Hey y'all, I've always been more of a reader than a writer, but after reading a few stories on here I keep wanting to try my hand at something. I'll go ahead and warn y'all....the grammar/punctuation is absolutely not gonna be perfect. The idea I keep coming up with is for a post-doomsday or whatever story with a different kind of character....all based on people I grew up around/live near me...hopefully it'll go somewhere & someone will enjoy it. Anyway, here goes...
BillAblin
Ben woke up sick. He'd only managed a few hours of fitful, restless sleep because of the two bottles of Nyquil he'd drank last night. Heroin withdrawal wasn't exactly fun in the best of situations...and this certainly didn't qualify as the best of situations. In fact, Ben figured things had gotten just about as bad as they could get. It was only about a week ago...he wasn't sure, exactly, how much time had passed. Junkies run on junk time. 5 minutes can feel like a week when you don't have it, 3 days can go by in a blink if you're high, it's the dopehead theory of relativity....anyway, only a week or so back that everything was normal. Ben went out walking, as usual, to look for something quick & easy to steal. His dealer Blood, who controlled the tiny little town they both lived around, would trade a couple bags for pretty much anything of value. The last time Ben had copped, Blood had traded him enough heroin to last 3 or 4 days, so he'd been holed up, content to sit around,stare at the wall, and shoot dope by himself in the old basement of a long-gone house on his grandfather's property where Ben had taken up residence after being kicked out by various family members. He didn't have electricity or running water, but it was at least a place to stay out of the rain.
Anyway, back to Ben's walk...he hadnt seen or heard from another person for days when he left the basement. He began walking the 3 miles towards Blood's house in the oldest section of their little town, keeping a sharp lookout in the yards he passed for anything he could easily take. His first inkling that something wasn't right was when he passed a nice house burning to the ground with no one in sight...no volunteer firefighters, cops, or even the house's owners standing outside. Ben was creeped out for some reason, then it hit him...in almost an hour of slow walking and sneaking around people's yards, he hadn't seen a single car pass on the road or anyone in their yard. It was like a ghost town and the voice in the back of Ben's mind was screaming that something was very,very wrong, but he had to have his shot, so he kept going.
By the time he reached the center of town, Ben was sure that something catastrophic had taken place. The little convenience store and the Dollar General store....the only two businesses in town....had both clearly been looted. Windows were broken, trash was everywhere, and, strangest of all, there wasn't a single person or car in their parking lots. In small town Alabama, Dollar General was almost a religion....for it to be deserted in the middle of the day was unthinkable. Ben thought about going in to see what he could grab, but figured the weedeater he had stolen & was carrying would be enough for at least a couple bags, and decided not to. He kept walking and turned down the little road that led to Blood's house.
A little backstory on the town: Cottonwood, Alabama was an old coal mining town, started by a company in the early 1900s for both the abundant coal & the two rivers that met nearby. As such, most of the houses in the actual town were company houses built for the workers....tiny, old shotgun houses in two distinct camps that were segregated by race, divided by the main road that runs through the middle of town. The coal company had shut down the mines years ago, only the oldest of residents could remember a time when they were in operation. The small town had basically died soon after, which leaves us where we are now: a small communtiy of around 500 mostly poor people, with a rampant drug problem.
Enough history for now, Ben had walked into what was still called, despite political correctness, the Black Camp. It had always been referred to as such, and probably always would, even though several white families lived on that side of the town divide now. This was Blood's territory, he owned it as far as he, or any of the other residents, were concerned. Pretty much everyone either bought from him, or was employed by him. Blood had made himself a compound of sorts at the end of a dead end road. For a half a mile, there were junk cars stacked upon each other and lining the road all the way to the cul de sac at the end, where he'd somehow attached two double wide trailers together. He had a chain link fence encircling it all, topped with razor wire, and a huge gate complete with video cameras keeping anyone out without invitation.
Back to Ben. He'd finally made it to Blood's fence, and saw the first two people he'd encountered all morning. Cruz and Rat Cheese (I swear these are the "names" of real people I've known/heard of) were always standing at the gate, rain or shine. They were both huge, intimidating guys that Blood paid to watch his gate. Today was a little different, to Ben's surprise (and dread), both men were openly carrying guns. Ben always assumed that they had them, but to be standing with them in plain sight was a whole different matter. He needed to find out what was going on quick.
******apologies to anyone that actually read this much of my story, my phone is about to die so I've gotta stop here for now. I will pick it back up ASAP****** also, forgive me for rambling so much in the story. This is a first attempt and I'm kinda making it up as I go. I know it's not all that great (I've read some truly great stuff on this forum) but hopefully somebody digs it. Thanks to any & all who have read this much. I appreciate it, and comments/suggestions/whatever is always welcome.******
Anyway, back to Ben's walk...he hadnt seen or heard from another person for days when he left the basement. He began walking the 3 miles towards Blood's house in the oldest section of their little town, keeping a sharp lookout in the yards he passed for anything he could easily take. His first inkling that something wasn't right was when he passed a nice house burning to the ground with no one in sight...no volunteer firefighters, cops, or even the house's owners standing outside. Ben was creeped out for some reason, then it hit him...in almost an hour of slow walking and sneaking around people's yards, he hadn't seen a single car pass on the road or anyone in their yard. It was like a ghost town and the voice in the back of Ben's mind was screaming that something was very,very wrong, but he had to have his shot, so he kept going.
By the time he reached the center of town, Ben was sure that something catastrophic had taken place. The little convenience store and the Dollar General store....the only two businesses in town....had both clearly been looted. Windows were broken, trash was everywhere, and, strangest of all, there wasn't a single person or car in their parking lots. In small town Alabama, Dollar General was almost a religion....for it to be deserted in the middle of the day was unthinkable. Ben thought about going in to see what he could grab, but figured the weedeater he had stolen & was carrying would be enough for at least a couple bags, and decided not to. He kept walking and turned down the little road that led to Blood's house.
A little backstory on the town: Cottonwood, Alabama was an old coal mining town, started by a company in the early 1900s for both the abundant coal & the two rivers that met nearby. As such, most of the houses in the actual town were company houses built for the workers....tiny, old shotgun houses in two distinct camps that were segregated by race, divided by the main road that runs through the middle of town. The coal company had shut down the mines years ago, only the oldest of residents could remember a time when they were in operation. The small town had basically died soon after, which leaves us where we are now: a small communtiy of around 500 mostly poor people, with a rampant drug problem.
Enough history for now, Ben had walked into what was still called, despite political correctness, the Black Camp. It had always been referred to as such, and probably always would, even though several white families lived on that side of the town divide now. This was Blood's territory, he owned it as far as he, or any of the other residents, were concerned. Pretty much everyone either bought from him, or was employed by him. Blood had made himself a compound of sorts at the end of a dead end road. For a half a mile, there were junk cars stacked upon each other and lining the road all the way to the cul de sac at the end, where he'd somehow attached two double wide trailers together. He had a chain link fence encircling it all, topped with razor wire, and a huge gate complete with video cameras keeping anyone out without invitation.
Back to Ben. He'd finally made it to Blood's fence, and saw the first two people he'd encountered all morning. Cruz and Rat Cheese (I swear these are the "names" of real people I've known/heard of) were always standing at the gate, rain or shine. They were both huge, intimidating guys that Blood paid to watch his gate. Today was a little different, to Ben's surprise (and dread), both men were openly carrying guns. Ben always assumed that they had them, but to be standing with them in plain sight was a whole different matter. He needed to find out what was going on quick.
******apologies to anyone that actually read this much of my story, my phone is about to die so I've gotta stop here for now. I will pick it back up ASAP****** also, forgive me for rambling so much in the story. This is a first attempt and I'm kinda making it up as I go. I know it's not all that great (I've read some truly great stuff on this forum) but hopefully somebody digs it. Thanks to any & all who have read this much. I appreciate it, and comments/suggestions/whatever is always welcome.******
Thanks, man. It's kinda suprising me (in a good way) that anyone would read something I've written. Ok, I'm gonna try to do a bit more now...picking up where we left off:
Ben approached the gate slowly...he didn't want to surprise these guys...and yelled out a greeting. "Hey Cruz, what's up?"
"Well if it ain't the mother****ing ghost...even the end of the world can't keep you away,huh?"
To everyone on the street, Ben was known as Ghost. He didn't know how it got started, but always figured it was a combination of his junkie pallor & the fact that he could move in and out of people's yards & houses without being seen or heard. Ben didn't mind, as far as nicknames go, Ghost was one hell of alot better than what some of these guys went by....hell, he knew one dude called Goat Mouth. It was even kind of cool.
Ben replied "yeah, I haven't been out in a few days. What the hell is going on, man?"
Pookie spoke up then "Nobody knows, white boy. I've heard some crazy **** though. The lights went out, Obama phone don't work no more, cars don't start....and we ain't heard **** from the government. I think it's Armageddon in this bitch."
Ben was stunned...he didn't imagine that things were that bad. He was worried, very worried...but his first priority was the same as always. "Blood holding?" He asked.
"Man, you know Blood got that ****. But you better watch your ass, Ghost. Blood done let this **** go to his head. Everybody else is scared, Blood says it was a business opportunity. He already think he owns this town, now he think he the king or some ****."
