movement to his left out of the corner of his eye.  He turned his head slowly in that direction.  His gaze fell upon a pair of grease and paint stained jeans.  Slowly feeling his life slip away he raised his eyes and saw the balding man.  His mouth was open in a missing-toothed grin.

                I didn’t lock the door, Dennis thought as he looked at the handle, but saw that the lock was indeed still engaged.

                “How you doin’, rich man?” the balding man, who seemed not to be a man at all, asked.

                Dennis vomited again this time all over the floor.  It was almost entirely blood now.  A small stream of it trickled down his chin.  Some had splattered on his shirt and pants.

                The balding man smiled again, its mouth now filled with razor sharp teeth.  Its face was little more than a bubbling, swirling mass.  It raised a gnarled, clawed hand to its mouth and blew out a breath which stank of decay.  With it came a fresh swarm of spores, swirling around Dennis.  His arms and legs grew numb and let go beneath him.  He lay on the concrete floor limp and paralyzed.  The balding man-thing took a step closer.  It was a careful step like a predator sneaking up on its prey.  Then it sprang forward, mouth open and dripping saliva.  Dennis felt the pain as it sunk its claws into the side of his head to hold it still and then used its teeth to rip into his throat.  He had enough time to open his mouth in a blood spewing gurgle before the world went black.  His life blood poured from the ragged tear in his throat.

*

                The balding man walked down the sidewalk in Woodstock.  He had a laundry bag clutched in his right hand, swinging slightly as he walked.  A sign up ahead proclaimed: ‘Laundry. 24-7”.

                “That looks like a good place,” he said as he took a final puff on his cigar and exhaled.  He tossed the stub into an ashtray and opened the glass door.  A bell tinkled overhead.  It was very early in the day and there weren’t many people in the small building, but there would be.  He spotted a free washer in the back corner.

Like Father, Like Daughter

So the 2011 NaNoWriMo challenge is fast approaching.  I am again participating this year and am looking forward to hopefully completing another novel.  I thought originally about a sequel to The Death of Harold Hartline, but have decided against that in favor of expanding my writing horizons.  This year, however, my 13 year old daughter has decided to try her hand at writing 50,000 words in one month.  She's a talented writer herself and I am looking forward to what she is able to come up with.  Come back here to follow our progress during the month of November.

10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

I wanted to start by saying that I do realize there are errors in the story.  That is not intentional, but is by design.  I wanted to post the story as I wrote it to show that a story does not come forth as a finished product, but sometimes has mistakes that the writer intends to go back through and correct.  Many people realize that even in a finished product there are still mistakes.  Spell check and grammar check are not foolproof as this fool has sometimes shown.  For those that have read and enjoyed it as is, I appreciate you taking the time.  I have intended this blog as a place for me to share my writing as well as my thoughts on writing.  It is a place for me to share frustration as well as triumph.  Keep coming back for new stuff.

Part Three of 10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

“Shall we continue?” he asks.

“You’re the boss,” Stan replies.

“Can you walk through walls and doors?”

Cliff leans forward, appearing to be greatly interested in the forthcoming answer.

“I don’t know.  I’ve never tried.”

“You’ve never tried to walk through a door?” Cliff asks with surprise.

“No, I really don’t have anywhere to go.  I just walk from room to room.”

“How did you get here today?”

“It’s complicated and I’m not really comfortable talking about it, Cliff.”

“Do you want to try now?” queries Cliff.

“Not really. Can we just get on with this?”

“Why do you have somewhere to be?” the interviewer sneers.

“Oh, that’s it!”

The seemingly empty chair rocks backward.  Backstage personnel are shoved left and right, tracking the path of the entity.

“Come back,” calls Cliff.  “I’ll be nicer.  I’m sorry.”

There is silence for what seems a long time.  Cliff is startled when he hears the voice beside him.

“Any other questions?”

“Crap! You scared me,” Cliff says trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah, that’s kinda what I do.”

There’s a tone of satisfaction in the ghost’s voice.

“Okay,” Cliff says, “What is the best thing about being a ghost?”

“Not being interviewed by you that’s for sure.”

