Writer's Journal

(Happy Halloween, internet-people.)

The man and woman sat in the cab of the truck, taking their rest for the evening.

“If you approach a berserker like it’s a zombie, you’re going to be in trouble,” she said.

“Oh?” he responded.

“Yeah. You don’t know how many people I’ve seen start laughing as soon as they see a shambling corpse. They get real surprised when it starts charging towards them, but they can handle it…until its buddy jumps them from behind.”

“So they’ve got tactics?” the man mused.

“To an extent. Like a bunch of wild dogs, or a pack of wolves. They don’t get tired. At least, not noticeably. They’ll come after you if you’re the only prey.”

They sat in silence.

“How did it start?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Began in Oklahoma City, s’far as I can tell. I bet it was a bioweapon or a virus, or something.”

“How do you know so much about them?” he asked.

“I come from a town that got hit shortly after it began, before the military got involved. Some fanboy had worked up ‘anti-zombie’ tactics based on ‘Day of the Dead’ or somesuch,” she laughed dryly, “I saw what that got them.”

“So it’s more like ‘28 Days Later?’” he asked.

“Never really saw it. Are the zombies there fast ‘nd smart?”

“Kind of,” the man said, “it was a pretty good movie.”

“Never really liked zombie movies,” she said.

“Oh?” he asked, trying to make conversation.

“No. Either everyone died at the end or the military swooped in to make everything better. Like ‘em even less, now. I saw a lot of soldiers die.”

The night was silent, except for their breathing.

“So…what happened to your last traveling companion?”

“Had to stab him in the gut and leave him for the berserkers.”

He looked at her with wide eyes.

“To be fair, he did try to shoot me beforehand and do the same to me.”

“Wow,” he said, not quite sure how to respond.

“For the record, if one of us is getting left behind, it’s you.”

“Good…uh…good to know.”

In the distance, there was the sound of dry, hacking laughter.

“That’s them,” she said, with a slight upturning of her lips.

“Should…uh…should we get driving?” he asked.

“It’d be nice,” she responded, and turned to look at him with a slight smile, “but we’re outta gas.”

Okay, so this is more a notice than anything else.

For the next month, I’m not going to be working on the site too much (I’ve got some flash fiction I pre-wrote for it, and I’m fairly proud of them) but Cicatriz will be on hiatus.

Next month is NaNoWriMo, which I’m participating in, as well as the time during which my professors decided to make everything due.  So, I’m going to have to put Cicatriz on hiatus.  I still intend to have something special on Fridays (perhaps I’ll move the plugs I used to do on Thursday there, temporarily?)

Cicatriz has two more “episodes” and they’ll come to you in December, trust me.

After that…who knows?

I’m sorry I don’t have more for you all.  This week brought a dangerous fever with it, so I wasn’t able to get as much done.  But I’m mostly fine, now, and things should get back to normal.

(Yes, for the record, the title is taken [ultimately] from the Simpsons)

For a while, he was mayor.  Or at least the only resident of the town–himself–thought of himself as mayor; Democracy becomes much easier with a single citizen.

He left his car in the parking lot of the old grocery store, and would periodically raid it for food and a bottle of tamiflu.  He grabbed a pack of condoms, near the beginning of things, but put it back, ashamedly, shortly before he became mayor.

When he felt serious, he begin work demolishing one of the houses, so it became less of a fire hazard.  As soon as he felt there was no danger of a fire there spreading to other houses, he would begin to drag the unburied dead into it, douse the house in precious combustible materials–gasoline, kerosene, and the like–before lighting it and leaving it.

He didn’t feel serious very often, and most of his time was spent raiding bookstores and gas stations.  By the end of his first month as mayor, he was both well-read and a drunk.

Every day, he would put his car in neutral, and push it a block or so, thinking (incorrectly) that this would keep its machinery running.  Very rarely did he turn it on.

When he did, it was for the radio, primarily.

Specifically, for the Emergency Broadcast System, which disheartened him every time.  He hoped to hear another voice, for another thinking human to be presented to him by the world.