"Damn" Ben thought to himself " Blood was always crazy...he's just the kind of ruthless bastard to enjoy ****ing Doomsday." He went in anyway, walking up to the door of the connected trailers & knocked. The door was answered by a girl named Jenny that Ben had known since elementary school. Her once good looks were long gone, sacrificed to junk. Ben couldn't judge, just 10 years ago he'd been a Marine. He'd done his four years, came back home, and fell in with all his old friends who had progressed from taking the occasional Vicodin to mainlining heroin. He had a habit before he knew what hit him. Semper Fi to Semper ****ed in the blink of an eye.
Ben approached the gate slowly...he didn't want to surprise these guys...and yelled out a greeting. "Hey Cruz, what's up?"
"Well if it ain't the mother****ing ghost...even the end of the world can't keep you away,huh?"
To everyone on the street, Ben was known as Ghost. He didn't know how it got started, but always figured it was a combination of his junkie pallor & the fact that he could move in and out of people's yards & houses without being seen or heard. Ben didn't mind, as far as nicknames go, Ghost was one hell of alot better than what some of these guys went by....hell, he knew one dude called Goat Mouth. It was even kind of cool.
Ben replied "yeah, I haven't been out in a few days. What the hell is going on, man?"
Pookie spoke up then "Nobody knows, white boy. I've heard some crazy **** though. The lights went out, Obama phone don't work no more, cars don't start....and we ain't heard **** from the government. I think it's Armageddon in this bitch."
Ben was stunned...he didn't imagine that things were that bad. He was worried, very worried...but his first priority was the same as always. "Blood holding?" He asked.
"Man, you know Blood got that ****. But you better watch your ass, Ghost. Blood done let this **** go to his head. Everybody else is scared, Blood says it was a business opportunity. He already think he owns this town, now he think he the king or some ****."
"Damn" Ben thought to himself " Blood was always crazy...he's just the kind of ruthless bastard to enjoy ****ing Doomsday." He went in anyway, walking up to the door of the connected trailers & knocked. The door was answered by a girl named Jenny that Ben had known since elementary school. Her once good looks were long gone, sacrificed to junk. Ben couldn't judge, just 10 years ago he'd been a Marine. He'd done his four years, came back home, and fell in with all his old friends who had progressed from taking the occasional Vicodin to mainlining heroin. He had a habit before he knew what hit him. Semper Fi to Semper ****ed in the blink of an eye.
I'll start off by again thanking everyone that's read/commented...i really appreciate it, and to get "thanks" & comments from people whose opinions I respect (I've read a bunch of stories here & recognize some of the names ) is even better. Y'all are great.
I wanna reiterate....I'm not a writer & this is all coming from the top of my head as I'm doing it. Ben, our "hero", is heavily based on someone I grew up with. In the context of the story, he could go either way....I don't even know what he's gonna do. All the other characters are straight up taken from reality....Blood's little "compound" is a very real place. I've seen it from the church bus several times.
Anyway, I could go on with preamble/backstory all day & I don't wanna do that....I want to see where this goes too. So remember...it ain't gonna be perfect as I'm writing it. Maybe, if it actually turns out to be interesting and ok, I'll do some editing & rewriting to make it into an actual story.
So, without further rambling, on to the story (next post).
I wanna reiterate....I'm not a writer & this is all coming from the top of my head as I'm doing it. Ben, our "hero", is heavily based on someone I grew up with. In the context of the story, he could go either way....I don't even know what he's gonna do. All the other characters are straight up taken from reality....Blood's little "compound" is a very real place. I've seen it from the church bus several times.
Anyway, I could go on with preamble/backstory all day & I don't wanna do that....I want to see where this goes too. So remember...it ain't gonna be perfect as I'm writing it. Maybe, if it actually turns out to be interesting and ok, I'll do some editing & rewriting to make it into an actual story.
So, without further rambling, on to the story (next post).
Unfortunately, I just had a long section of story accidentally deleted....I need to start writing this on a computer. Anyway....
"Hey Jenny" Ben said as he entered the trailer. Her reply was so mumbled that Ben couldn't be sure of what she said, although he thought he'd caught something about the devil. He walked down the short hall and went into Blood's "living room", actually a bedroom that Blood had given a couple of crackheads a few rocks to expand by knocking down the walls to adjoining rooms with sledgehammers. This was where Blood operated from, all other rooms were forbidden to customers. Ben had been here many times, but was suprised by the scene that greeted him. Usually only a couple of Blood's guys were hanging out, today the room was occupied by close to ten women, all in various stages of undress, sitting on couches or sprawled in the floor with vacant stares. Two more of Blood's henchmen were also in the room, both openly carrying AK-47 rifles. This wasn't good....
"Ghost," came Blood's voice from the far side of the room, "I've been expecting yo' ass to show up."
Ben turned to look at Blood and saw that Pookie's warning was justified. Blood was sitting on a huge, ornately carved wooden chair like a king on a throne. In one hand he held a huge knife with an oddly curved blade that had to be 10 inches or more. Blood didn't have to try to be intimidating, standing almost 7 feet tall, he towered over everyone around. He was also the most muscular person Ben had ever seen, and had a huge, ugly scar running from his left eye all the way to his collar bone, rumored to be the result of a knife fight. The worst thing, though, was that he was crazy....egotistical, highly intelligent, and violent. Blood could switch from calm & collected to a murderous rage in the blink of an eye over the most trifling things or prosaic of comments, often people never knew just what they'd said to offend him. Ben instantly realized that, with the new circumstances, Blood would be even worse.
"Hey, man" Ben replied.
" You like my new chair, white boy? I got this **** from the Mason Lodge in town...they ain't gonna need it no mo'. All the good people gone now, God took 'em. You know the book of Revelation? My grandmama drug my ass to church every Sunday when I was a kid. I know what's up. All that's left now is the cockroaches like you and the new Gods like me. Satan's in this bitch and he'll give power to those of us who serve him."
"I know things have gotten weird, man." Ben said, keeping his eye on Blood's huge knife, " I'm kinda scared, honestly, but I still need a shot."
"I got what you need, Ghost, and I'm gon' be the only one around holding anything from now on. But you can't bring me no bull**** like that weed whacker no more. It's a new world and I gotta have **** I can use. If you want my ****, you gotta serve me."
Ben knew this was bad. There was no telling what Blood would want him to do, but he was sick and desperate enough to agree to anything. Junkies live in the "right now", yesterday & tomorrow are vague ideas at best with little bearing on their decisions. Ben knew he'd do whatever it took to get well, if only temporarily.
"Ok, man. Tell me what you need and I'll get it, just front me a 20 bag and I'll be back with whatever you want." Another bad idea, asking Blood to front anything was always a bad idea.....Ben had personally seen Blood stomp Chicken, another local addict, so bad that he had to be carried out of the trailer. Chicken had asked Blood to front him a $10 bag and now, months later, he still couldn't walk right.
"You know I don't usually front ****, Ghost, but I'm feeling generous today. I know you was in the military, I got a mission for you. You know that old white man with all the guns a few miles outta town. I want the guns and all the bullets you can find. I'm gonna give you enough methadone for a few days, I don't want you getting too ****ed up on H and nodding out. I don't care what you have to do to get them, but you better come back with those guns."
Ben's stomach dropped...He knew now that he was royally screwed. There was only one old man Blood could be talking about, everyone around town called him Old Man Carroll. The old man definitely had guns, he sold them at every local gun show for the past few decades. Also, he and his 3 sons were all former military, and all hunters. Long ago, before Ben had become just another junkie thief, he'd visited the Old Man's house regularly with his best friend Josh, Mr. Carroll's grandson. Ben knew the house contained a veritable arsenal, he also knew that it would be well defended. He was ****ed, but he knew better than to question Blood.
Blood counted out ten 40 mg Methadone wafers and handed them to Ben. It wasn't what Ben preferred, but he wasn't in a position to be picky. The 'done would stop his withdrawals and had the added benefit of keeping them away for at least a day, unlike heroin that required shots every couple of hours. Ben could also function alot better on methadone, and he knew he'd have to be thinking clearly for what he had to do now. Blood, for all intents and purposes, now owned Ben. The 10 wafers he'd been fronted would usually have cost $400, now though, Blood could demand any price. Ben quickly swallowed a pill and started to leave.
Blood stopped him " I got something else for you, Ghost. Yo' ass ain't gonna get too far without a weapon." He stood from his new "throne" and walked to a cabinet in the corner. Blood slid open a drawer and pulled out a pistol, which he passed to Ben. "You carry this. Shoot any mother****er who gets in your way. Now get your junkie ass out of here and don't come back without my guns or you'll get alot more acquainted with that knife you been starin' at."
"Hey Jenny" Ben said as he entered the trailer. Her reply was so mumbled that Ben couldn't be sure of what she said, although he thought he'd caught something about the devil. He walked down the short hall and went into Blood's "living room", actually a bedroom that Blood had given a couple of crackheads a few rocks to expand by knocking down the walls to adjoining rooms with sledgehammers. This was where Blood operated from, all other rooms were forbidden to customers. Ben had been here many times, but was suprised by the scene that greeted him. Usually only a couple of Blood's guys were hanging out, today the room was occupied by close to ten women, all in various stages of undress, sitting on couches or sprawled in the floor with vacant stares. Two more of Blood's henchmen were also in the room, both openly carrying AK-47 rifles. This wasn't good....
