Frank Vincent's Works

Train Tracks

2012-06-08T15:43:00.001-07:00

By Frank D. Vincent

Stewart ran. He was sweaty, exhausted and out of breath, but still he ran. Although, to be fair, he wasn't so much running anymore as much as, stumbling forward with the awkward non-grace of a lifetime couch potato. The only reason he wasn't dead yet, was the state of his pursuers. Stewart wheezed and stumbled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Drool flowed from his mouth, as he had long since lost the energy to breathe with his mouth closed. He was so tired that he just let it flow over his plump lower lip, occasionally taking a ragged gulp that would cause his jowls to quiver. Sweat soaked his blue graphic t-shirt. A horse collar ring of sweat stood out around his neck and the sweat rings under his armpits would shame a snake-handling preacher. But Stewart had reason to run. Reason to move like he had never moved before in his life.
That reason had to do with the three figures behind him. Now these figures are a ways back, maybe a half mile down the road, but our dear friend Stewart has been pursued by them for the greater part of three hours. His jeans are ripped at the knees and a little bloodied by several falls he has taken. His hands sting where he scrapped them on the gravel the last time he fell, when the old one nearly got him. Stewart throws a panicked look over his shoulder to see where his pursuers are. They are far enough away that he feels safe slowing down even further. Stewart's feet slow to a simple, stuttering shuffle-step of exhaustion. His ears pound with his thumping heartbeat and he curses himself for the thousandth time for not having taken proper care of his body. It is sheer dumb luck that he has even made it this far. Stewart casts another look back to gauge his distance from sure death and words form in a back room of his mind. A song heard long ago by the great Johnny Cash springs forward, and Cash's deep voice echoes, "And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts, And I looked and behold: a pale horse. And his name, that sat on him, was Death. And Hell followed with him." That sounded about right. Death had come to earth and hell had certainly followed.
Stewart slowed his walk to a stop and doubled-over, his hands clutching his knees for support. He cleared his throat and spat a phlegmy snot-filled glob onto the ground. His chest burned with each and every breath that rasped in and out of his inadequately exercised lungs. The spittle ran out of his mouth freely and he didn't care. If Stewart had been paying more attention to his surroundings and not just his known pursuers, he may have had time to react, but as it was, his three relentless pursuers had worn him down to nearly nothing and he never saw them coming.

Daniel and Raymond peeked out from behind the pillars of the overpass. They had watched the fat one rumble slowly up the train tracks and slow down, looking like he was ready to collapse. Daniel started to giggle.
"Shaddap ya' big dummie!" Raymond rasped in a hushed whisper.
Daniel swung his left hand up to his mouth and stopped short, almost stabbing himself in the eye with the long boning knife Raymond had given him. Daniel didn't know it was called that. He called it, 'Pokey'. Daniel looked intently at Pokey and grinned at the way the sunlight spun off of
it. Raymond took a tiny pebble from the ground and threw it at Daniel. The pebble struck the pillar and bounced harmlessly off of Daniel's sloped forehead.
"Get it ta'gether ya' big ole galoot." Raymond rasped, his voice just above a whisper. He swung his head in a quick sharp movement toward the fat man bent over his knees on the tracks. Daniel feebly nodded, his giggles quite worked out. Daniel didn't want Raymond to get Mad, when Raymond got Mad he made others make the bad noise. The stupid grin on Daniel's face slowly dropped away. Daniel hated the bad noise.
"Good," Raymond said as he nodded his head in quick agreement of Dan's seriousness. He couldn't have that walking load of stupid messing up another hunt. His Dark Traveller was back and Raymond had to fulfill it's needful call. He swung his eyes back to the fat boy sucking wind on the tracks. The Traveller told him he was the one, yessir, this one would do. Maybe, if he was lucky, this was THE ONE, the right one, the one that would satisfy the Need. The one to break the spell, so to speak. The hunt had become so much easier the past few weeks, easier but riskier. As society began to break down, Raymond's Traveller had awoken and began to hunger. The hunger grew, until he was pregnant with it. Never before had he been so swollen with the need of the Traveller. Never before had the desire been so strong. His cycle typically ran every three or four years. He was able to stave off his Traveller for that long by throwing himself into his work. Raymond was a fastidious employee, never late to work, punctual and timely. He worked quickly and efficiently, finishing one task and moving on to the next. He was a model employee, one that management had seen fit to recognize as Employee of the Month seven times in the past ten years. Raymond was the Lead Night Crew Manager for a medium sized janitorial company. In fact that's where he had met Daniel. Daniel was a little slow on the uptake, what folks used to call 'simple-minded' before all that politically correctness nonsense. But, he was as strong as an ox and dumb enough to do just what he was told. Raymond knew that he could order Daniel to do just about anything and he would do it, whether he wanted to or not. The Traveller whispered to him suggestions, things he might try, should they ever make the acquaintance of a female. Raymond licked his lips as his hitchhiker spoke poisoned honey to his mind and he knew what to do. He held out the aluminum bat to Daniel. Daniel's sad eyes looked at the bat then back at Raymond. Raymond gave the bat a single firm shake and nodded his head at the same time. Daniel looked like he might cry. Raymond felt the Traveller's disgust at the retard's weakness, the anger at his hesitation. The Traveller's strength grew and Raymond's hold on him loosened. The Dark Traveller fought his way forward.
Daniel saw Raymond's eyes change, one moment there he was, the next, his eyes were not his eyes, they were the other one's eyes. The Mad eyes. The Traveller spoke in a dim whisper, "Take it Daniel." It was not a question. "Take it and play ball, or I will get Molly and play with her. Just me and my little friend." He touched his free hand to the camping hatchet on his belt. Daniel shook his head violently from side to side, as tears began to form in his eyes. The Traveller had enough, it was time to end this game, he wearied of it. Raymond raised the bat with both hands above his head. He barred his teeth in a snarl of pure hate and drew his legs under him to spring at Daniel.
Stewart screamed.
Raymond whipped his head to the side and saw one of the Unsatisfied gnawing on the fat boy's arm. Two more of the undead ran onto the lunchbox with legs and knocked him over, ripping and biting and rending his flesh with their hands and teeth. Raymond's snarl, changed into a sickening smile. He relished every agonizing scream and moan that came from the boy as he was torn into.
Daniel whimpered loudly as he held his hands over his ears. Tears streamed down his sullied face, leaving track marks in the caked on dirt. Raymond's hand reached over and covered Daniel's mouth. The Traveller watched the violence, felt the warmth of breath and wetness of tears on his hand as he quieted Daniel's sobs and felt pure satisfaction.