More chuckles from everyone not named Cliff Weston.  Stan is silent as he thinks of a real answer.

“I guess I’d have to say not fearing death.  You humans spend everyday on some level trying to avoid death.  I am no longer constrained by that.  I do whatever I want.”

“Other than leave the house?”

“Yes, other than that,” Stan is forced to admit.

“On the flip side of that.  What do you miss most about being alive?”

“I’d say the food.  Without a doubt.  I tried to eat my first day as a ghost and was so disappointed,” Stan replies, longing evident in his voice.

“If you don’t eat how do you sustain your existence?”

“I really don’t know the answer to that one.  I just woke up as a ghost.  I can’t eat and I’ve never had to plug myself in.  Maybe someday I’ll just wink away from existence, but until then.”

“Did it hurt when you died?”

“Dying was painless.  It was the pain leading up to the dying that hurt,” replies the ghost.

“Is there a Heaven or Hell?” asks Mr. Weston.

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy, Cliff, but let me say this.  I think I know where you’re headed.”

“Did you become all knowing when you died?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I already was.  No, I’m kidding.  I wish, but no I didn’t I still know what I knew, but nothing new.  If that makes sense, Cliff?”

“I think it does,” Cliff looks at the camera with confusion.  “Do you interact with other ghosts?”

“So because I’m a ghost I must know all the other ghosts?”

“I just meant…”

“I know what you meant.  I was just riding you a bit.  You really need to loosen up there, Cliffy boy.  I really don’t ever run into other ghosts.  They don’t come to my place I don’t go to theirs.  It’s not like we have a social network or nightclubs or anything,” Stan answers.

“Final question.  How is Elvis and have you seen him lately?”

“Ghostbusters? Really? That’s it.  I’m done.”

The note cards that Mr. Weston is holding are yanked from his hand and flung into the air.  The chair which Stan had until recently been using is lifted into the air and flung across the room seding people diving for cover.  There is silence.  Cliff stands.

“Where is he? Does anyone have him?”

No one replies.  Suddenly there is a loud thud and a fire exit door rattles.

“Damn it!”

The door opens on its own and then closes.  The alarm begins to sound.

“I guess that answers that question.”  Cliff returns his gaze to the camera.  “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen.  That’s the ten things you wanted to know about ghosts.  Uh, make that nine things you wanted to know about ghosts, but were afraid to ask.  Have a good night.”

Cliff is given the signal that the camera has stopped rolling.

“That went well,” he says sarcastically.  “What’s next and interview with the Loch Ness monster?”  

The End

Part Two 10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

Cliff Weston returns to the comfortable chair.  He has a relaxed look on his face, but inside he feels anything but.  A chair has been set nearby.  His interview subject may be in it, but then again he may not be.

This’ll make great television, he thinks.

He scans his note cards.  Ten questions.  That’s all he gets.  Ten questions is what separates him from one of the greatest interviews of all time.  Who else can say they’ve actually interviewed a ghost? Ok, maybe some of those paranormal nutjobs on television, but he’s not one of them.  He’s a television icon.  He is mentioned in the same breath with the greats in his industry.  He inhales deeply and then exhales slowly.

“You can do this, Cliff,” he says, unaware that he’s spoken it aloud.

“Excuse me,” the ghost replies.

“Uh, nothing.  Just talking to myself.”

“Glad I’m not the only one.  That’s really all I get to do on most days.”

Cliff and the ghost sit on a small island of calm in a sea of activity.  Most viewers don’t realize that what they see on their televisions is only a small part of everything that is going on while it is being filmed.  Orders are being shouted.  Places are being taken.  Finally Cliff is given the signal. 

Television screens around the country flash with the shows opening graphics and theme music.  Eyes which have seen the promotions of this particular program glue themselves to their sets.  Cliff Weston turns to the camera and flashes a wide smile filled with chemically whitened teeth.

“Hello, I’m Cliff Weston.  I have long been interested in the paranormal and specifically ghosts,” he reads from the teleprompter.  “Today I have been given an amazing opportunity and I am glad to be the one to bring it to you.  I have with me a real live ghost so to speak.”

Cliff chuckles at the scripted pun.  The ghost sighs his frustration.

