TW Brown
03-24-2008, 12:32 AM
starting a new book called "Dead"
the first couple of chapters are posted
check it out at www.maydecemberpublications.com
here's a taste:
I ain’t no hero. I never thought of being one. When I was young, I didn’t dream about being a police or fireman. I never considered joining the military, even after 9-11 when so many others my age flocked to the recruiter’s office.
Hell, I was the guy who picked a desk in the middle of the classroom on the first day of school when all the Brains rushed for front row seats and the Jocks and Stoners roamed to the back. I didn’t play sports, at least not in any organized way. When sides were chosen (even if it was just a pick–up game with my buddies), I was pointed out someplace in the middle. Sometimes I would pull off a play in football, basketball, kickball…whatever, which was only amazing because it was me doing it.
I had my share of girlfriends. I lost my virginity my senior year. On prom night. To a girl who played flute in the high school marching band. Her name was Kerri or Kathy … or Kari or Cathy.
So you’re starting to get the point. Right?
I worked in an office complex after I graduated college … B minus GPA. Never married, but I was engaged a few times. My one bedroom apartment was small, but it suited me and my dog just fine. Well, that was until the horror movies jumped off the screen and landed right in the middle of an atypically unbelieving real world.
Some of the stuff about zombies proved to be true.
Some not.
Most of how humanity was predicted to act was drastically underestimated. The best. The worst. Sometimes I wonder how in the hell we’ve survived as a species.
That will likely be answered definitively sooner than I would like.
It may seem corny, but no one I’ve met since it began could give me a solid answer as to how it all rolled into motion. Sure, there are theories; Government Bio-weapon gone awry, Super-virus, alien particles from space, demons from hell, and global warming. Each gets equal billing when you hear the topic come up. Maybe it’s a mix of all of the above. Or, maybe God got tired of us messing up his toy. And if you don’t believe in God…well then you can refer back to the list and pick your favorite. Honestly, I don’t give a damn. I’m too tired from running. How I ended up leading a band of survivors in this Romero-Hell is my new reality. The time for blame has long passed.
Since things began, I’ve seen…we’ve all seen…things best forgotten. Yet, I, as well as anybody still alive, know that forgetting is impossible. The best you can hope for now is sleep without the nightmares coming back to refresh those images you desperately try to shove in a hard to reach spot in your mind. There are some things that the movies missed, or could not accurately convey. The biggest would be the smell, that, and the psychological toll of hearing a person scream as they are ripped apart and fed upon.
* * * *
“…seem to see no pattern in what is being called The Blue Plague, due to the discoloration common in the final stages where it is theorized that the body is starved for oxygen.”
Click.
“Sars. West Nile. Crap. What’s next?” I turned off the television and tossed the remote onto a stack of unread magazines on my coffee table.
Pluck, my Bassett hound, twitched a big, floppy ear and closed his eyes in disinterest. I scratched him behind one of those ears, which earned one of those contented doggie sounds.
I got off the couch and made one of those habitual trips to the fridge. I popped it open knowing deep down that I didn’t really want anything. A thud from the living room signaled that Pluck was on his way, just in case I might produce some tasty treat that would undoubtedly be shared. I’m pretty sure Pavlov’s dogs are hidden somewhere in Pluck’s family tree.
As is often the case when I’m about to make a major life choice, this one being left-over Chinese take-out, or last nights pizza, the phone rang. I passed Pluck just as his paws smacked the linoleum with a scrabble of clicking claws that were in dire need of trimming. His exasperated huff caused his thick jowls to flutter.
“Yeah?” No need for formality since I could see Bill Wright, a friend of mine’s name, in the caller ID on my phone.
“Steve, are you watching this?” My friend Bill was naturally excitable, but something in his voice was off.
“Is this sports related?” I made no attempt to hide how totally not interested I was. “Unless it involves a female gymnast losing some or all of her outfit-“
“Turn to Channel Seven now!”
the first couple of chapters are posted
check it out at www.maydecemberpublications.com
here's a taste:
I ain’t no hero. I never thought of being one. When I was young, I didn’t dream about being a police or fireman. I never considered joining the military, even after 9-11 when so many others my age flocked to the recruiter’s office.
Hell, I was the guy who picked a desk in the middle of the classroom on the first day of school when all the Brains rushed for front row seats and the Jocks and Stoners roamed to the back. I didn’t play sports, at least not in any organized way. When sides were chosen (even if it was just a pick–up game with my buddies), I was pointed out someplace in the middle. Sometimes I would pull off a play in football, basketball, kickball…whatever, which was only amazing because it was me doing it.
I had my share of girlfriends. I lost my virginity my senior year. On prom night. To a girl who played flute in the high school marching band. Her name was Kerri or Kathy … or Kari or Cathy.
So you’re starting to get the point. Right?
I worked in an office complex after I graduated college … B minus GPA. Never married, but I was engaged a few times. My one bedroom apartment was small, but it suited me and my dog just fine. Well, that was until the horror movies jumped off the screen and landed right in the middle of an atypically unbelieving real world.
Some of the stuff about zombies proved to be true.
Some not.
Most of how humanity was predicted to act was drastically underestimated. The best. The worst. Sometimes I wonder how in the hell we’ve survived as a species.
That will likely be answered definitively sooner than I would like.
It may seem corny, but no one I’ve met since it began could give me a solid answer as to how it all rolled into motion. Sure, there are theories; Government Bio-weapon gone awry, Super-virus, alien particles from space, demons from hell, and global warming. Each gets equal billing when you hear the topic come up. Maybe it’s a mix of all of the above. Or, maybe God got tired of us messing up his toy. And if you don’t believe in God…well then you can refer back to the list and pick your favorite. Honestly, I don’t give a damn. I’m too tired from running. How I ended up leading a band of survivors in this Romero-Hell is my new reality. The time for blame has long passed.
Since things began, I’ve seen…we’ve all seen…things best forgotten. Yet, I, as well as anybody still alive, know that forgetting is impossible. The best you can hope for now is sleep without the nightmares coming back to refresh those images you desperately try to shove in a hard to reach spot in your mind. There are some things that the movies missed, or could not accurately convey. The biggest would be the smell, that, and the psychological toll of hearing a person scream as they are ripped apart and fed upon.
* * * *
“…seem to see no pattern in what is being called The Blue Plague, due to the discoloration common in the final stages where it is theorized that the body is starved for oxygen.”
Click.
“Sars. West Nile. Crap. What’s next?” I turned off the television and tossed the remote onto a stack of unread magazines on my coffee table.
Pluck, my Bassett hound, twitched a big, floppy ear and closed his eyes in disinterest. I scratched him behind one of those ears, which earned one of those contented doggie sounds.
I got off the couch and made one of those habitual trips to the fridge. I popped it open knowing deep down that I didn’t really want anything. A thud from the living room signaled that Pluck was on his way, just in case I might produce some tasty treat that would undoubtedly be shared. I’m pretty sure Pavlov’s dogs are hidden somewhere in Pluck’s family tree.
As is often the case when I’m about to make a major life choice, this one being left-over Chinese take-out, or last nights pizza, the phone rang. I passed Pluck just as his paws smacked the linoleum with a scrabble of clicking claws that were in dire need of trimming. His exasperated huff caused his thick jowls to flutter.
“Yeah?” No need for formality since I could see Bill Wright, a friend of mine’s name, in the caller ID on my phone.
“Steve, are you watching this?” My friend Bill was naturally excitable, but something in his voice was off.
“Is this sports related?” I made no attempt to hide how totally not interested I was. “Unless it involves a female gymnast losing some or all of her outfit-“
“Turn to Channel Seven now!”