The Treehouse

2012-05-22T11:25:00.000-07:00

The Treehouse
By Frank D. Vincent

Alice wakes up. Her eyes are dried out and blurry, her contacts sting. As she opens her eyes, she realizes that she is laying supine on a wooden floor. There is a dull feeling in her back that makes her long for her memory foam mattress. As she awakens, so does her injury; a far away dull ache begins to rouse itself in her right leg, just below the knee. She rolls her head to her left and can see her boyfriend Craig his forehead resting against the single-pane window of the children's tree-house. He has deep, dark circles around his eyes, suggesting to Alice that he is sleep deprived. His eyelids slowly flicker over his bloodshot eyes, as he floats between sleep and consciousness. The treehouse sways ever so gently in the wind that precedes the storm. Dark storm clouds approach from the northwest. If Craig were to look, he would see the thin trails of faroff rain; gray brush strokes peeled off from the clouds, as gravity pulls out each drop of water. Pulls it out to fall through and cleanse the air. His shotgun lays cradled in his lap, devoid of shells. Spent shell casings lay scattered on the wooden decking that serves as the treehouse floor. Alice can see several boxes of ammunition, stacked up against the wall, well within Craig's reach.
She spots the trapdoor, bolted and barred from the inside. The screws that hold the hasp of the lock into the wood are loosened from their fittings. Tiny wood shavings lay around the exposed screw-heads that have been forced out of the wood. Someone or something has been trying to force its way inside this tree-house, but she can't remember what. In fact, she has difficulty recalling anything from recent memory. Alice gingerly sits up, aware that the pain on her leg has shifted from an ache to a throb, and looks around the room to see if anything will jog her memory.
She sees a bloodstained backpack off in the corner, and she tries to stand up to go and retrieve it. The moment she puts weight onto her right leg, the throbbing leaps into a snarling white-hot pain that twists up through her bones, and around her hip. The sheer intensity of the pain causes a small cry to escape her lips, and she drops back to the floor with a thud. Instinctively, she curls her leg into her body in a partial fetal position and cradles it with both hands. As she struggles with the pain, she feels a hand suddenly grip her shoulder. She cracks open her eyes and sees Craig's face, inches from hers.
His bloodshot eyes search her own, his brow is wrinkled in fervent worry. He holds his left hand in front of his mouth and shakes his head quickly back and forth. His shaggy brown hair whips across his dirty face. His message is clearly, "NO!" No noise. He cocks his head sideways and listens intently. His right hand is still firmly holding her shoulder, his left is motionless in front of his face. The pain in her leg is dying back down to a sharp ache, but Alice feels incredibly confused. She cannot remember where they are or how they got here. She wants to ask Craig, but he is intent on silence and she isn't sure what is going on. He is obviously worried or scared of something or someone. Maybe the same someone who was trying to get into the tree-house? But who would do that? And what's with the shotgun shells?
A loud animalistic moan of desperation comes bursting from under the tree-house. Loud shrieking begins outside, in all directions. Craig's expression of fearful worry breaks and tears quickly spill out of his eyes and cascade down his face. His eyes meet hers, and as another tear slips down his face, he says, "I'm so sorry Ali. I'm so sorry!! I've killed us." He chokes on his words as the din outside raises itself toward a crescendo. Craig half crawls, half leaps over to the shotgun laying on the floor a few feet away. He roughly brushes his hands across his tear filled eyes and reaches for the shotgun. As he reaches for it, something slams into the trapdoor with an awful crash. The little trapdoor thrusts itself upward, held only by the hasp and hinges. The wood rattles as the entire floor beneath them shakes with the impact. Alice can't stop the yelp that bursts out of her. She claps her hand over her mouth and her eyes dart over to Craig. Her looks at her over his shoulder, his hair obscuring part of his face. Alice takes her hand away from her face and mouths the words, "I'm sorry". Craig gives a slight nod and begins to grab shotgun shells and feed them into the magazine under the barrel. He inserts seven shells rapidly, one after another and then comes the tell-tale, CLICK-CLACK of the pump slide, as he chambers a round.
Craig looks into Alice's face. He knew that they shouldn't have stopped here, but she was in such pain and so feverish. There was no where else to go, nothing else to do but either, stop here or leave her to die. He had made a choice and had been prepared to live with it, but he didn't realize how the past few days could change and how dire their situation would become. As Alice had healed, those things had begun to gather below them. Drawn by sound or smell, he didn't know. As she seemed to gain strength, so did their numbers. He'd made a choice. Unfortunately, it may have been the wrong one and it looked as though his choice would probably cost them both their lives.