"Ghost," came Blood's voice from the far side of the room, "I've been expecting yo' ass to show up."
Ben turned to look at Blood and saw that Pookie's warning was justified. Blood was sitting on a huge, ornately carved wooden chair like a king on a throne. In one hand he held a huge knife with an oddly curved blade that had to be 10 inches or more. Blood didn't have to try to be intimidating, standing almost 7 feet tall, he towered over everyone around. He was also the most muscular person Ben had ever seen, and had a huge, ugly scar running from his left eye all the way to his collar bone, rumored to be the result of a knife fight. The worst thing, though, was that he was crazy....egotistical, highly intelligent, and violent. Blood could switch from calm & collected to a murderous rage in the blink of an eye over the most trifling things or prosaic of comments, often people never knew just what they'd said to offend him. Ben instantly realized that, with the new circumstances, Blood would be even worse.
"Hey, man" Ben replied.
" You like my new chair, white boy? I got this **** from the Mason Lodge in town...they ain't gonna need it no mo'. All the good people gone now, God took 'em. You know the book of Revelation? My grandmama drug my ass to church every Sunday when I was a kid. I know what's up. All that's left now is the cockroaches like you and the new Gods like me. Satan's in this bitch and he'll give power to those of us who serve him."
"I know things have gotten weird, man." Ben said, keeping his eye on Blood's huge knife, " I'm kinda scared, honestly, but I still need a shot."
"I got what you need, Ghost, and I'm gon' be the only one around holding anything from now on. But you can't bring me no bull**** like that weed whacker no more. It's a new world and I gotta have **** I can use. If you want my ****, you gotta serve me."
Ben knew this was bad. There was no telling what Blood would want him to do, but he was sick and desperate enough to agree to anything. Junkies live in the "right now", yesterday & tomorrow are vague ideas at best with little bearing on their decisions. Ben knew he'd do whatever it took to get well, if only temporarily.
"Ok, man. Tell me what you need and I'll get it, just front me a 20 bag and I'll be back with whatever you want." Another bad idea, asking Blood to front anything was always a bad idea.....Ben had personally seen Blood stomp Chicken, another local addict, so bad that he had to be carried out of the trailer. Chicken had asked Blood to front him a $10 bag and now, months later, he still couldn't walk right.
"You know I don't usually front ****, Ghost, but I'm feeling generous today. I know you was in the military, I got a mission for you. You know that old white man with all the guns a few miles outta town. I want the guns and all the bullets you can find. I'm gonna give you enough methadone for a few days, I don't want you getting too ****ed up on H and nodding out. I don't care what you have to do to get them, but you better come back with those guns."
Ben's stomach dropped...He knew now that he was royally screwed. There was only one old man Blood could be talking about, everyone around town called him Old Man Carroll. The old man definitely had guns, he sold them at every local gun show for the past few decades. Also, he and his 3 sons were all former military, and all hunters. Long ago, before Ben had become just another junkie thief, he'd visited the Old Man's house regularly with his best friend Josh, Mr. Carroll's grandson. Ben knew the house contained a veritable arsenal, he also knew that it would be well defended. He was ****ed, but he knew better than to question Blood.
Blood counted out ten 40 mg Methadone wafers and handed them to Ben. It wasn't what Ben preferred, but he wasn't in a position to be picky. The 'done would stop his withdrawals and had the added benefit of keeping them away for at least a day, unlike heroin that required shots every couple of hours. Ben could also function alot better on methadone, and he knew he'd have to be thinking clearly for what he had to do now. Blood, for all intents and purposes, now owned Ben. The 10 wafers he'd been fronted would usually have cost $400, now though, Blood could demand any price. Ben quickly swallowed a pill and started to leave.
Blood stopped him " I got something else for you, Ghost. Yo' ass ain't gonna get too far without a weapon." He stood from his new "throne" and walked to a cabinet in the corner. Blood slid open a drawer and pulled out a pistol, which he passed to Ben. "You carry this. Shoot any mother****er who gets in your way. Now get your junkie ass out of here and don't come back without my guns or you'll get alot more acquainted with that knife you been starin' at."
Ben left quickly, passing the gate manned by Cruz and Pookie without saying a word. As the 'done started to kick in, he started thinking more clearly and his mind kept replaying the scene he'd just left. What the hell was up with all those half naked women? Ben figured Blood was collecting himself a harem, it fit perfectly into Blood's grandiose self image. Also, the knife...a kukri, Ben remembered, he'd seem them at gun shows when he was younger. Used as a weapon in some parts of the world, they were just as adept at chopping people as they were firewood. Ben took the pistol from his waistband and looked at it, a Glock 17. He checked the magazine and found it to be fully loaded with 9mm hollow points. He quickly tucked it back into his waist, out of sight. Ben didn't know how to proceed from here, he wasn't a killer....sure, he'd been a Marine, but never anywhere near combat. After basic, Ben was trained to maintain helicopters, and was never deployed outside the country. He knew he had no chance in hell of taking anything from Old Man Carroll or his family. The three generations of Carroll men living on their property a few miles outside of Cottonwood were all combat veterans. Ben's old friend Josh had fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, his father and older uncles were in the first gulf war and Vietnam, and the Old Man himself had served in Korea. They would, Ben knew, defend their property against anyone trying to take it by force. He thought again about just how screwed he was, but thought he'd head back to his basement to try to figure out a plan.
After walking for an hour or so, Ben finally came to his grandfather's old property. About 20 acres, it had been in Ben's family for generations. It contained a big patch of woods, a small pond, and what used to be a cow pasture. He'd never had very many, Ben always kind of thought of it as a hobby to his grandpa. After Ben's grandfather had gotten too old to take care of the cows himself, they'd been sold. Now all that remained was fence and a slowly collapsing barn. Ben kept walking past his grandfather's house, not wanting to face his mother just yet. She had moved back in with her parents when Ben was 5, after her husband died. Ben had grown up with his pawpaw, as he called him, as his only father figure. He spent most of his free time with Pawpaw, who liked to get up early and ramble around, checking on his cows or just walking....all of which he referred to as "work" in the presence of his wife and daughter. He'd worked hard in the mines all of his life, worked feeding cows & planting crops when he got home, and figured he'd do whatever the hell he wanted after he retired. In the last few years, though, his wife had died and he'd been diagnosed with Alzheimer's soon after.
******gotta stop real quick, more later*****
After walking for an hour or so, Ben finally came to his grandfather's old property. About 20 acres, it had been in Ben's family for generations. It contained a big patch of woods, a small pond, and what used to be a cow pasture. He'd never had very many, Ben always kind of thought of it as a hobby to his grandpa. After Ben's grandfather had gotten too old to take care of the cows himself, they'd been sold. Now all that remained was fence and a slowly collapsing barn. Ben kept walking past his grandfather's house, not wanting to face his mother just yet. She had moved back in with her parents when Ben was 5, after her husband died. Ben had grown up with his pawpaw, as he called him, as his only father figure. He spent most of his free time with Pawpaw, who liked to get up early and ramble around, checking on his cows or just walking....all of which he referred to as "work" in the presence of his wife and daughter. He'd worked hard in the mines all of his life, worked feeding cows & planting crops when he got home, and figured he'd do whatever the hell he wanted after he retired. In the last few years, though, his wife had died and he'd been diagnosed with Alzheimer's soon after.
******gotta stop real quick, more later*****
Picking back up:
Now his grandfather required constant care and supervision, which was provided by Ben's mother and the home health nurses that visited a couple times a week. Ben knew deep down that he should be helping to take care of the man who'd raised him, but he was so caught up in his addiction and the day to day desperate search for drugs, that he couldn't help anyone else. His mom had finally thrown him out of the house, saying she couldn't stand to see him killing himself slowly anymore and wouldn't help him do it. Ben had taken refuge in the only place he could think of, an old basement in a small clearing out in his grandpa's woods. There had been a house there long ago, but it had burned down before Ben was born, leaving only the basement behind. Years of unchecked weed growth had hidden the one entrance from anyone who didn't know where it was already. Ben stayed there without electricity or running water. He burned candles for light and walked a couple hundred yards to a creek to get fresh water. There was no furniture, Ben slept on an old army cot in one corner, which was surrounded by the few clothes Ben owned, a duffel bag he'd brought back from the Marines, and stacks of books that were Ben's sole form of entertainment.
Ben had always loved to read. He'd been a straight A student throughout middle school with little effort. When he and his classmates were tested, Ben scored the highest with a 140 IQ. He & his best friend Josh were good kids who played sports, didn't get into trouble, and were avid hunters and fisherman. Everything changed for Ben when he entered high school. Now he was in a completely different environment, with different rules, and popularity was the most important thing. Ben began hanging out with a different set of friends who did different things for fun....drinking, smoking, even taking drugs all seemed to add to their "cool" reputation. It wasn't long before Ben's grades took a nosedive. He and his friend Josh just drifted apart.