“Like I haven’t heard that one a million times.”

Mr. Weston looks at the empty chair, which isn’t, in surprise as if he’d already forgotten that a spiritual entity is sitting there.  He clears his throat and adjusts his position nervously.

“Let’s get to know our guest a little better shall we?” Cliff says, smiling at the camera.  “What’s your name?”

“This counts you know,” the voice from nowhere says.  “My name is Stan Voegel.”

“Come on! This isn’t part of the interview.  We’re allowing our audience to get to know you,” Cliff whines.

There is a sign from Stan.

“Oh, alright, but don’t push it.  Next.”

“How did you…um…exactly how did…er…?”

“How did I die? Is that what your stammering over?”

“Well, yes.  Uh.”

“You’re not very good at this are you? Are you new?”

The crew stifles their laughter.  Cliff looks aghast.

“No, I most certainly am not new! Have you not seen me on television?”

“No, I haven’t.  I slipped in the bathtub, to answer your question.”

“Slipped in the bathtub?” Cliff asked.

“That’s what I said.  Are you slow? Can I get someone else over here? Someone that’s smarter? Where’s Tonya? She seems like a sharp one.”

Cliff clears his throat once more. 

“I’ll be taking care of the interview,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“Okay then.  Let’s get on with it.”

Cliff Weston can picture television sets around the country being clicked off as viewers realize that this interview could easily be a fake, a publicity stunt.  He needs something.

“Can I get you some water?” he asks.

“Seriously?” Stan replies.

“Well, I just thought…” Cliff is interrupted.

“No, I don’t think you did.”

“The audience.  They need something to show them you’re really here and this isn’t a hoax.  Can you make yourself appear for them?”

“So now the interview has begun.  Yes I can make myself appear, but to save you a question no I can’t right now.  It takes too much out of me and we would have to cut this interview way down.  Let me do something else though.”

Cliff reaches for his water bottle, but suddenly it is gone.  He sees it hovering a few inches to the left.  He reaches for it, but it moves again.  He laughs.

“Very nice trick,” he says with a smile.

“You like that? How about this?”

Suddenly Cliff Weston is slapping himself across the face.  He tries to speak, but each time his own hand silences him.  Each word is separate as if a sentence of its own.

“Please.  Would.  You.  Stop.  Now?”

“Do your viewers still think this is a fake?” Stan asks.

Cliff shakes his head violently.  His hand drops limply to his side.  He tries his best to compose himself before speaking.

To be continued

Part 1 of 10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

(But were afraid to ask)

                A man sits in a comfortable chair in the middle of a room.  A large television camera is aimed in his direction and being fiddled with by two men.  They seem to have accomplished whatever they were intending to because they give the man a thumbs-up. The cameraman takes his position, framing the shot he likes.  A makeup-artist comes into the room, puts the finishing touches on the man and scurries away as quickly as she had entered.

                “Is it here yet?” the man asks.  He’s got a voice for radio, but a face for television.

                “Not yet,” a woman responds. 

The man fixes his piercing blue eyes on her.  His tanned face, showing no sign of his true age, is expressionless.

“Well? Where is it? We have a schedule to keep,” he says, trying hard to keep his tone even and friendly.

The woman brings her arms closer to her body as if she is hugging the clipboard she has clutched tightly in her hands.

“I don’t know.  Let me check.”

She turns away and begins to whisper frantically into the headset she is wearing.  Her expression is one of worry not anger.  She knows that Cliff Weston has more than enough authority to fire her on the spot if he wants to.  He is the talent and she is merely the producer.  He has made that clear to her on several occasions and she would prefer if this were not another such time.  She nods as she listens to the words being spoken back to her.

“Thank you,” she says into the headset and then turns back to Mr. Weston as he insists she refer to him.  “We’ve gotten word that he’ll be here shortly, Mr. Weston.  I apologize for his tardiness.”

“He? Are we sure it’s a male?” Cliff asks. 

He’s a little out of his element as he’s never gotten an opportunity to interview one of these before.  He’s heard about them, watched television programs about them, and even read articles about them, but never has he met one face to face.

The woman nods.