Karl Has a Bad Day

2012-02-01T12:47:00.000-08:00

*Updated... Since the contest is over... I can expand this a little more, like I wanted to.*

This was in response to a new Flash Fiction Challenge @BonyFingeredLimbs - http://bonyfingeredlimbs.blogspot.com/2012/01/flash-fiction-challenge-deserted.html
We were given a picture of a deserted area and asked to write a 1,000 word story that tied-in to the picture.
My original entry tied for first place, but there were other shorts by other authors that I found better than mine (isn't that sometimes the case?). I digress. If you've seen this before, please take another gander. Mayhap you'll find something you like.

Karl Has a Bad Day
By Frank D. Vincent

October
Mid-Afternoon
Midwestern U.S. - exact location unknown

The cricket chirped next to Karl's ear, causing him to grimace with frustration. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath and forced his jaw to relax. Grinding his teeth didn't change his situation any and he needed to clear his head and try to think of a way out of the bind he found himself in. It didn't help that his nose had begun to itch and desperately needed to be scratched. It had begun with a slight tickle, on the left side of his nose, where the side of the nostril meets the cheek. The tickle had slowly and lazily stretched its way toward the bridge of his nose and then crept under and up into his left nostril. He wiggled his nose, blew air upward with his lower lip and shook his head slightly, but the itch remained and became more insistent, with every passing moment. The cricket chirped again. Karl sent a quick breath out the side of his mouth in the cricket's general direction, but he didn't think it would make a difference. The creature was taunting him. If he could move his arms, he would smash that bug with one hand and scratch his nose with the other, at the same time. But, his hands were tied to the trunk of a dead oak tree, so he could not use them to smash anything, or scratch the itch now burning up his nose. His head was also fettered to the tree, by means of a rope that looped around his neck and forehead, so he could not even rub his nose on his shoulder. His legs were free however. Although, taking the weight off of them, increased the pressure of the rope against his neck. He had nearly blacked out and hung himself, right after those two, no-neck thugs had tied him here, and left him to die. At least they'd removed the dirty cloth they'd gagged him, before they left. He'd struggled against the roughly hewn rope, straining to free at least one hand, but without success. Each hand was bound at the wrist, both of his arms were pulled around the tree and then tied together. He felt like he was giving the tree a reverse hug. The straining against the ropes had abraided his wrists. He could feel the raw and torn skin, slick with blood, slide against the ropes; the newly exposed nerves cried out with every slight movement he made. If he believed in god, maybe he would already be praying or even begging for some kind of intervention. But Karl never believed in any of that. Life here on this spinning circle of dirt was a one-time-only, one way ticket kind of thing. And it seemed to him, that he was going to find out just what there was after this life (if anything). He had been sentenced, blindfolded, bound and gagged, dragged into the midst of the enemy and soon, he'd be dead.
  A soft breeze carressed his sweaty face, like the hand of a long lost lover. The exertion to struggle out of his bonds had left him breathless and sweating. The kind of sweat, that ran down his back and through the tangle of hair on his chest, to curve gently down his prodigious belly. A working man's sweat. He wasn't exactly what you would call, a handsome man. A bad case of the chicken pox as a boy had left him with a pock-marked face. The pox had taught him that he couldn't stop from scratching, even if it meant he'd end up bleeding and scarred. He had been a husky lad, with no friends. He wasn't any good at sports and he held no interest in the outdoors. Always the last one picked for soccer in P.E., he would simply lumber straight down to the goalpost and stand there, hoping the other team would never make it that far. He had discovered solace in food. He found that the emptiness inside him was filled when his stomach was. He craved that full, contented feeling you get after a large meal. The near uncomfortable feeling that makes you want to sleep. His boyhood taught him, that a hearty meal was better than any disappointment. Some folks get an itch, and they can ignore it and it goes away. But with Karl, that itch would drive him mad given long enough. The cricket chirped again.
To take his mind away from both the itch and that foul insect, he tried to think about what lay ahead of him. As far as he could tell, he had two options and neither option was desirable. Firstly, he could wait until he either saw or heard the slobbering groans of the Unsatisfied and wait for them to tear into his soft flesh and devour him as he screamed and begged for death to take him. Or at the first sign of them, he could throw is feet into the air and hope that he choked to death before they reached him. He didn't really care if they feasted upon him, just as long as he wasn't alive for the feast. A shudder ran down his spine as he thought of what it might feel like, to have teeth bite into him.
He took in the view in front of him, for the thousandth time, trying to stave of that damnable itch in his nose. A barb-wired fence stood directly in front of him, nearly ten feet away. If he looked to the left he could just make out a support post that had fallen over, on his side of the fence, leaving a gap for anyone (or anything) to come and go as they pleased. There was a small dead tree of some sort in front of him, but slightly to the left, so as not to entirely block his view. It's branches scrambled toward the sky, in what turned out to be, a futile effort to find nourishment. In fact, every plant, every bush on his side of the fence was either dead or dying. Little comfort to a man who presumed that he too would join them soon. Just one more decaying lump of organic material to feed the dirt, for future generations of plants, he thought. The field beyond the fence seemed to be made of clumped earth, patched here and there with long dried grass. After 150 yards or so, an embankment rose up out of the ground, where a blacktop road had been constructed. Small bushes and plants grew at the base of the embankment, where water tended to be more abundant. The cricket chirped again, but this time, it sounded higher than before. Perhaps the bug was finally going to leave him alone.