Ben stayed with the "cool" crowd all throughout high school. After graduation, he was lost. Popularity didn't mean anything anymore, and Ben didn't have the money or grades for college. There were no good jobs in his area hiring, so Ben enlisted. He went through basic training, then trained to maintain copters, and worked at that his whole time in the Corps. Ben hated the strict discipline, only enjoying going out with his new friends drinking and getting into fights. He had no interest in re-enlisting, so as soon as he was able, he came back to Alabama.
When he got back home, Ben was amazed. Everything had changed drastically in a short amount of time....when he left, a few people he knew smoked weed and even fewer took a pain pill every now and then. Really hard drugs were unheard of in his area. Now it seemed like everyone was using heroin or meth. Burglaries were a regular occurance and you couldn't leave the house without seeing junkies with sunken faces and dead eyes. Ben started hanging out with his old crowd, and before long he had a habit. Ten years later, Ben had lost everything he'd ever had, especially his morals. Once he would have found it unthinkable to steal from anyone, now it was a fact of life, how he survived. The only thing he'd gained was a larger habit.
Now his grandfather required constant care and supervision, which was provided by Ben's mother and the home health nurses that visited a couple times a week. Ben knew deep down that he should be helping to take care of the man who'd raised him, but he was so caught up in his addiction and the day to day desperate search for drugs, that he couldn't help anyone else. His mom had finally thrown him out of the house, saying she couldn't stand to see him killing himself slowly anymore and wouldn't help him do it. Ben had taken refuge in the only place he could think of, an old basement in a small clearing out in his grandpa's woods. There had been a house there long ago, but it had burned down before Ben was born, leaving only the basement behind. Years of unchecked weed growth had hidden the one entrance from anyone who didn't know where it was already. Ben stayed there without electricity or running water. He burned candles for light and walked a couple hundred yards to a creek to get fresh water. There was no furniture, Ben slept on an old army cot in one corner, which was surrounded by the few clothes Ben owned, a duffel bag he'd brought back from the Marines, and stacks of books that were Ben's sole form of entertainment.
Ben had always loved to read. He'd been a straight A student throughout middle school with little effort. When he and his classmates were tested, Ben scored the highest with a 140 IQ. He & his best friend Josh were good kids who played sports, didn't get into trouble, and were avid hunters and fisherman. Everything changed for Ben when he entered high school. Now he was in a completely different environment, with different rules, and popularity was the most important thing. Ben began hanging out with a different set of friends who did different things for fun....drinking, smoking, even taking drugs all seemed to add to their "cool" reputation. It wasn't long before Ben's grades took a nosedive. He and his friend Josh just drifted apart.
Ben stayed with the "cool" crowd all throughout high school. After graduation, he was lost. Popularity didn't mean anything anymore, and Ben didn't have the money or grades for college. There were no good jobs in his area hiring, so Ben enlisted. He went through basic training, then trained to maintain copters, and worked at that his whole time in the Corps. Ben hated the strict discipline, only enjoying going out with his new friends drinking and getting into fights. He had no interest in re-enlisting, so as soon as he was able, he came back to Alabama.
When he got back home, Ben was amazed. Everything had changed drastically in a short amount of time....when he left, a few people he knew smoked weed and even fewer took a pain pill every now and then. Really hard drugs were unheard of in his area. Now it seemed like everyone was using heroin or meth. Burglaries were a regular occurance and you couldn't leave the house without seeing junkies with sunken faces and dead eyes. Ben started hanging out with his old crowd, and before long he had a habit. Ten years later, Ben had lost everything he'd ever had, especially his morals. Once he would have found it unthinkable to steal from anyone, now it was a fact of life, how he survived. The only thing he'd gained was a larger habit.
Ben cut across an old field and into the woods toward his basement. He was so absorbed with fear about his current situation that it took him a while to even wonder how his mother and grandfather were doing. Ben might be a junkie, but he still loved both of them. He was usually too ashamed of himself to face his mother, but he knew that he needed to go check on them. Ben's grandfather required constant supervision, and with no phone and no working car, his mother would need help. He started running towards the house, cursing himself for not stopping before. When he'd passed earlier, the house was as dark and silent as everywhere else, it hadn't even registered with Ben. Now, though, he was worried sick...all thoughts of Blood and dope were gone from his mind, replaced by concern for his family.
Ben ran up onto his grandfather's porch, already calling for his mother. He noticed that the front door was ajar and burst in looking around. No one answered him, so Ben started going room to room looking. It didn't take long to find them...Ben's grandfather was lying in his bedroom in his hospital bed like usual, clearly dead. He'd been shot. Ben looked to the other side of the room and felt like his heart stopped, his mother was face down on the floor, dead from multiple gun shots. Beside her on the floor was a knife that Ben knew well, a KA-BAR that, along with the duffel bag, Ben had brought home from the Marines. He dropped to the floor beside his mother, sobbing. Ben couldn't believe this had happened, why would anyone want to hurt her or his pawpaw? Ben stayed on the floor for hours, repeating the words "I'm sorry, Mama. I should've been here." over and over. When he finally managed to compose himself, Ben got up and looked around the house. The sun had risen and he could see that someone had ransacked the house, probably in search of drugs. Ben's pawpaw's prescription bottles were scattered around the kitchen floor, none of them were remotely useful to a junkie. Ben knew he had to do something, his mother and grandfather had lain there for days, and he wasn't sure he could dig deep enough to bury them properly. He grabbed a garbage bag and went through the house gathering all the canned foods and OTC medicines he could find. He was about to walk out the door when he stopped, turned around, and went to retrieve his KA-BAR.
Ben went out to the small tool shed beside the house and grabbed a large gas can. He found the water hose, cut off a piece, and siphoned enough gas from his mom's car to fill the can. When it was full, Ben went into the house pouring gas on everything flammable he could find. When he ran out, he used his lighter to ignite the curtains in all the rooms, making his way outside.
Ben got to the porch and stopped to speak to his mother one last time. " I'm so sorry, Mama. I know I was a disappointment to you and Pawpaw. I've been strung out so long and fallen so far that I was hopeless. I didn't think there was any way or any reason for me to get clean. I'm sorry I couldn't do it for y'all before, but I'm gonna do it now. I love you." Ben said, and took the bottle of Methadone pills out of his pocket. He took one wafer from the bottle...Ben knew he had alot of work to do today to prepare for the next week and he couldn't do it sick...and held onto it. Then he threw the bottle with the remaining pills into the growing fire and walked away. He never looked back.
Ben ran up onto his grandfather's porch, already calling for his mother. He noticed that the front door was ajar and burst in looking around. No one answered him, so Ben started going room to room looking. It didn't take long to find them...Ben's grandfather was lying in his bedroom in his hospital bed like usual, clearly dead. He'd been shot. Ben looked to the other side of the room and felt like his heart stopped, his mother was face down on the floor, dead from multiple gun shots. Beside her on the floor was a knife that Ben knew well, a KA-BAR that, along with the duffel bag, Ben had brought home from the Marines. He dropped to the floor beside his mother, sobbing. Ben couldn't believe this had happened, why would anyone want to hurt her or his pawpaw? Ben stayed on the floor for hours, repeating the words "I'm sorry, Mama. I should've been here." over and over. When he finally managed to compose himself, Ben got up and looked around the house. The sun had risen and he could see that someone had ransacked the house, probably in search of drugs. Ben's pawpaw's prescription bottles were scattered around the kitchen floor, none of them were remotely useful to a junkie. Ben knew he had to do something, his mother and grandfather had lain there for days, and he wasn't sure he could dig deep enough to bury them properly. He grabbed a garbage bag and went through the house gathering all the canned foods and OTC medicines he could find. He was about to walk out the door when he stopped, turned around, and went to retrieve his KA-BAR.
Ben went out to the small tool shed beside the house and grabbed a large gas can. He found the water hose, cut off a piece, and siphoned enough gas from his mom's car to fill the can. When it was full, Ben went into the house pouring gas on everything flammable he could find. When he ran out, he used his lighter to ignite the curtains in all the rooms, making his way outside.
Ben got to the porch and stopped to speak to his mother one last time. " I'm so sorry, Mama. I know I was a disappointment to you and Pawpaw. I've been strung out so long and fallen so far that I was hopeless. I didn't think there was any way or any reason for me to get clean. I'm sorry I couldn't do it for y'all before, but I'm gonna do it now. I love you." Ben said, and took the bottle of Methadone pills out of his pocket. He took one wafer from the bottle...Ben knew he had alot of work to do today to prepare for the next week and he couldn't do it sick...and held onto it. Then he threw the bottle with the remaining pills into the growing fire and walked away. He never looked back.
Ben was in a state of shock. He'd had quite a few bad days in his 33 years, but none even compared to today. All of his concerns and anxiety about the Blood situation were forgotten and he was overcome with grief for his family. Ben never dreamed something like this would happen....He fully expected that he'd be dead from an overdose long before his mother died. He'd even held the idea in the back of his mind that someday, somehow he might get clean and eventually rejoin respectable society. Most junkies flirt with the same idea....when you're high nothing seems like it can touch you and withdrawal seems easy. It's only when the cold reality of sickness kicks in that they realize how much they need dope.