“Okay.  Thanks, Tina.  You can go now,” he says and waves a dismissive hand in her direction.

“Tonya,” she replies.

“What?”

“My name’s Tonya,” she says, biting back the venom she wants to inject into these words.

“Whatever.”

With that Mr. Weston picks up his cellphone and hits his speed dial.

“Yes, I’d like to make a reservation,” he pauses presumably to listen to the voice on the other end.  “Yes, that’s fine.  Weston.  W-e-s-t-o-n.

He hangs up without expressing the gratitude that Tonya is sure he must feel at being squeezed in at probably one of the finest restaurants in New York.  Mr. Weston’s roaming gaze falls once again on her.

“You’re still here?” he asks.

She nods, afraid that any vocalization will betray her true feelings toward the man who sits before her.  This man whom she has been babysitting since he’d arrived late the previous afternoon.

“Can you please make yourself useful then and grab me a bottle of water? Voss, not that other crap you brought me earlier.”

Tonya considers telling him that he can stand up and get his own bottled water.  She considers reminding him that she is the producer not his personal assistant, but then she remembers the revenue the interview is expected to bring in.  She remembers the raise she has been promised if it goes off without a hitch.  Suddenly hustling off to grab a bottle of Voss seems a little less bothersome.

“No problem,” she says with a smile.

Cliff watches as she leaves, admiring the view, and wondering if she’d be interested in joining him for dinner.  Who knows? After dinner maybe they could…

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asks.

Cliff, startled, glances around.  He sees no one.

“Did someone say something?” he asks, glancing down at his phone to see if a call has connected.

“Yes.  You heard me, right?” the voice replies, perturbed.

Cliff’s mouth is suddenly very dry and he hopes Tara, or whatever her name is, gets back shortly with his water.  At this point he wouldn’t care if she brought him tap water.  He licks his sticky lips.

“I think so,” he says, trying to pinpoint where the voice is coming from.

“Should I just sit right here?”

Cliff nods.

“Sorry, this is my first time.  I’m not quite sure what to do.”

“Mine too,” Cliff admits.

He looks up and sees the young woman returning with his water.

Thank God, he thinks and rises from the chair. 

He closes the distance between them quickly.  Their hands touch as he snatches the bottle away from her.  His is shaking.

“Is everything okay?” Tonya asks.

Mr. Weston points a thumb back over his shoulder as he twists the top from the bottle and takes a long refreshing draw from the Norwegian water.

“I think our guest is here,” he answers.

“Okay.  Shall we begin?”

Mr. Weston is stunned by the authority in her voice all of a sudden.  Tonya smiles, but only for an instant.  Then she puts her game-face back on.

Time to kick this interview’s ass, she thinks.

To be continued

Coming Soon

I hope that those of you who have taken the time to read my recent story enjoyed it and will continue to come back for more.  My next project will likely be a writing process experiment.  What I will do is simply write a new story, unedited, and post it here as it develops.  I will then edit and repost the entire story, but I hope to give some of my readers an idea of what a story looks like from beginning to end.  Also it is coming up on November which means it is NaNoWriMo time again.  I will be posting updates on how that is going.  Who knows maybe we'll see another novel come out of it this year.  And finally for those of you who are looking forward to seeing what Fat Freddy is up to I am working on a followup to Can Zombies Swim? This one is entitled Do Vampires Do the Cha-Cha? Yes, Freddy suspects a resident of King's Cove of being a vampire.  I guess we'll have to wait and see, won't we? For first time visitors, please make this blog a habit.  For frequent visitors, you haven't given up on me yet so don't start now.  There is much more to come.

So there you have it

Can Zombies Swim? is the first in what I hope is going to be a series of short stories involving Freddy and the town of King's Cove, Maine.  I have a few other ideas involving werewolves, vampires, and witches.  Needless to say King's Cove is not a place where you would want to raise a family, but for the residents there it is all they have.  I hope you enjoyed the story and please stay tuned here for all new content.  Also I look forward to comments both good and bad.  What you say here will only serve to make me a better writer and a better blogger.

Part 4 of Can Zombies Swim?