Karl could make out the grey cylinder of a transformer on one of the power poles that ran alongside the roadway. On the blacktop he saw, an SUV of some sort, a sedan and what looked to be a late 50's Chevy Impala convertible, all abandonded long ago. He wondered what horrors lay within those vehicles. Were the occupants able to get away safely? Were they overcome by a horde of the Unsatisfied Dead? Did their gas run out? Most likely the latter, he thought. There were no obvious signs of carnage that followed in the wake of an attack, so they must have run out of gas. He didn't see any dark smearings of blood on the side panels, no mysterious lumps of flesh clustered on the road. Just empty, lonely vehicles, biding their time, 'till rust or a new owner took them on their way.
Since joining the colony, he hadn't been assigned, nor had he volunteered for the hunting party. He had no interest in the foragers group either. He had tried to lay low and was found more often than not, within earshot of the women as they washed clothes in large plastic containers, or cooked simple soups in the metal half-barrels. So it was, that he was very unaware of the lay of the land, as well as the number of the Unsatisfied, or their likely whereabouts. He tried to dredge up what he remembered from the time before his arrival at the colony, but his memory was encased in fog. Raymond had told him one evening over the fire, that his mind had blocked out the tramatic events. He called it Post-Tramatic Stress, or something like that. He tried to fight through the fog of his hazy memory. Fragments of violence swam uneasily in his mind. A bloodied hand with gaping stumps instead of pinky and thumb fingers, reached out of the darkness for him... A dead man, with no lower jaw and a railroad spike in his throat, ripped the left sleeve off of Karl's shirt... A car, a blue Ford Focus, burned brightly in the dead of dark. As the flames leapt into the sky, a horde of the dead stumbled past the torched vehicle. Moving toward him, they each burst into flame as they shuffled through the car fire... A red brick building, with boarded up windows, washed forward from the abyss of his memory, but the image melted into the woman in the sundress; laying on her back, blinking in the bright sunlight. She had shiny auburn hair and cornflower blue eyes. He remembered her eyes. He remembered them pleading with him. Begging for him to help her, but she was unable to give voice to her need; as a child, no more than 8 or 9, dug his teeth into her throat. Karl swallowed and tasted bile. He closed his eyes and tried to shake the image of her from his mind. He took in a deep breath through his nose and filled his lungs as full as he could. Then he pursed his lips and slowly blew it out. Another breath, in.... and out.... In.... and out.... He opened his eyes again and spent a moment counting the number of barbs on the top wire of the fence in front of him. Post to post, he counted 19.
  A branch snapped behind him and somewhere to his left. His heart began to race as he strained to turn his head. His eyes darted to the left and searched for signs of movement, but he saw nothing. The rope prevented him from turning his head more than an inch or so. The cricket chirped again, from right above him. Again the cricket chirped, louder than ever before, it seemed. It was calling out to them! Karl began to panic, the cricket was telling them where he was! Another branch snapped and his racing heart now began to gallop. Fear seized him and his breath came in quick gasps. He needed to get control of himself, or he was dead. Maybe they would shuffle past him. Maybe they wouldn't notice him there. If he could be quiet and still, he might yet live. The cricket chirped again. Another branch broke and Karl could hear shuffling footsteps. A soft whimper escaped his lips as he felt his bladder let go. He closed his eyes and gathered his strength. Two quick short breaths and he flung his legs into the air, as high as they would go. He felt weightless for a moment, but then gravity had its way with him and the rough strand of rope around his neck became a noose.
He felt the rope clawing its way into his fleshy neck. His heels slammed into the hard ground, but he held his legs straight, as his whole body began to shake. The back of his head burned, where a patch of skin and hair had been torn away by the oak's rough bark. The rope dug into his neck, and his head felt swollen. The pressure in his face increased as his brain kicked into overdrive to fight for its survival. The whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of his frantic heart, swelled in his ears. His lungs screamed for oxygen. His head pounded as the pressure continued to increase. His eyes bulged from their sockets and he bit down on his swollen tongue inside his mouth. Drool mixed with blood, spilled out from between his lips and down his chin as the life was strangled from him.  His last thoughts were of her cornflower blue eyes. She was pleading with him. As his body twitched against the rope, he saw his own hands reach out and push her away from him and toward the throng of shuffling dead. He saw her fall down to the ground and roll as the boy leapt onto her, reared back and gnashed his teeth into her neck. He saw her eyes plead with him as the Unsatisfied swarmed over her and began to devour her. He saw her eyes as he turned his back to her and ran. He saw those cornflower blue eyes and they watched him as he died.