Despite his grief and regret, Ben knew he couldn't afford to dwell on it. He'd made a vow to his mother to get off drugs for good, and he intended to do it immediately. He figured it would take at least 5 days and he would need supplies. More importantly, Ben knew that Blood would give him only a couple days to complete his "mission" before he sent guys looking for Ben. He needed a safe place to get clean....the basement was out of the question. Living in a small town, everyone knew everything about everyone else. Blood knew where Ben's family lived, their property would be the first place he'd send someone looking for Ben. Luckily, Ben had an idea...
Back during middle school, when he still liked to hunt and hike, Ben and Josh had explored the woods for miles around. They'd found that you could put a canoe in the creek behind Ben's grandfather's property and make it to the river easily. Then you followed the river for a few miles deep into the most remote area in this part of Alabama. Ben and Josh had discovered a small island in the middle of a swamp, surrounded by uninhabited forest for miles. They didn't know it's real name, or if it even had one, but decided to call it Moccasin Island in honor of it's most plentiful inhabitants, water moccasins. After searching the small island, the boys were shocked to find an old cabin hidden by vines and trees. It had obviously been abandoned long ago, so Ben and Josh claimed it as their own and kept it's existence a secret between them. They'd used it to camp out on fishing trips and squirrel hunting, until their friendship ended in high school. This was where Ben planned to go hide out, he just had to pack first.
Despite his grief and regret, Ben knew he couldn't afford to dwell on it. He'd made a vow to his mother to get off drugs for good, and he intended to do it immediately. He figured it would take at least 5 days and he would need supplies. More importantly, Ben knew that Blood would give him only a couple days to complete his "mission" before he sent guys looking for Ben. He needed a safe place to get clean....the basement was out of the question. Living in a small town, everyone knew everything about everyone else. Blood knew where Ben's family lived, their property would be the first place he'd send someone looking for Ben. Luckily, Ben had an idea...
Back during middle school, when he still liked to hunt and hike, Ben and Josh had explored the woods for miles around. They'd found that you could put a canoe in the creek behind Ben's grandfather's property and make it to the river easily. Then you followed the river for a few miles deep into the most remote area in this part of Alabama. Ben and Josh had discovered a small island in the middle of a swamp, surrounded by uninhabited forest for miles. They didn't know it's real name, or if it even had one, but decided to call it Moccasin Island in honor of it's most plentiful inhabitants, water moccasins. After searching the small island, the boys were shocked to find an old cabin hidden by vines and trees. It had obviously been abandoned long ago, so Ben and Josh claimed it as their own and kept it's existence a secret between them. They'd used it to camp out on fishing trips and squirrel hunting, until their friendship ended in high school. This was where Ben planned to go hide out, he just had to pack first.
****** I just wanna say thanks again to anyone still reading. I appreciate it very much. I've read so many great stories here that I wanted to contribute something, however amateur. Hopefully it's at least enjoyable or different enough to keep y'all reading.****** I also wanted to mention: I really, really hope no one local to me is reading this.....it's fiction, but the town and character's backstories would make it obvious who I'm talking about. Ben is about 75% one real person, the other details come from two or three different people. Blood is about 98% one dude, I just gave him another name.****** I'm trying to be vague on military details, i don't know much about it. I'm sure there are other things that I have, or will, get wrong....feel free to correct me. Finally, I'm sure y'all can tell....I love backstory, it's one of my favorite aspects of books. I know I'm probably giving too much and rambling, I'll try to restrain myself. I guess that's it for now, story continued in next post******
Ben knew he had to hurry. Yesterday's dose was starting to wear off and he could feel the beginning stages of dope sickness creeping up on him. It was around 7 a.m. and he had to find everything he would need this morning so he could make it to the cabin before nightfall. Ben reached into his pocket and retrieved his last wafer. As always, he felt the thrill of anticipation...this time mingled with dread. He knew that, if things went according to plan, this was the last opiate he'd ever take. Ben felt a weird kind of sorrow at this thought, after all, junk was the closest thing to a relationship he'd had in years. He forced the thoughts and anxiety out of his mind, he needed to stay focused on the task at hand.
Ben first went to his grandpa's old barn. It was dilapidated from years of disuse. Ben hadn't even looked inside since his return from the Corps ten years ago. He hoped everything was still the same as before he left because his first priority was transportation...if he couldn't make it to the island, Ben's plan was shot. He opened the old door and stepped inside and breathed a sigh of relief, his old canoe was still there in the far corner, covered by a tarp. He walked over and checked the hull for any cracks or holes and found none, then turned the canoe over to drag it out of the barn. Ben was pleasantly suprised to find that, under the canoe, were his fishing poles and tackle box. He'd left them there the last time he and Josh went fishing. Ben opened the box to check the contents, hoping he'd find something still usable. He wasn't disappointed, there were hooks of all sizes, small jigs and a couple rooster tails, and two knives. Ben picked the knives up to look at them closer, a Swiss Army knife with a saw, scissors, and two blades among other tools, and a fixed blade in a leather sheath. Ben pulled his old knife from it's sheath, it was a Grohmann # 1, what his Pawpaw had called a "Canada knife". The blade had a small bit of rust on it, but when Ben felt the edge it was still razor sharp. He placed both knives back into the tackle box and put it and the 2 fishing poles into the canoe and dragged it to the barn door. Ben figured he oughta look through the barn to see if he could find anything else of use.
He wasn't disappointed. Ben's grandpa had always collected all kinds of tools, the barn was full of things he'd bought at yard sales and flea markets. Ben saw an old Plumb hatchet stuck into a piece of wood and a long machete with the word "Tramontina" stamped near the handle. He took both, along with 4 large boxes of matches he found in a toolbox drawer, a wood saw, and a whetstone. Although he was tempted, Ben knew he couldn't carry everything, so he threw his finds into the canoe and left the barn.
Ben knew he'd have to find the other things he needed elsewhere. All of the nearby houses he'd passed yesterday seemed abandoned, so he hoped he could go in and scavenge what he needed without being seen by anyone. He'd promised his mother he'd get clean, it went without mentioning that he'd also stop stealing. Ben wanted to change completely, to become the kind of person he was before drugs had degraded his morality. He only intended to look for supplies in houses that were vacated. Ben started out walking the same direction as yesterday and stopped at the closest neighbor's trailer. A family lived here, Ben knew, but they'd only moved there in the last couple of years and were strangers to Ben. He stepped up on the porch and knocked, hoping no one would answer. No one did, so he checked the door and found it unlocked. Ben went in and called out "Hello, anyone here?" Silence. No one replied. Ben looked around and could tell that the neighbors were gone. The fridge was standing open, almost empty of food, and all the drawers were pulled out. They'd obviously gathered all they could carry and left to go...where? Ben didn't know, from the few people he'd talked to in the last day, he'd learned that nobody knew exactly what was going on. Maybe these people had some idea, or just had a safer place to ride out whatever was happening. Ben couldn't afford to consider it very long, he began looking for anything the trailers inhabitants had left behind, hoping he'd find something useful.
He looked under the kitchen sink and found half a box of heavy duty garbage bags. This was good, he'd need a way to carry whatever he found and they'd be waterproof for his trip on the river. In one of the kitchen drawers Ben found a couple dozen long white candles and threw them into a garbage bag. He looked through the cabinets and grabbed all the canned food that had been left behind without even checking the contents. It wasn't much, but Ben knew he'd need whatever he could find. Next he checked the bathroom, in the medicine cabinet he found a bottle of Nyquil, a bottle of Imodium, and a prescription of Promethazine, an anti-nausea medicine. All three would help him during withdrawal, and because they weren't narcotics, he felt he could take them without breaking his promise.
Finally Ben checked the bedroom, where he made his best discovery yet. Underneath the bed, he found a bolt-action .22 rifle. Ben grabbed it and went to look in the closet, where he found a large camoflage backpack buried beneath some clothes. Inside were several boxes of ammo, 2 marked 9mm Parabellum, the others all varying kinds of .22. Ben took out the boxes to inspect them. The 9mm boxes were unopened and contained 50 rounds apiece. There were far more .22s, 3 big 500 count boxes of "golden bullets", along with 5 smaller boxes that read "quiet ammo" and a couple little boxes of rat shot. Along with the ammo, the bag contained a small headlamp and a bigger flashlight, along with an unopened pack of batteries. Ben closed up the backpack and shouldered it, wondering to himself why it wasn't taken when the family left. He first checked the bedside table, then under the mattress, but didn't find the missing 9mm pistol. The only other useful thing he came across was a large pocket knife, which he stuffed in his pocket. Ben gathered up his garbage bag and made his way back outside. He was ready to go.
Ben first went to his grandpa's old barn. It was dilapidated from years of disuse. Ben hadn't even looked inside since his return from the Corps ten years ago. He hoped everything was still the same as before he left because his first priority was transportation...if he couldn't make it to the island, Ben's plan was shot. He opened the old door and stepped inside and breathed a sigh of relief, his old canoe was still there in the far corner, covered by a tarp. He walked over and checked the hull for any cracks or holes and found none, then turned the canoe over to drag it out of the barn. Ben was pleasantly suprised to find that, under the canoe, were his fishing poles and tackle box. He'd left them there the last time he and Josh went fishing. Ben opened the box to check the contents, hoping he'd find something still usable. He wasn't disappointed, there were hooks of all sizes, small jigs and a couple rooster tails, and two knives. Ben picked the knives up to look at them closer, a Swiss Army knife with a saw, scissors, and two blades among other tools, and a fixed blade in a leather sheath. Ben pulled his old knife from it's sheath, it was a Grohmann # 1, what his Pawpaw had called a "Canada knife". The blade had a small bit of rust on it, but when Ben felt the edge it was still razor sharp. He placed both knives back into the tackle box and put it and the 2 fishing poles into the canoe and dragged it to the barn door. Ben figured he oughta look through the barn to see if he could find anything else of use.