                As the day was dawning on Tuesday morning a military convoy had made its way up Route One to King’s Cove.  There had been talk of using the area National Guard units; but that idea was met with the concern of locals being able to keep things quiet and to shoot to kill if that became necessary.  Instead a unit had been mobilized overnight from Massachusetts.  Their arrival marked the beginning of a new course of action.  Quarantine.  The men blocked all roads that would lead in and out of King’s Cove.  The only other access to the town was by boat and the Coast Guard was handling things on that end.

                “Set up a perimeter through the forest as well,” Captain Anistasio ordered. 

Those men not responsible for blocking the road began to move into the forested area around the town.  When they were all in place the entire town was sealed off from the rest of Maine and hence from the rest of the country.

“Is this really necessary?” a private asked the captain.

“No one from this town can be allowed to escape.  If they do there is no telling what kind of hell will be unleashed.  They are all likely to be sick.”

“But shouldn’t we give them medical attention rather than allowing an entire town to die?”

The captain sighed.  “There is no cure.  All we can do is manage the situation and allow it to run its course.  Those are our orders and you will follow them.”

The military men had been told that if they were approached by a civilian from King’s Cove they were to warn them to back away or they would be shot.  If the warning was not heeded they were to fire a warning shot.  If that didn’t work they were ordered to shoot to kill.

Captain Anistasio looked down upon the quiet seaside town.  “Here’s hoping they go quietly.”

The bell never rang.  Instead there was an announcement over the intercom.  Apparently so many teachers and students had not arrived they were cancelling school.  Those students that were in the classrooms let out a cheer.  Even the teachers seemed excited.

I, like everyone else in the school, grabbed my things and headed down the hallway toward the front door.  Just then the lights went out.  At the front of the school there was a banging sound and a loud scream.  I rounded the corner in time to see the principal running down the hallway.  His face was a mask of blood.  His eyes were wild with fear.

“Everyone, get back to your classrooms,” he yelled as he ran.

I froze.  Everyone froze.  It was like a Halloween prank, but Halloween was still more than a month away.

“Back to your classes!  Now!” he yelled and ran passed us.

That’s when I saw them.  I can’t say that I was the first, but I was the first to react.

“Run!” I yelled and turned.

As if the action were cued by my voice everyone in the hallway began to run.  As I ran down the hall I realized that the last thing I wanted was to be trapped in the school while those things were after us.  I needed to have space.  Places to hide.  Places to run.  I’d seen enough horror films to know the school was not where I wanted to make my last stand.  Some students and teachers ducked into classrooms where they shut and barricaded the doors.  Others saw me heading for the back door and decided to follow me.  If I had to point to one moment which made me a hero that was probably it.  We left the dark hallways of the school behind and burst through the doors into the brightness of the day.  There were hundreds of no longer human things surrounding the school.  They were shattering windows and banging on doors.  There wasn’t time to go back to rescue anyone.  I had myself and the handful of those who had followed me to think about.

“The woods!  Run for the woods!” I yelled back over my shoulder as I pointed myself in that direction.

I tore through the trees oblivious to the branches that scratched and clawed at my flesh.  I knew that if I slowed even for an instant I faced a much worse fate.  I had no thoughts of stealth.  My only thought was to get as far away as possible as fast as possible.  What I hadn’t planned on was encountering the soldier.

“Stop!” the man in camo yelled.

I came to a stop as quickly as I could when I saw the rifle aimed at me.  Those behind me did the same.

“You need to let us through.  They’re after us,” I said, pleading with the man.

“I can’t do that.  This town is quarantined.  There is a disease and we can’t let it spread.”

“A disease?” I asked.  “There’s no disease.  Something has turned most of this town into some sort of creature.  Some sort of zombie.  We can’t stay here.  We’ll be killed.”

“I’m sorry, Son, but we have our orders.”

“Screw your orders! People’s lives are at stake.  You’ve gotta help us.”

“I can’t do that.  You need to turn around or I’ll have to shoot you,” the soldier said reluctantly.

 I didn’t think he’d do it.  He didn’t look like someone who would shoot an innocent person.  I stepped forward.  The soldier aimed the rifle in the air, firing a shot.  My heart leapt into my throat.  Maybe I was wrong about him.