The Witch's Door

2012-01-09T08:46:00.000-08:00

This was in response to a Flash Fiction Challenge: Gypsy Woman by my friend at Bony Fingered Limbs.
Each week, she throws down a challenge to come up with a 1,500 (or less) short story based upon inspiration received from a photo chosen. This weeks photo is a Gypsy Woman staring into a crystal ball and the word count is 1,000. I will attempt to weave something from this and see how it turns out.
Thanks for joining me.
*note: I realize this is too long for the FFC, but once it started (like a bloody nose) it was hard to stop. I also re-read my initial un-proofed version and found it woefully inadequate. I have done some updating to the story. I'll look at it again with fresh eyes later and see if it all makes sense. As always, I appreciate your feedback. - Frank*

The Witch's Door
By Frank D. Vincent

Late August
12:17AM
Somewhere along U.S. Highway 71
Maggie Davis was 54 years old. She thought of herself as slightly pudgy, with more grey than brunette hair. She colored frequently though and was currently a resilient, dark brunette. There was no touch of grey apparent, even to a trained observer. Her natural son, Tyler was the quarterback for the Waldron Bulldogs. His adoptive brother James, played Outside Linebacker. It had been a rough blow to the family, the tragic passing of her husband, a short 5 years ago. The boys had taken it hard. Then again, what 12 year olds that adored their father wouldn't have taken it hard? Maggie tried to think of something else, before the memory of That Day brought itself fully into her mind. She was on the long drive back from Fort Smith, where she'd closed up the 14 theater movieplex for the night. She hated driving an hour to work each day, especially down U.S. Route 71 at this time of night. But work was difficult to come by these days and the mortgage still needed to be paid. So she made do with what she could. Still, Maggie was grateful for the job. Mr. Miller had taken a chance with her 3 years ago and she didn't want him to regret it. She had worked very dutifully and had risen to Assistant Manager. It was her responsibility to close the Theater Wednesday-Saturday, even though it meant missing Ty and James' football games. She had promised them both that she would attend at least 3 games this year. But she had yet to ask Mr. Miller for the time off.
She often spent the hour long drive thinking over grocery lists, chores that needed tending to or about Tyler and what might become of his life. She was in a reflective mood as she made the change off of I-540 and onto Highway 71. Her thoughts tumbled in her head like the laundry that she worried over. She'd left it sitting in the washer and she knew that Ty's good church shirts were in there. That would just mean a bit more ironing to do tomorrow evening. She felt her nose starting to drip and she grabbed a tissue from her purse in the passenger seat. The cold she been fighting for the past few days was almost over, she thought. She was even running a slight fever this morning, but couldn't allow herself to get sick. As she drove, her thoughts turned back to the poster on the wall in the Theater, across from the cash register at the snack bar. It was an odd thing to think about, that poster. An add for an upcoming movie, it was of an old gypsy woman, looming over a seer stone, well a "crystal ball" for those who were unfamiliar. But Maggie was far from unfamiliar. Her thoughts drifted back. Back before she met the man she would marry and then lose. Back to the summer of her 17th year, when she and her best friend Janet found the witch's door...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Janet and Margaret were hanging out in the woods that summer, outside of Acorn, Arkansas when they both heard the girls faint voice calling for help. The woods that they spent their time in, like many their age, were known as the Ouachita National Forest, one of the South's oldest national forests. But folks in these parts knew it for other things, like spirits and Spirits. Moonshining was an Arkansas tradition for some time. Polk County was also known back then for being the whitest county in Arkansas. In fact, Maggie hadn't seen a person of color (except on the t.v.) until that day in the woods. She and Janet had been forbidden to go to this part of the forest, but for two 17 year old girls on summer break in 1975, getting into trouble was about the only thing they could think of to do. The lonely voice drifted between the two girls as they sat on the mossy ground, sharing a small bottle of moonshine. Janet had absconded with it from her uncle's house. On her last visit, she had located his stash and siphoned a small amount into an old, glass medicine vial, the kind with a cork in it. The potent elixir was already coursing through their veins and their mood had lightened to the point that little things were instantly funny or just outright hilarious. Their mood changed however, when the cry for help broke through the fog of their inebriation. Janet swung her head to her left and peered through the forest undergrowth.
"D'ja hear that Mags?" she asked, her voice slightly slurred and hesitant.
"Yeah Jan, I heard it, but..." Maggie's voice drifted off as they heard the voice again.
'Pllleeeeaaassseeee. Some Body Heeeeeellllp!'
"Oh gosh Mags! That gives me the chills!" Janet said as she shuddered.
"C'mon Jan, we gotta help her!" Maggie said, as she stood up and then pulled her friend to her feet.
"Which way did it come from?" Jan asked, as they both turned, slowly listening for the voice.
Maggie heard a faint cry and pointed, "This way Jan! C'mon!"
The girls left their makeshift picnic area and dashed into the forest, pausing now and then to listen and then moving rapidly along, trying to find the body that belonged to the voice. The voice had a kind of musical quality to it, almost ethereal in nature. They pushed through the forest, more than once startling a deer from its afternoon bed, in their search.
Janet came around a large tree and froze in her tracks. Maggie bumped into her and stumbled for a second before catching herself. She too stopped in her tracks as both girls gazed at a dilapidated wooden shack erected in the middle of the woods.