Then, one day after he had moved his car several blocks, voices began to come through the static.  He idled along, until he began to hear music coming faintly through his speakers.

He flipped through the dials until he found news.

“There are still fires in the quarantine zone, indicating that people are still dying of the pandemic.  Soot from these fires is considered highly toxic, and if you see a dark cloud coming out of the Greater Des Moines Area, you are advised to stay indoors and contact the CDC…”

No flash fiction, today. I fell asleep early last night because I was huddled up for warmth (my apartment apparently lacks insulation. Who knew?) and I’ve got work to finish.

If I can get something worked out for you all this evening, I’ll write it down and post it late.

With this, we’ve officially passed the halfway point in the first batch of episodes.

Cicatriz Episode 4

Enjoy.

The two angels stood at the ramparts, watching as the hordes of the damned pounded on the gates. No longer encased by flesh, they could muster little force; but they were persistent and had little better to do.

“I understand things are bad,” the first angel said, scratching between his wings with his spear of fire, “but do they have to wail and gnash their teeth so close to the gate?”

“You know the Big Man upstairs is getting senile. There’s just no place else to stand.”

The first angel shook his head.

“Pete says there’s cracks around the gates, you know,” the second said.

“Really? Amazing.”

“Not really. Anything will show signs of wear after a couple billion or so years.”

They watched.

The damned had begun to acquire tools for their work. Some had rigged up cannons, and fired at the walls, the crass iron slamming into the masonry and shattering. Some had built battering rams. Others had torn apart angels who had wandered outside the walls, tearing off their wings and stealing their spears, swords and guns.

Every moment of their existence was spent tearing at the wall.

“Mad, aren’t they? Too clever, too vicious, and too determined. No wonder they aren’t allowed in.”

The first shook his head.

“I feel bad for them,” he said.

The second shrugged.

An old man wandered past, wearing a dirty red bath robe. His beard reached down to his sternum, and the dome of his bald head had a zipper running from between his eyes to some undetermined point on his back.

The old man sucked on his teeth and looked over the battlements.

“Nice to see you up and about, sir,” the first angel said.

“Eh?”

“Nice to see you up and about!”

“Eh.”

“Can we get you anything, sir?” the second asked.

“Who are you? Why am I here?”

Sighing, the second angel threw an arm around the old man’s shoulders, and began to lead him away.

“I’m just an attendant, sir. Let’s get you back to bed, how’s that sound?”

As his companion left, the first Angel walked down to the gates.

There were indeed cracks around the gold-and-silver gates. The stone had begun to chip, and one gate hung slightly askew, a hinge having come loose.

“Let us in!” they cried out.

“I…I can’t,” the first angel said.

“Let us in, or we’ll break the gates down!” one shrieked.

“We’re not allowed…” the angel said.

“Who prevents you? What law? What rule? What authority?” a multitude of voices asked, each voice lending a word or question to the whole.

“The Word,” the Angel said.

They resumed pounding on the gates, roaring with wrath and thundering blasphemy.

The Angel saw one pin on the hinges coming loose. He stood there, considering. He could gently tap it back into place, and put it out of mind; he could pull it free and let the damned storm the barbican of heaven.

Instead, he chose to watch as it slid out, and struck the ground, bouncing once…twice…thrice.

The legions of the damned waited, as if holding their breath, and surged forward. The horde of teeming humanity stormed forward, screaming defiance at the spirits who would judge them.

The Angel knelt as if in prayer, as if asking for absolution.

He lay down his spear.

Forgiveness came, forgiveness of a sort, a white-hot tongue of fire, like the Spirit, pierced his heart.

(This story features the same characters as my earlier Field Circus.  If interested in rereading that, you can find it here.)

Deputy Connors lay on his back in the yard, looking at the overcast sky. A circle of cigarette butts, some extinguished, some still burning surrounded him.

The house was quiet, save for the sound of the other deputies and the coroner rooting through what he had left for them.

He heard the Sheriff pull up and get out of his car.

“Aw, shit,” the old man said, as he hobbled up the drive and saw Connors laying on his back, “That bad.”

Connors turned away, not speaking.