“What’s going on?” one of my followers asked.

“They won’t let us leave town,” I threw back over my shoulder only taking my eyes off the soldier for a second.

“What are we going to do now?” another voice from behind me asked.

“We have to find somewhere else.”

“But where?” a third voice.

“I don’t know yet,” I said, but knew I’d need an answer fast.

It didn’t seem like the best option when it came to be, but it was the only one I had.  I turned and gestured for my group to follow.  Some of them felt it better to make a stand against the soldiers.  I didn’t turn around when I heard the gunshots, but I was pretty sure I knew the result of their action.  I weaved in and out of trees with my small band of not-so-merry men and women behind me.  We made it to the main street and began running down the yellow line.

“Where are we going?” an out of breath voice asked.

“Down to the water.  We’re going to try to make the island.”

“The island? Can zombies swim?” the voice asked.

“I don’t know, but at this point I’m willing to find out.”

I turned right down Water Street and headed straight for the choppy blue water of the Maine coast.  My small group of followers tailed behind me.  I looked out over the water and then turned back toward the town.  Which brings me back to where I began this tale.  After taking in the residents that had trusted me with their lives I turned back toward the water.  It would be quite a swim and there were some with me who would not make it, but it was the best chance we had.  I gestured for ‘my people’ as I had come to think of them to follow me.  I started to wade out into the cold water of the bay.  I heard splashes as more people joined me.  I turned back and saw that some were hesitating.  Hesitating that was until they heard the sounds of the zombies behind them.  Then there was a mad dash for the water.  We waded as far as we could and then began to stroke for the island.  It was funny how it had always seemed so close until we had to swim there and then the distance seemed incomprehensible.  I swam for what seemed an eternity and my arms were burning with the strain.  I knew that I couldn’t go on much further and that’s when I realized that I was close enough to stand.  I turned and began cheering for those who were following as if this were some sort of relay race.  Our numbers had thinned even further during the swim.  I hoped that throughout the evening and night more would find there way to shore, but I didn’t have much faith in that.

We scrounged up some wood and started a fire on the beach.  There were houses to stay in so we had shelter, but there was little food to be found.  That was a bridge we could cross when we came to it.  As night fell people began to make their ways to the houses I offered to take the first watch.  I stood by the fire and gazed out over the water.  I could see that a large group of the zombie-like creatures had gathered along the water’s edge.

“Can you?” I asked, knowing they couldn’t here me.  “Can you swim?”

As if drawn by my voice the first group of zombies began to wade into the water.

“I guess we’re about to find out.”

The End

Part 3 of Can Zombies Swim?

The weekend had passed uneventfully enough.  I had finally sat myself down to complete my homework and found various other things to occupy my time.  What I didn’t know was that while my life was filled with the minutia of a teen boy the town was being slowly attacked from underground.  I returned to school on Monday ready to face another day of eighth grade.  I found that there were an astounding number of absences that day.  There must be a bug going around, I thought.  Fortunately I had not yet fallen victim and hoped that continued.  The only thing I hated more than school was missing it.  I had developed a reputation by maintaining perfect attendance for years and didn’t want that to end now.

                As I progressed through the day I was surprised at how sluggish and lethargic many of the teachers and students seemed.  This wasn’t normal for King’s Cove Elementary.  Normally everyone was energetic.  I always attributed this to the clean ocean air.  There was something that just seemed off, but I wasn’t able to put my finger on it.  Not that it was a bad thing.  I wasn’t the victim of the teasing that I had grown accustomed to.  Gym class and lunch went by without incident.  I felt safe entering the bathroom.  Didn’t have to worry about being tripped as I walked to the front of the class to solve the math problem on the board.  It was as if my silent prayers had finally been answered.  The walk home from school was a refreshing one.  The temperature was cool even for early fall and the sea breeze which carried the oceanic smells to my nostrils brought a smile to my face.  I even hummed a tune as I walked.  The streets seemed strangely deserted, but I was not one to question the divine providence that had been at work in my life this day.