"Moonshiners..." Janet whispered as she tried taking a slow, cautious step backwards. Now everyone in moonshine country knows, that an illegal moonshine operation is guarded with guns and protected with violence. Anyone who trespasses, whether 17 year old girls or 87 year old men, will meet with violence. If you were caught at a moonshine still, you were dead. Simple as that. But the girls hadn't tripped any alarms, nor did they hear any dogs barking. Perhaps it was an old site.
The wooden shack leaned awkwardly against a large dead tree and had obviously been there for quite some time. The girls were about to slip back into the forest, when they heard the voice again, this time clearly coming from inside the shack.
They looked at each other, frightened and unsure of what to do, when the small, misshapen door to the shack creaked open slightly. A tiny old woman, with white rheumy eyes, peeked her head out ever so cautiously. Her long hair was blanched white and her skin was dark, like the color of a deep summer tan.
"Heeellloooo?" she feebly called out from her perch at the door. "Is someone there?"
Neither girl said a word nor moved an inch, unless you count the jackhammer of their hearts in their chests.
"Please, don't bother an old woman." the frail woman called out weakly. "If you are here to steal from me, you'll find I haven't much to take," she went on. "I'll gladly give you food and shelter if proper trade can be arranged..." Her small head tilted left and right as she strained her ears, listening for any noise. Janet moved her foot slightly and the loud SNAP of a twig, shattered the silence. The old woman's head snapped in their direction.
"Oh! So you are here." she tittered. She pushed the door open fully and the girls saw her twisted right hand resting on the handle of the door as she made her way out of the shack. Her left hand rested on a gnarled stick, which she used to hold her balance as she slowly made her way towards them.
"Please don't be frightened," the old woman said. "I'm all alone here in the woods and would terribly enjoy a bit of company." Her vacant eyes moved about in their sockets, deeply unnerving Maggie.
Janet spoke with nothing more than a whisper, "We're sorry..." she said.
The old woman's deeply lined face broke into a wide smile, a smile that made Maggie suddenly feel at ease, despite the woman's rolling unseeing eyes.
"Oh, but you're just a child!" the old woman said. "Come child, come. Please, both of you come inside, let me warm you up with some tea! I've made a fresh batch of the sweetest tea." The woman turned and slowly made her way back to the shack, her walking stick leaving little dents in the ground every six inches or so. The girls looked at each other and slowly came around the tree. As they made their way toward the little shack, they instinctively clasped each others hands.
At the door, Janet ducked her head and stepped into the darkened hut, but Maggie hung back, looking at the delicate workings of the wood that were unseen from a distance. Tiny, curved etchings showed where a detailed hand had artfully peeled away the wood, to find its shape. She peeked at the front of the door and saw all manner of small carvings. Lightly scrapped from one solid piece of wood, this door must have taken years to complete, to get all the intricate carvings just right. Over here she could see a carving of a bear and over there was an eagle perched on a tree. Trees and plants were carved everywhere, the detailed workings were really quite beautiful. She was mesmerized for a moment, until she heard the old woman break into a tinny, high-pitched cackle. Instantly warning bells went off in her head and she tried to take a step back away from the door, but a gnarled hand shot out of the darkness and clutched her wrist. The small hand was hot to the touch and bony. It felt as though a skeleton had crawled out of a fire and latched onto her. She tried to pull away, but the old woman was strong. Her wrinkled face appeared in doorway with that broken tooth smile, but somehow, this time it was not ease she felt, but revulsion. From closer up, she could see the rotted stumps of teeth, gathered together in a shriveled, gaping mouth. A slippery, mottled-brown tongue crept out and licked the woman's upper lip.
"Don't be shy now." the old woman coaxed. "We'll just have a quick visit and you can be on your way."
From inside the hut, she heard Janet's voice, "This is great Mags! This place is amazing!" The old woman's grip was like iron. She pulled and Maggie was helpless against her. The door clapped shut behind her.
What happened inside, neither of them could clearly remember. The hut was bathed in dimness, and incense stung their eyes. The old woman explained, as she shifted and moved through the hut, that she had called to them and drawn them to her. She took an ancient looking knife and selected several small discs of dried plant material. She diced the discs and proceeded to chop them more finely. She explained that she was the voice in the woods. She had lived here in these woods since she was a little girl and had drawn people whenever she needed. She took the bits of plant and brushed them into a small kettle over a meager fire, that was already boiling. She also told them, that unless she drew them to her, her little hut could not be found. She stirred the kettle and told them that once they had their visit, she would see that they got back to the woods they knew. She smiled toward them as she drew a ladle into the liquid. She filled three small wooden cups and gave each girl a cup filled with the sweet smelling liquid. She took her own, bade them to drink and drained her own cup first. Both the girls looked to each other and tentatively raised their cups to their lips. When they drank it, a bitter-sweet taste filled their mouth and a warmth flooded over them. She told them to remain still and to not move. She then explained that a dream had come to her, a dream about them and the future. She often had these visions and they had become stronger since she lost her sight. She showed them several crystals and rocks of various sizes and shapes. She explained to them, that these seer stones could portend the future. The old woman sat across from them with a large wooden bowl filled with water. She took more of the dried plant and set it alight in a blackened bowl and placed it between them. She then blew the fire out and bowed her head over the bowl of water. Seconds turned into minutes and minutes began to stretch into unknown time. The tea began to work its way through them and the old woman began to chant. Slowly and quietly at first, but gradually increasing in pitch and velocity. Then she began to speak.