He wasn't disappointed. Ben's grandpa had always collected all kinds of tools, the barn was full of things he'd bought at yard sales and flea markets. Ben saw an old Plumb hatchet stuck into a piece of wood and a long machete with the word "Tramontina" stamped near the handle. He took both, along with 4 large boxes of matches he found in a toolbox drawer, a wood saw, and a whetstone. Although he was tempted, Ben knew he couldn't carry everything, so he threw his finds into the canoe and left the barn.
Ben knew he'd have to find the other things he needed elsewhere. All of the nearby houses he'd passed yesterday seemed abandoned, so he hoped he could go in and scavenge what he needed without being seen by anyone. He'd promised his mother he'd get clean, it went without mentioning that he'd also stop stealing. Ben wanted to change completely, to become the kind of person he was before drugs had degraded his morality. He only intended to look for supplies in houses that were vacated. Ben started out walking the same direction as yesterday and stopped at the closest neighbor's trailer. A family lived here, Ben knew, but they'd only moved there in the last couple of years and were strangers to Ben. He stepped up on the porch and knocked, hoping no one would answer. No one did, so he checked the door and found it unlocked. Ben went in and called out "Hello, anyone here?" Silence. No one replied. Ben looked around and could tell that the neighbors were gone. The fridge was standing open, almost empty of food, and all the drawers were pulled out. They'd obviously gathered all they could carry and left to go...where? Ben didn't know, from the few people he'd talked to in the last day, he'd learned that nobody knew exactly what was going on. Maybe these people had some idea, or just had a safer place to ride out whatever was happening. Ben couldn't afford to consider it very long, he began looking for anything the trailers inhabitants had left behind, hoping he'd find something useful.
He looked under the kitchen sink and found half a box of heavy duty garbage bags. This was good, he'd need a way to carry whatever he found and they'd be waterproof for his trip on the river. In one of the kitchen drawers Ben found a couple dozen long white candles and threw them into a garbage bag. He looked through the cabinets and grabbed all the canned food that had been left behind without even checking the contents. It wasn't much, but Ben knew he'd need whatever he could find. Next he checked the bathroom, in the medicine cabinet he found a bottle of Nyquil, a bottle of Imodium, and a prescription of Promethazine, an anti-nausea medicine. All three would help him during withdrawal, and because they weren't narcotics, he felt he could take them without breaking his promise.
Finally Ben checked the bedroom, where he made his best discovery yet. Underneath the bed, he found a bolt-action .22 rifle. Ben grabbed it and went to look in the closet, where he found a large camoflage backpack buried beneath some clothes. Inside were several boxes of ammo, 2 marked 9mm Parabellum, the others all varying kinds of .22. Ben took out the boxes to inspect them. The 9mm boxes were unopened and contained 50 rounds apiece. There were far more .22s, 3 big 500 count boxes of "golden bullets", along with 5 smaller boxes that read "quiet ammo" and a couple little boxes of rat shot. Along with the ammo, the bag contained a small headlamp and a bigger flashlight, along with an unopened pack of batteries. Ben closed up the backpack and shouldered it, wondering to himself why it wasn't taken when the family left. He first checked the bedside table, then under the mattress, but didn't find the missing 9mm pistol. The only other useful thing he came across was a large pocket knife, which he stuffed in his pocket. Ben gathered up his garbage bag and made his way back outside. He was ready to go.
******Before I start writing, I've got something new I'm gonna do. A reader suggested that I start marking chapters & I think its a good idea. I'm not gonna go back and edit them in, but I'll begin with it now. I'm gonna just call it....this is chapter 4.******
Chapter 4:
Ben made his way back home, wearing the backpack and carrying the garbage bag full of scavenged supplies. The short .22 rifle...seriously, Ben thought it looked like someone had cut the barrel down with a hacksaw or something, it couldn't be much more than 13 inches.....was on his shoulder via an improvised sling Ben made from a shoelace. When he got back to his family's property, Ben tossed what he was carrying into the canoe with the rest of his stuff and started dragging it towards the creek. He stopped in the woods clearing to grab a couple last things from his basement. Ben stuffed his meager wardrobe into his duffel bag, then starting picking up books. He knew he would need something to distract him and occupy his mind during the next few days of opiate withdrawal. He fit as many as he could carry into the bag, not stopping to consider titles, and went back to the canoe. Ben put his duffel bag into another garbage bag and grabbed the canoe to drag it the rest of the way to the creek.
As Ben was putting in at the creek, a loud noise broke the silence of the last couple days. He jumped, as he heard the sounds of motorcycle engines in the distance. This was strange, he hadn't seen a single running vehicle, and hadn't Pookie mentioned something about cars not starting? Ben was curious, but was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of a woman screaming, followed by lots of gunfire. He very quickly decided that he didn't want any part of whatever battle was taking place down the road, and knew he couldn't afford to be seen by anyone. Ben stepped into the canoe and pushed away from the bank into the creek's swift current.
He followed the creek and turned left where it emptied into the river. Ben began paddling, he had somewhere around 5 miles to go until he reached the swamp, and he wanted to get there as soon as possible to check the cabin and prepare for the next few days.
After a couple hours of paddling around fallen trees and debris, Ben reached the small fork in the river. The main river continued towards the left, to the right it became another small creek. He'd have to follow it to reach the swamp and finally Moccasin Island. Ben turned into the creek and navigated from memory. He reached the island and pulled the canoe on to the sandy bank, hiding it in the brush at the water's edge. Ben loaded a round of rat shot into the .22, shouldered the backpack, and grabbed the long machete he'd found in his grandfather's barn and started walking towards the old cabin.
Since the island was small, Ben reached the cabin within a couple minutes. It was just as he'd remembered, a rough square constructed from the abundant pine trees that covered the island. The cabin's one room was empty, save an army cot that Ben remembered leaving on his last camping trip with Josh close to 20 years ago.
******gotta stop, battery dying. Will continue later.******
Chapter 4:
Ben made his way back home, wearing the backpack and carrying the garbage bag full of scavenged supplies. The short .22 rifle...seriously, Ben thought it looked like someone had cut the barrel down with a hacksaw or something, it couldn't be much more than 13 inches.....was on his shoulder via an improvised sling Ben made from a shoelace. When he got back to his family's property, Ben tossed what he was carrying into the canoe with the rest of his stuff and started dragging it towards the creek. He stopped in the woods clearing to grab a couple last things from his basement. Ben stuffed his meager wardrobe into his duffel bag, then starting picking up books. He knew he would need something to distract him and occupy his mind during the next few days of opiate withdrawal. He fit as many as he could carry into the bag, not stopping to consider titles, and went back to the canoe. Ben put his duffel bag into another garbage bag and grabbed the canoe to drag it the rest of the way to the creek.
As Ben was putting in at the creek, a loud noise broke the silence of the last couple days. He jumped, as he heard the sounds of motorcycle engines in the distance. This was strange, he hadn't seen a single running vehicle, and hadn't Pookie mentioned something about cars not starting? Ben was curious, but was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of a woman screaming, followed by lots of gunfire. He very quickly decided that he didn't want any part of whatever battle was taking place down the road, and knew he couldn't afford to be seen by anyone. Ben stepped into the canoe and pushed away from the bank into the creek's swift current.
He followed the creek and turned left where it emptied into the river. Ben began paddling, he had somewhere around 5 miles to go until he reached the swamp, and he wanted to get there as soon as possible to check the cabin and prepare for the next few days.
After a couple hours of paddling around fallen trees and debris, Ben reached the small fork in the river. The main river continued towards the left, to the right it became another small creek. He'd have to follow it to reach the swamp and finally Moccasin Island. Ben turned into the creek and navigated from memory. He reached the island and pulled the canoe on to the sandy bank, hiding it in the brush at the water's edge. Ben loaded a round of rat shot into the .22, shouldered the backpack, and grabbed the long machete he'd found in his grandfather's barn and started walking towards the old cabin.
Since the island was small, Ben reached the cabin within a couple minutes. It was just as he'd remembered, a rough square constructed from the abundant pine trees that covered the island. The cabin's one room was empty, save an army cot that Ben remembered leaving on his last camping trip with Josh close to 20 years ago.
******gotta stop, battery dying. Will continue later.******
Chapter 4, continued:
Ben unshouldered the backpack and retrieved the flashlight inside. The cabin had no windows and only one small door so, despite the fact it was only mid-afternoon, the interior was too dark to see properly. He didn't like the thought of sharing the room with any other inhabitants....they'd named this place Moccasin Island for a reason after all. After a quick check, Ben was relieved to find no snakes, only a few spiders had taken up residence in the old cabin. He was also glad to find two gallon sized buckets tucked away in a corner....he cursed himself for not thinking of this earlier, he'd need some way of carrying water. Satisfied, he dropped his gear beside the cot and went to retrieve the rest of his supplies.