                As I neared my home I heard a crashing through the brush.  I looked up in time to see a deer running wildly toward me.  Its fur was matted with blood and it seemed to pay no mind to me as it rushed in my direction.  I realized nearly too late that it wasn’t going to go around me and had to dive out of the way to avoid being struck.  The deer continued on into the road where it was met by an oncoming vehicle, one of the few I had seen that afternoon.  There was a sick thud and a spray of blood, bone, and hair.  I nearly lost my lunch as I watched the seen in horror from my rear end on the well manicured lawn of a neighbor’s home.  The car didn’t stop.  It hadn’t even slowed down.  It just continued on its way as if the deer had been nothing more than a leaf which had blown into street.

                “What’s going on around here?” I asked myself as I rose and brushed off my pants.

                I kept a watchful eye out for any other strange occurrences as I finished the walk to my house.  I saw nothing.  Nothing that was until I arrived at my home and saw that the front door was ajar.  I knew I had locked it when I’d left that morning.  I, unlike many Maine residents, do not trust my neighbors enough to leave the door unlocked.  Cautiously I crept up the steps, cursing under my breath at the squeak when I reached the top step.  I thought I could hear a noise within the home and suddenly wished my parents had not nixed the idea of getting me my own cell phone.  If I could just get into the kitchen I could dial 911 and leave the house until the police arrived.  I crept through the front door thankful that my dad had oiled the hinges recently.  From the foyer I peered into the kitchen.  There were bloody hand prints on the wall and on the fridge, but no sign of the person who’d made them.  I held my breath and slowly entered the well-lit, spacious room.  My eyes constantly moved around the room looking everywhere I thought a person could hide.  I was feeling good about my chances of reaching the phone when I suddenly heard a noise from the broom closet behind me.  I whirled and saw the door swinging fully open and a maniacal looking man rushing across the kitchen at me.  He was covered in blood and not a drop looked to be his own.  I retreated from the man, but found myself pressed up against the island in the center of the kitchen.  I began to slap my palm on it trying to find the phone.  Instead it came down against the knife set my mom had bought from Pampered Chef.  

Go, Mom, I thought. 

I snatched the first knife I could get my hands on and only had time to thrust it in front of me.  The blade sunk deeply into the chest of the bloodied man.  He staggered backward a few steps, looked down at the knife and began to paw at it with both hands.  He uttered noises that didn’t even resemble human speech.  Giving up on the knife, however, he started forward again.

                “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” I yelled.  I turned  around and managed to find a meat tenderizer.

                I whirled in time to see the man-like thing lunge forward.  I swung the tenderizer with as much force as I could muster feeling bone crunch as it struck the thing’s skull.  The man dropped to the kitchen floor and twitched three times before remaining still.

                “Take that, sucker!” I yelled and kicked the body twice for good measure.

                My adrenaline was flowing and if I was honest with myself I would have to say that killing the man or whatever he was, felt good.  Not in the crazy I want to torture small animals way, but it felt good nonetheless.  My heart was racing and I was having trouble catching my breath.  I wanted to just collapse on the couch and watch some television, but I knew the police would need to be called.

                I made the call and the officer said they would have someone over to my house as soon as possible.  Apparently they were currently being inundated by calls.  After hanging up with the police I knew I should also call my mother.  She would be worried sick and would likely want to rush right home to look after her baby.  I dialed her cell number which she answered on the first ring.

                “Is everything okay?” she asked without a greeting.

                “Hi, Mom.  I’m fine.  How are you?”

                “Just answer the question.  Is everything okay?”

                “Everything’s fine, Mom,” I lied.  I knew that I should tell her what had happened, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  “How’s Aunt Ginny?”

                “She’s not doing very well, but is better now that we’re here.  Thanks for asking, Freddy” she said, welling with pride as well as emotion.

                “Ok.  Well I’ll let you get back to her.  Just wanted to say hi and that I love you.”

                “Are you sure everything’s okay?” she asked, possibly suspicious of his sudden display of affection.

                “I told you it’s fine, Mom.  See you when you get home.”

                After hanging up with my mother I closed the front door as I passed through the foyer on the way to the living room.  I sat down on the sofa and turned on the television.  I wasn’t really watching the programs, just letting the events of the day run through my mind.  It had turned out to be such a strange day.  Maybe tomorrow will be better, I thought.