She raised a gnarled finger and pointed to Janet:
"Twenty and three, will bring you an ill-suited lover.
His face will be strong, as strong as his fist.
From his loins; he shall make you a mother,
But your son, shall not fade into the mist.
He will know the blunt sting of battle,
And yet his confidence, it will not rattle."

Her finger dropped for a moment and then raised and pointed to Margaret:
"More than love, will come your way,
Many a lover you will have, until at last; your itch will stay.
The man for you, a great love will be,
But, untimely his death, you will live to see.
A son for you as well will spill,
And older yet, you may surely get,
But, for the boy to live, he must learn to kill."

The rest was a blur. She vaguely remember the woman giving them small hard loaves of homemade bread and walking with them through the forest. They woke up on their blanket in the woods where they first heard the voice. Over the rest of the summer, they returned both together and separately and tried to find the old woman's home. But they could not. Over the years, the memory blurred and changed and faded away. Until that is, Janet met her lover.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Maggie's eyes were now moist with tears as she drove down Highway 71. She remembered her dear friend Janet, who met a man by the name of Shaun O'Malley. He had a mean streak, longer than his rap sheet. But Jan was in love and by then, it was too late. Maggie tried to help her get away from him, but Janet could not break the spell he held over her. Maggie met the love of her life many years later. She and Jan had even been pregnant together. They had given birth within two months of each other. Janet's boy was named, James Patrick O'Malley. And the older he got, the worse his father became. Janet began to cling to drugs to numb the physical and psychological abuse. But in the end, Janet and Shaun were dead and 8 year old James' broken leg was mended, as was his heart, as he was adopted into their family. Only four short years later, Maggie's husband was killed, by a drunk delivery truck driver. One moment he was there, waving and smiling, crossing the street. The next he was gone.
Maggie wiped the tears out of her eyes and thought of the boys that she'd raised. James and Ty were young men and the best of friends. Somehow she knew that bond would last between them for many years to come. Her thoughts turned to the rest of what the old woman had said. The strange bits about 'battles and killing'. She had forgotten about that. Not that any of it had made any sense to her at the time. She paused and considered what she'd remembered from what the old woman had told them. As she did, pieces began to fall into place. She pondered over them for a moment. But, her nose was running now. That cough she'd had the past couple of days must be settling in, plus the crying didn't help.
She reached over to her purse in the passenger seat and took out another tissue. She wiped her nose with it, but when she brought it away, was surprised to find blood.

Excerpt from, The Gambler's Journal

2012-01-03T15:05:00.000-08:00

This story was written with inspiration from a Flash Fiction Challenge on:
http://bonyfingeredlimbs.blogspot.com/2011/12/flash-fiction-challenge-message-in.html
The picture was of a message in a bottle, washed up on a beach.

The Gambler
...My four year old granddaughter held my hand as we walked slowly along the beach. She skipped and jumped, splashing in the water's edge and pausing every now and then to inspect a shell or rock in the sand. The sun had just risen only an hour ago and the whole world was still new. There was a slight chill in the air, mostly due to the wind coming in over the water, but it was refreshing just the same. The warmth of the sun on my face and the weight of the child's hand in mine, warmed my heart. It seems to me that the older I get, the more reflective I become. Not a dweller mind you, dwelling on the past can't change anything. No, not a dweller... a reflector. Lately I'd taken to looking back at my life and seeing both the error and blundering luck that saw me through. Mostly what I feel these days is simple gratitude. I am extremely grateful for my time here on this planet and for the experiences that I've had. Sure, there've been rough times. Difficult times. Times that felt as though the whole world bore down upon my head and threatened to break me. But then there are times like these, this moment right here; the angelic chubby face looking up at me, with a sweet and innocent smile. The light that plays through her soft, blonde-brown hair as it's swept away from her face by the salt-kissed breeze. The eyes that have only known tenderness and kindness, untainted by the pain in this world. These moments are what it's all about. These moments make it all seem worth while.
"Spin me!" she says.
I grab both of her hands and we twirl together under the newly born morning.
This is the moment I want to cherish and remember for as long as I have left. If they catch me, this will be my final thought and I will die a peaceful man.

To whomever finds this, know that of all the defining moments in this journal, this moment with my granddaughter, before the plague, is the greatest memory of who I was. I was a Grandpa, a Father, a Husband, a Friend. I know that it won't be much longer now. In fact, James just told us that our escape route is now blocked. Turns out that our traps have turned against us. Fire is a fickle beast and cannot be expected to follow where you want it to go. Point in fact, that's what I told James when he schemed up the idea. But youthful arrogance has seen us through the past few weeks. I never would have taken the risks on my own, but it has allowed me to live a little longer and chronicle our last days together.

2:30AM - Going to Make a Break For It
This is it, James has a bold plan (again) and we've all talked it out. Sounds like they got the strongbox they found in the office opened. It contained some brick-a-brack, a couple of sex magazines, some Polaroid pictures and a set of keys to the "Dawn Treader", a boat out there on the dock. James took Dale up to the roof and they found it with Dale's binoculars. James says its about 500 feet away. But we'll need a distraction to get the dead away from the building. They hover out there, making those horrible noises, like idiot children that can't talk, but instead drool bloody spittle out of their mouths as they pull and grasp to get to us. The sight of them makes me want to be ill.
I remembered to check my shotgun, its fully loaded now. I guess I hadn't filled it after yesterday's 'exercise'.
I found an old wide mouthed milk bottle. Lord knows what is is doing in here, but the rubber gasket still works (I put some water in it to make sure). And guess what? The journal fits in it just so! So that'll be my storage container for now as we head for the boat. In case something happens to me, hopefully this will survive. I'd been looking for something to keep it in and by golly, if I didn't stumble upon it!
The 'distraction' is ready to go, everyone's gathered at the door.
Wish us luck...
Excerpt from the 'The Gambler's Journal'