When he'd brought everything into the cabin, Ben began gathering sticks to use for firewood. He collected a few arm loads and placed some inside the circle of rocks in front of the cabin that he and Josh had arranged for campfires, the rest he laid in a pile nearby. He then took the two buckets to the edge of the island and filled them full of water and carried them back to the cabin. After finishing these necessary preperations, Ben grabbed the rifle and machete and started out to explore the rest of the island.
Chapter 5:
Ben crept through the woods slowly, watching his every step carefully. It'd be a shame to have made it this far, only to die from a snakebite. He was glad that he was at least wearing boots, a pair of beaten up leather work boots that covered above his ankles. They were the only shoes Ben owned and he wore them year round. The boots were worn leather with no laces, and their steel toes showed through in several places.
He reached the far side of the island in minutes, it really wasn't very big at all. Ben doubted that anyone had been here since his last camping trip with Josh. He'd never heard of anyone exploring the swamp, it was simply too remote and inaccessible. The only time he'd ever heard the area mentioned was in the context of ghost stories, everyone around town had heard the rumors of evil spirits that haunted the deep woods downriver, along with "wampus cats" that supposedly stood on two legs and a Bigfoot like monster that prowled the forest. Most hunters stayed far away, preferring the more easily traveled woods upriver. In the years that Ben and Josh came to the area, they never encountered or even saw any signs of another person other than the cabin, and that had obviously been there for years. The boys had always thought it'd been built by bootleggers who used the island as a safe place to make moonshine.
Ben walked around the sandy bank of the island. On this side, there was actually a small clearing and he began looking at the ground for animal tracks. He knelt down to inspect a large track, made by a big cat Ben thought, there were no visible claw marks. He laughed to himself, thinking how he and Josh had always called any similar tracks evidence that the Wampus Cat had been there. A noise brought him out of his nostalgia and Ben looked up to see a huge cottonmouth coiled up a few feet in front of him, shaking it's tail in the leaves. Ben quickly stood, cursing himself for not paying attention....another few steps and he would've stepped on the snake. He brought the .22 around and fished one of the quiet rounds from his pocket and chambered it, replacing the rat shot. On the off chance their was someone in the area, he didn't want to alert them with the sound of a gunshot unless absolutely necessary. Ben took aim and fired, killing the snake. He knew that snakes, even venomous ones, were edible but the thought turned his stomach....He wasn't quite that desperate for food. Yet.
Ben stepped closer and picked the dead snake up with the end of his machete and tossed it into the swampy water. He glanced back down and saw something that shocked (and scared) him even more than the snake. Just beyond where the cottonmouth had coiled up, Ben saw a single boot print in the dirt. He used the tip of his machete to rake away the leaves and found two more of the same print nearby. He raised his head and looked all around but didn't see anything out of the ordinary, and heard only silence. By the looks of the prints, they weren't fresh. They could've been made a week or more ago, Ben figured. It was a typical summer in Alabama and hadn't rained in almost 12 days. Still, Ben was uneasy...He knew now that at least one person visited the island and had no idea if, or when, they might return. He decided to return to the cabin and stay there. He knew that he had a long few days ahead of him and prayed that no one would show up uninvited.
Ben unshouldered the backpack and retrieved the flashlight inside. The cabin had no windows and only one small door so, despite the fact it was only mid-afternoon, the interior was too dark to see properly. He didn't like the thought of sharing the room with any other inhabitants....they'd named this place Moccasin Island for a reason after all. After a quick check, Ben was relieved to find no snakes, only a few spiders had taken up residence in the old cabin. He was also glad to find two gallon sized buckets tucked away in a corner....he cursed himself for not thinking of this earlier, he'd need some way of carrying water. Satisfied, he dropped his gear beside the cot and went to retrieve the rest of his supplies.
When he'd brought everything into the cabin, Ben began gathering sticks to use for firewood. He collected a few arm loads and placed some inside the circle of rocks in front of the cabin that he and Josh had arranged for campfires, the rest he laid in a pile nearby. He then took the two buckets to the edge of the island and filled them full of water and carried them back to the cabin. After finishing these necessary preperations, Ben grabbed the rifle and machete and started out to explore the rest of the island.
Chapter 5:
Ben crept through the woods slowly, watching his every step carefully. It'd be a shame to have made it this far, only to die from a snakebite. He was glad that he was at least wearing boots, a pair of beaten up leather work boots that covered above his ankles. They were the only shoes Ben owned and he wore them year round. The boots were worn leather with no laces, and their steel toes showed through in several places.
He reached the far side of the island in minutes, it really wasn't very big at all. Ben doubted that anyone had been here since his last camping trip with Josh. He'd never heard of anyone exploring the swamp, it was simply too remote and inaccessible. The only time he'd ever heard the area mentioned was in the context of ghost stories, everyone around town had heard the rumors of evil spirits that haunted the deep woods downriver, along with "wampus cats" that supposedly stood on two legs and a Bigfoot like monster that prowled the forest. Most hunters stayed far away, preferring the more easily traveled woods upriver. In the years that Ben and Josh came to the area, they never encountered or even saw any signs of another person other than the cabin, and that had obviously been there for years. The boys had always thought it'd been built by bootleggers who used the island as a safe place to make moonshine.
Ben walked around the sandy bank of the island. On this side, there was actually a small clearing and he began looking at the ground for animal tracks. He knelt down to inspect a large track, made by a big cat Ben thought, there were no visible claw marks. He laughed to himself, thinking how he and Josh had always called any similar tracks evidence that the Wampus Cat had been there. A noise brought him out of his nostalgia and Ben looked up to see a huge cottonmouth coiled up a few feet in front of him, shaking it's tail in the leaves. Ben quickly stood, cursing himself for not paying attention....another few steps and he would've stepped on the snake. He brought the .22 around and fished one of the quiet rounds from his pocket and chambered it, replacing the rat shot. On the off chance their was someone in the area, he didn't want to alert them with the sound of a gunshot unless absolutely necessary. Ben took aim and fired, killing the snake. He knew that snakes, even venomous ones, were edible but the thought turned his stomach....He wasn't quite that desperate for food. Yet.
Ben stepped closer and picked the dead snake up with the end of his machete and tossed it into the swampy water. He glanced back down and saw something that shocked (and scared) him even more than the snake. Just beyond where the cottonmouth had coiled up, Ben saw a single boot print in the dirt. He used the tip of his machete to rake away the leaves and found two more of the same print nearby. He raised his head and looked all around but didn't see anything out of the ordinary, and heard only silence. By the looks of the prints, they weren't fresh. They could've been made a week or more ago, Ben figured. It was a typical summer in Alabama and hadn't rained in almost 12 days. Still, Ben was uneasy...He knew now that at least one person visited the island and had no idea if, or when, they might return. He decided to return to the cabin and stay there. He knew that he had a long few days ahead of him and prayed that no one would show up uninvited.
***apologies for the short chapter. I'm gonna try to start naming them if I can come up with good titles. Here's a little more***
Chapter 6 : the heebie jeebies:
Ben sat on the cot inside the cabin, spending the last couple hours before nigjtfall going through the garbage bags he'd loaded with canned food and medicine. He'd been in such a hurry that he wasn't sure what they contained. To keep his mind off the events of the past two days, he sorted the food into piles. From the first bag, he had several cans of spam and corned beef hash, a few of deviled ham, and enough canned corn and green beans to feed a small army. Also, he'd grabbed two jars of peanut butter, a box of crackers, and one large can of beef stew. Ben stacked them in separate piles, then opened the second bag. It was mostly the same, canned meat and vegetables, which Ben added to their respective stacks. At the bottom of the bag were the medicine bottles, mostly OTC stuff, that he'd taken. He looked through them, finding the Nyquil and Imodium and putting them aside...he knew he'd need them soon enough. As he went through the rest, he took out a tube of Neosporin, some pepto-bismol, the phenergan he'd seen earlier, and a box of bandages. Ben also saw a bottle of cough syrup containing hydrocodone...an opiate also found in Vicodin....and was momentarily tempted, but remembered the promise he'd made his mother and poured it out.
As night began to fall, Ben resisted the urge to light a campfire. The footprints he'd seen earlier had brought home the reality that he could be found even out here. He knew he had to be careful, so he lit one candle and sat on his cot, using his Swiss army knife to open the can of beef stew. He took a book from his duffel bag and ate with his fingers, then pulled a book from his duffel bag and began to read in the faint light from the candle.
Ben dozed off quickly, he'd exerted himself physically more today than in the last few years combined. He'd walked everywhere for years, but that was his only exercise....junkies aren't usually known for their physical fitness. Eating only junk food, even that sporadically, had left him thin and any muscle he'd had was long gone. Ben now had the unmistakable look of a hardcore drug addict. Pale skin, sunken cheeks, decaying teeth, and visible track marks from daily injections lining the inside of both arms. To anyone who looked at him , Ben was instantly identifiable as a junkie.