The Sheriff continued inside, the gravel crunching beneath his feet and his cane.

#

The basement had been full of corpses and boxes of baking soda.

The bodies had been opened to find out what made them work.

The boxes had been opened to control the smell.

#

The coroner examined the body of the young man; the knife was still gripped in his left hand. There were nine bullet wounds.

“Connors kept shooting him after he fell?” Deputy Gibson asked, assisting the coroner by taking photographs.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but it looks like the angle is roughly the same for all of them.”

“Always knew he was a terrible shot,” the other deputy, Daniel Marcus, said.

“Two pierced his lung. One bypassed his intestines and probably lodged in his spine. One took the boy’s eye out and lodged itself in his brain. One hit the heart. another the aorta. The other three were limb shots. Two on the left leg, one on the right leg.”

Marcus whistled through his teeth.

The Sheriff came through the door, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of spearmint gum before putting two sticks into his mouth.

“Sheriff,” Marcus said, standing taller.

“Sheriff,” Gibson said, nodding.

“Hello, Lew,” the Coroner said.

“Evenin’ Mary. What profoundly disturbing bit of back-hills evil has Connors dug up and shot at this time?”

“Either a very good serial killer, or a very bad amateur surgeon,” Gibson deadpanned.

“Just t’ facts, Gibson. This the kid?” Sheriff Mayer asked.

“Yeah,” Mary said, “White male, looks to be about fourteen, apparently lived here with his grandparents until he disassembled them.”

“Disassembled?” the Sheriff asked.

“Yeah. Apparently he was gathering people up and trying to find out how they work.”

“Work how?”

“There’s a skeleton down in the basement that’s had all the skin taken off and left to sit in a bathtub full of moonshine to keep it fresh.”

“This don’t make a damn bit of sense,” the Sheriff declared, “Why’d he take ‘em apart.”

“You’d have to ask Connors, Sheriff,” Marcus said, darkly, “he was the only one who was here when the kid was alive.”

“Goddamn.”

#

The clouds had begun to part, and he moon showed its face. Connors pointed his sidearm up toward heaven, took out the clip, counted the bullets, and put it back in.

“You really got to kick this nasty nicotine habit ‘a yours,” The Sheriff said, popping his gum.

“I know, Sheriff Mayer, and I don’t norm’ly smoke. But after an event like that…”

“So that’s why you always leave the pack in your car.”

“Yessir.”

“If I do say so, Connors you’re beginning to lose your accent.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“you want to tell me what happened in there?”

Connors took a deep breath and put his sidearm away.

“You remember how you told me to look into those disappearances around here?”

“Yes.”

“Well, all the abandoned cars were along the same stretch of road. I thought that it would be simple, and it was. There was about a half-mile-long path through the woods, going around that big hill over there, and coming right up to the cellar door. The kid thought he’d managed to cover it with brush, but I saw a scrap of blue flannel, stuck to a branch.

“So I grabbed an extra clip for my sidearm and a flashlight and snuck along the path. It rained a little bit, real cold.”

Connors fished in his pocket, and pulled out a crooked cigarette. He just held it.

“When I reached the house, I heard singing coming from the basement. All the windows had sheets over them, but I managed to lift up the cellar door without him noticing.”

He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

“He had this head in a vice, with a hose from an air compressor going up into the neck-stump, and wires taped to the throat…wires attached to a keyboard. He was making it sing.”

“How’d he notice you?”

“I went inside to use his phone to call for backup. Mine’d died,” Connors said, a little ashamed.

“Well, you’re not supposed to enter a private residence without a warrant. We’re going to have to take you off active duty for a while.”

“Yeah. I…I don’t mind that at all.”

If you’re interested in reading the episode, go here.

I might’ve said this before, but my fiction tends to borrow elements from my life–sometimes I get convinced it goes both ways, but that’s all in my head–and I know for a fact that I never would’ve written Cicatriz if not coming to graduate school.