Flash Fiction Challenge - The Rescue

2011-12-22T17:54:00.000-08:00

The Rescue
By Frank D. Vincent

Jimmy’s cough was getting worse. Chad could hear the wetness in his lungs, without using his stethoscope. Chad moved away from the 8 year old and covered him again with the bit of rough burlap that had made up the bag of potatoes.
"The potatoes… You know Beth; if it weren’t for those we’d all be dead by now." Chad mused.
He turned to his flight nurse, Beth and saw a faint smile play quickly over her face.
"You’re right Chad, but what good does it to think on that?"
Beth stirred the fire in the chimney with an old broken bit of a rusted shovel. The fire had already cleansed the shovel of most of the rust that had accumulated on it for a span of time unknown. She seemed fascinate by the fire as it played over the surface of the shovel and she kept turning it over, first one way and then another.
"If we think about ‘What if’s’ and ‘Why didn’t we..’ we’ll do no good for figuring out how to get out of this alive." She continued, "We could pick to death on why here, why of all places, this cabin. But it serves no good purpose."
Chad moved over to her and sat down, hugging his knees with his arms.
"Maybe you’re right Beth," Chad said softly. "But we need to examine how we plan on making it out of here with him deteriorating as quickly as he is."
He motioned to the sleeping lump of the boy, "You know just as certain as I do that moving him in this condition, without an escape route, without knowing where to go… well…" he trailed off. "That will certainly kill him and we both know it."
Beth hung her head a little and they both stared into the fire. Time ticked slowly passed, as the flames licked first the underside of the broken shovel blade and then the top, as Beth rotated it in her hand.

Chad’s head snapped up as Jimmy began to cough loudly. He moved to the little boy to re-access his vital signs. He glanced back to Beth as he felt for Jimmy’s pulse. She lay on her right side, with her legs drawn up to her chest, next to the barely existent coals in the worn out fireplace. Chad could hear the wind whistling through the gaps and cracks in the old cabin walls. The temperature inside had dropped so much that his breath made frosty plumes of warm air as he breathed out. Frost covered the inside of the cabin’s two windows to the outside world. Bitter cold wasn’t the word for it, he thought to himself. This is a frozen coffin and we’re going to die here if I can’t find a way out.

It had been 5 days. 120 hours since the helicopter had crashed. He and his flight nurse had flown up from Harborview Medical Center to the parking lot at Sunrise, the highest point reachable by vehicle at Mount Rainier National Park. They had been called by the U.S Park Service to airlift a little boy, injured in a fall. Apparently, the boy’s father had been killed and the boy seriously wounded when they tumbled down from a steep ridge while hiking the Burroughs Mountain Trail. The trail was not historically dangerous, but melt out of the 10-20 feet of snow wouldn’t begin until June, another 3 months away. The boy and his father were snowshoeing and had stopped to rest when they both fell. The boy’s father struck his head on an outcropping of rock, and was killed instantly. The boy also struck the same rocks and has suffered multiple rib fractures and a broken foot. Typically the Army would have sent a Rescue helicopter to assist with the rescue and body recovery operation, but the Army couldn’t provide a Unit for several hours as maintenance was being performed on their primary chopper. Next up would have been the Coast Guard, but thanks to a group of drunken youth in the sound, they were already executing a rescue.

So Chad got the call. He had quickly agreed, provided the boy could be brought to the helicopter at the sunrise parking lot. Though covered in snow, the landing area was significantly more accommodating than any other part of the landscape. They had landed and waited 2 additional hours for the boy to be brought to them. Due to his injuries, the rescue team had used a Stokes Basket to drag him over 7 miles of difficult terrain, on foot. Chad had been worried about the forecast for an approaching storm and was hopeful that they could get airborne and on their way before the storm reached them and made their flight home dangerous. He hadn’t counted on waiting for two additional hours. The weather worsened during their wait and by the time the rescue team arrived with the boy, a moderate snow was falling. The boy was stable enough for the flight, but he needed to get to Harborview as quickly as possible, to limit any permanent or nerve damage. If only Chad had been able to lift off 10 minutes earlier, they might have made it. As it was, they were now stranded somewhere to the Northeast of Mt. Rainier. In a rundown cabin that had been abandoned for years and years. They were lucky to be alive, for sure. They were even luckier to have found this place and even luckier to have it be habitable and with a frozen bag of potatoes in the small dugout ice chest the cabin’s owner had dug.
Chad was satisfied with Jimmy's vitals, but knew that time was running out for all of them. There was no more wood to burn, they had torn apart the table, chairs and meager cot. Beth had helped him strip down anything that would burn and now they had nothing else but their clothing.The tough little potatoes had only lasted them through day 4. Chad's stomach growled with hunger as he realized for the first time, that he hadn't eaten anything in over 24 hours. He had manually activated the emergency beacon in the helicopter as soon as he knew they were going down. But it had snowed for nearly three days straight and Chad wasn't sure that the beacon was meant to last in sub-zero temperatures for this long.
Sleep finally took him a short time later.

He woke up to lights all around him and could barely make out the figures of people moving back and forth, all around him. They were saved! He saw two figures huddled over Jimmy attending to him, with Beth right next to him. Then the utter exaustion caught up with him and he slipt into unconsciousness. The rest was a blur. He didn't remember the helicopter ride or the hospital admittance, but here he was, bathed in luxuriant warmth, in a hospital tub. He reveled in the sheer warmth squeezing his toes and then relaxing them, over and over again as he enjoyed the heat. He slowly nodded off with a smile on his face.

They were found a week later by a rescue team. The heavy snow had hampered every effort to reach the crash site. Jimmy and Beth were found inside the cabin, Jimmy nestled in Beth's arms. she provided what little comfort she could in their final hours. Chad's clothes were found spread thoughout the cabin and his body found almost 1/4 mile away, naked in the snow, with a smile on his face.