                It hadn’t occurred to me until the police arrived that I had been sharing my house with a dead body.  The two officers that responded to my call looked as if they’d just graduated high school.  They asked questions about what they referred to as “the altercation”.  I answered their questions and then was advised that because the house was a crime scene I would have to stay somewhere else for the time being.  Did I have a place, they asked? Yes, I responded and with that I packed an over night bag, grabbed my book bag for school, and left the house for the night, going next door to the O’Halloran’s.  Mr. and Mrs. O’Halloran had been our neighbors for as long as I could remember.  I’d earned extra money over the summer by mowing their lawn and was sometimes rewarded by being able to swim in their pool.  When they heard what had happened they told me that I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted.  They offered to call my parents, but I convinced them it would not be necessary. 

                I told Mr. and Mrs. O’Halloran that I was a little spent by the events of that afternoon and thought that I might call it an early night.  They showed me to what used to be their son’s room, but was now used as a guest bedroom.  The room was small, but the bed was comfortable.  I lay down and tried to close my eyes, but each time I did the frightening images from the kitchen reappeared.  I turned on the television and was soon lulled to sleep by it.

                I woke early the next morning.  I could hear that I was not the first one up and smelled something delicious being cooked for breakfast.  I quickly rifled through the overnight bag I’d packed, showered, dressed, and rushed down the stairs to join the older couple at their table for breakfast.

                “Good morning, Freddy,” Mrs. O’Halloran said as I sat.  She crossed from the stove and set a heaping plate in front of me.

                “Good morning,” I said and then began digging into the food.  It would have been rude not to.

                Mr. O’Halloran turned the page of the newspaper he was reading.  I spotted an article about the tanker crash on Route One over the weekend.  I tried to scan the article as I shoveled bite after bite into my mouth.  The article said that the tanker had been empty at the time of the crash but that HazMat  crews had been called in for precautionary reasons.

                “Do you mind if I take a look at that?” I asked.

                “Not at all.  I’m about finished anyway,” Mr. O’Halloran said as he handed the paper to me.

                I stared at the picture.  The ground around the tank appeared to be moist whereas everywhere else was dry.

                “Is something wrong?” the man of the house asked.

                “Kind of.  The article says that the tanker that crashed was empty, right?”

                “Yes, that’s right.”

                “Well, look at this picture,” I said, handing the paper back.  “Doesn’t it look like something leaked out of that tank?”

                “Oh, I don’t know, son.  It’s hard to tell with these newspaper photos.  Why are you so interested?”

                “There were just some weird things going on yesterday and I was thinking that maybe the tanker crash had something to do with it.”

                “How do you figure?” he asked finishing the last of his coffee in a swallow.

                “I dunno.  I guess if it did leak chemicals maybe they got into the drinking water.”

                “Sounds more like the plot from a movie than anything in real life, son.  This is The Cove you’re talking about.  Nothing exciting ever happens here.”

                I finished my breakfast and grabbed my stuff for school.  I was about to walk out the door when Mrs. O’Halloran stopped me.

                “Are you sure you don’t want to stay home today? You had quite a trauma yesterday.”

                “I’m fine, ma’am,” I said.  “Thank you though.”

                I left the house, seeing the real Mrs. O’Halloran for the last time.  She waved from the front steps and went inside.  I watched the door close behind her and started the walk to the school.

                I entered the building.  I walked down the deserted hallway, stopped at the fountain, pressed the button, and watched the water flow.  I bent, lips nearly touching the clear fluid when a thought crossed my mind.  What if it is something in the water? I took another look at it as it arced, hit the metal, and then flowed down the drain.  It looked refreshing and I was very tempted, but instead I released the button.  It wouldn’t do to take chances.  Instead I popped some change into the soda machine and selected a bottle of water.  The thump it made as it dropped sounded very loud against the quiet of the school.  I never drank tap water at home.  My parents always bought bottled water.  Maybe I was lucky for that.

                I walked to my homeroom and was surprised to see that there were only a handful of students there.  My teacher sat glumly behind his desk.  I quietly took my seat and waited for the first bell.

To be continued.  Look for the 4th and final part tomorrow.