I’m currently in northern New Mexico; it’s definitely very difference from Kansas City.  So, you can see where that element came from.  But the other element of Valley City’s culture, the “Palestino” part, might just stem from a fascination with Middle Eastern Culture.  Though Roger Zelazny’s (and Thomas T. Thomas’s) The Mask of Loki might have something to do with it, considering how concerned it is with the crusades (I can’t help but see a connection between it and Neil Gaiman’s 1602, but that’s a tangent.)

So, here I have a culture halfway between Syria/Palestine and the American Southwest.  This is the surface-level bit of world-building.  I’m not yet getting into the kernel, the thing that drives it onward.  That’s going to have to wait until the sixth or seventh backmatter.

As per Cicatriz The Palestinos have been in VC for almost a century.  First one man got a job there, then his relatives came over, and it just kept building and building.  They intermarried with the (largely chicano) locals, and a unique culture grew out of it.  That’s the explanation I’m giving.

Whenever I design a city or town for usage in something I’m writing, there are some features I always include:  the river, for one.  Rivers are necessary (in my mind at least) for a thriving city.  Second, you need areas of town for every socio-economic class, because social class tends to spatialize a bit.  I know there must be other factors to consider, but I think those two are the only factors I acknowledged while writing this.

As for the other element–the Carver element–I’m not going to say too much, for fear of giving things away.  Suffice to say that the Carvers are more than just a political/economic family; they have antecedents in the works of Poe, Lovecraft, and possibly Faulkner.  There’s something strange and sinister about families that call for a definite article when dealing with a big city.

And that’s what the Carvers are meant to be.  Mad, Bad, Dangerous to Know.

Trivia about Cicatriz:  all of the epigraphs that appear in the second part of the episodes–for this first arc–are taken from the same source.  Ambrose Bierce’s The Devil’s Dictionary.  Good reading.

Cheers.

–Cameron Summers?
October, 2009

(This story is a companion piece to Monday’s.  Non-trolling flash fiction will return next Monday.)

“Come in here,” the doctor said, shifting his cigar to the other side of his mouth.

“Are you sure this is sanitary?” the woman asked.

“Sanitary as a tattoo parlor,” the doctor assured her with a grin.

He wore scrubs, but the arms had been cut off, revealing dozens of little black fetus silhouettes up and down his arms. Obviously, he knew what a tattoo parlor was like.

“I’m not so sure I want to go through with this…” she said.

“Why? Is it because my office is in a basement? I’ll have you know that history has been made in this basement.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yeah. It was a speakeasy back during prohibition, and a brothel in the ’50s. These flaking walls and concrete floors have seen a lot.”

He took the cigar out of his mouth and put it out on the bottom of his shoe.

“How about a drink?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Shot of morphine? Laughing gas? I get this stuff wholesale, and don’t really need it for my work.”

“I…I’m alright,” she said.

“Good. Now how about you climb up in the chair?” he said, gesturing into his workspace, “I’ll get you a lollipop when this is all done.”

(Sorry this is so late in coming up, I had visitors this weekend, and wanted to make the most of it.  As for the following piece of flash fiction, it’s a companion piece to something coming up Wednesday.  The pair may be considered trolling, when you consider them together, but I’ve had the idea for a while, and thought I’d get it out.  Enjoy[?])

The man went to church every Sunday, and actively participated in Bible study. Occasionally, he would volunteer at a soup kitchen or food pantry, but that was hardly a regular thing; once a month, tops. In church, he would sometimes speak in tongues, when the spirit was upon him.

When October rolled around, he sent unneeded winter clothes to the homeless shelter, and he wrote his congressman regularly about issues he felt needed attention. The War. Foreign aid. Abortion. Corn subsidies. Gay Marriage.

He visited the sick, when he was familiar with them, and would send get-well cards to those he was on speaking terms with. A group from his church, including the man, went to protest at a pride festival last summer.

Then, one evening in Early December, his pastor almost swallowed his tongue when he saw the man and a woman on the news walking toward the planned parenthood clinic. The woman had a definite swell around her stomach, and the man walked with his arm around her shoulder.

It was security camera footage.

The two walked inside the building, and there was an explosion.

The man wasn’t at church the following Sunday.