Ben awoke suddenly, shooting up from the cot. All his senses were alert, he stood still and waited to hear the sound that had roused him again. In just a few seconds, it repeated...the most horrible, blood-curdling scream Ben had ever heard. He grabbed the 9mm pistol and .22 rifle, quickly chambering rounds in both and went to stand beside the doorway. The scream tore through the night a third time, right as Ben was peeking around the edge of the door. His heart was pounding, Ben had heard bobcats scream before, but this was different, louder and more intense somehow. It sounded close, so Ben crouched just inside the door and held his pistol pointed in front of him, ready to empty the mag into anything that entered.
***gotta stop again. I apologize for the breaks, but I take care of my elderly grandparents....that's the only part of my story so far that's been autobiographical....and I have to do something. More on the way***
Chapter 6 : the heebie jeebies:
Ben sat on the cot inside the cabin, spending the last couple hours before nigjtfall going through the garbage bags he'd loaded with canned food and medicine. He'd been in such a hurry that he wasn't sure what they contained. To keep his mind off the events of the past two days, he sorted the food into piles. From the first bag, he had several cans of spam and corned beef hash, a few of deviled ham, and enough canned corn and green beans to feed a small army. Also, he'd grabbed two jars of peanut butter, a box of crackers, and one large can of beef stew. Ben stacked them in separate piles, then opened the second bag. It was mostly the same, canned meat and vegetables, which Ben added to their respective stacks. At the bottom of the bag were the medicine bottles, mostly OTC stuff, that he'd taken. He looked through them, finding the Nyquil and Imodium and putting them aside...he knew he'd need them soon enough. As he went through the rest, he took out a tube of Neosporin, some pepto-bismol, the phenergan he'd seen earlier, and a box of bandages. Ben also saw a bottle of cough syrup containing hydrocodone...an opiate also found in Vicodin....and was momentarily tempted, but remembered the promise he'd made his mother and poured it out.
As night began to fall, Ben resisted the urge to light a campfire. The footprints he'd seen earlier had brought home the reality that he could be found even out here. He knew he had to be careful, so he lit one candle and sat on his cot, using his Swiss army knife to open the can of beef stew. He took a book from his duffel bag and ate with his fingers, then pulled a book from his duffel bag and began to read in the faint light from the candle.
Ben dozed off quickly, he'd exerted himself physically more today than in the last few years combined. He'd walked everywhere for years, but that was his only exercise....junkies aren't usually known for their physical fitness. Eating only junk food, even that sporadically, had left him thin and any muscle he'd had was long gone. Ben now had the unmistakable look of a hardcore drug addict. Pale skin, sunken cheeks, decaying teeth, and visible track marks from daily injections lining the inside of both arms. To anyone who looked at him , Ben was instantly identifiable as a junkie.
Ben awoke suddenly, shooting up from the cot. All his senses were alert, he stood still and waited to hear the sound that had roused him again. In just a few seconds, it repeated...the most horrible, blood-curdling scream Ben had ever heard. He grabbed the 9mm pistol and .22 rifle, quickly chambering rounds in both and went to stand beside the doorway. The scream tore through the night a third time, right as Ben was peeking around the edge of the door. His heart was pounding, Ben had heard bobcats scream before, but this was different, louder and more intense somehow. It sounded close, so Ben crouched just inside the door and held his pistol pointed in front of him, ready to empty the mag into anything that entered.
***gotta stop again. I apologize for the breaks, but I take care of my elderly grandparents....that's the only part of my story so far that's been autobiographical....and I have to do something. More on the way***
Chapter 6 (cont.):
The unearthly screams continued for the better part of an hour, then stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence. Ben, still crouched just inside the cabin's doorframe, listened closely for any sound...but there was nothing. This time of year in Alabama there should have been an orchestra of insects and croaking frogs at the very least. He was glad that whatever had been screaming (wampus cat, he couldn't help but think), but the heavy silence unnerved him and kept him on edge.
To make matters worse, Ben could feel the beginnings of withdrawal creeping up on him. The first thing he noticed was a general feeling of anxiety, like he'd forgotten something vital and couldn't quite remember what, a feeling that Ben had heard an old junkie refer to as the "heebie jeebies". He'd thought it was funny then, but now on an isolated island with god knows what screaming in the middle of the night, Ben had to agree that the term fit. His body had also began to ache, for now just a mild pain deep in his bones, but Ben knew the pain wouldn't be mild for long. His nose had started to run, his eyes were watering, and his back and arms were covered with goose bumps.
Ben stood and started pacing the length of the cabin. He was restless and felt like he had to move. What the hell had he been thinking? Trying to kick in the middle of a ****ing swamp had to be one of the stupidest ideas Ben had ever come up with, and that was saying something. He was stuck now...there was no way he'd be able to paddle the canoe back upriver to civillization, if you could call it that anymore. Even if he could make the trip back, Blood would be expecting Ben to have the stolen guns in the next couple of days, and would probably have people looking for him. He had no options, he'd have to ride it out.
Ben continued pacing, he knew he'd never be able to go back to sleep now. He briefly thought of taking a few swigs of Nyquil, but pushed the idea out of his mind. He had to conserve what little he had, he'd need it in the next couple of days. After pacing a while, Ben sat back down on the cot and picked up his book. He lit another candle and tried to focus on the story. In an amazing coincidence, the book seemed to describe a situation very much like what had happened out in the real world. The U.S. had been hit with several nuclear weapons, resulting in something called an EMP, which caused all electronic devices, even cars, to stop working. He quickly became absorbed in the story and read until morning.
The unearthly screams continued for the better part of an hour, then stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence. Ben, still crouched just inside the cabin's doorframe, listened closely for any sound...but there was nothing. This time of year in Alabama there should have been an orchestra of insects and croaking frogs at the very least. He was glad that whatever had been screaming (wampus cat, he couldn't help but think), but the heavy silence unnerved him and kept him on edge.
To make matters worse, Ben could feel the beginnings of withdrawal creeping up on him. The first thing he noticed was a general feeling of anxiety, like he'd forgotten something vital and couldn't quite remember what, a feeling that Ben had heard an old junkie refer to as the "heebie jeebies". He'd thought it was funny then, but now on an isolated island with god knows what screaming in the middle of the night, Ben had to agree that the term fit. His body had also began to ache, for now just a mild pain deep in his bones, but Ben knew the pain wouldn't be mild for long. His nose had started to run, his eyes were watering, and his back and arms were covered with goose bumps.
Ben stood and started pacing the length of the cabin. He was restless and felt like he had to move. What the hell had he been thinking? Trying to kick in the middle of a ****ing swamp had to be one of the stupidest ideas Ben had ever come up with, and that was saying something. He was stuck now...there was no way he'd be able to paddle the canoe back upriver to civillization, if you could call it that anymore. Even if he could make the trip back, Blood would be expecting Ben to have the stolen guns in the next couple of days, and would probably have people looking for him. He had no options, he'd have to ride it out.
Ben continued pacing, he knew he'd never be able to go back to sleep now. He briefly thought of taking a few swigs of Nyquil, but pushed the idea out of his mind. He had to conserve what little he had, he'd need it in the next couple of days. After pacing a while, Ben sat back down on the cot and picked up his book. He lit another candle and tried to focus on the story. In an amazing coincidence, the book seemed to describe a situation very much like what had happened out in the real world. The U.S. had been hit with several nuclear weapons, resulting in something called an EMP, which caused all electronic devices, even cars, to stop working. He quickly became absorbed in the story and read until morning.
******apologies for another short chapter. I spent the last couple hours writing the follow-up chapter 7, only to have it mysteriously disappear when I clicked the submit button....damnit. eh, no matter....now that I know what I want to happen, I can write it again pretty quickly and hopefully make it better. I've gotta take a break for a few hours to take my grandparents to their Dr appts. Will try to re-write and get up the next chapter this evening. Thanks everybody******
******busy yesterday afternoon & didn't get a chance to write, sorry. More now******
Chapter 7, Unwelcome guests:
As the new day dawned, Ben lay on his cot, reading. He was completely engrossed in the story it told of the breakdown of civillization following an EMP. It was frightening, when the rule of law was stripped away many people became feral and morality was cast aside as useless. Formally law-abiding citizens banded together in self interest and took what they needed by force and intimidation, and criminals were free to live out their most depraved fantasies. Street gangs seemed to thrive in this new world using their organization to hoard supplies and generally terrorize anyone who stood in their way. Power was up for grabs and everyone from quickly assembled neighborhood raiding parties to drug dealing motorcycle gangs vied to expand their territories and control them with an iron fist.
Ben couldn't help but be reminded of Blood, whose mental instability and inflated self image made him a perfect candidate to take and hold power in these circumstances. Ben remembered the rifle toting henchmen from the other day, Blood was already taking advantage of the situation. If Ben ever made it off this island, there was no telling what kind of world he'd return to.
He was brought out of his thoughts by a sudden wave of nausea. Ben jumped from the cot and vomited outside the cabin's door. When he was finished, he went back to the cot to lie down. Yesterday's methadone had finally left his system and withdrawal had fully set in. Mr. Jones*....the ****ed up cousin of the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus...had arrived. (Note: junkies call withdrawal sickness/dope cravings "jonesing". I have no idea why.)
Ben laid on the cot and started to read again, but had trouble focusing. The pain in his bones had progressed from mild to excruciating in the space of hours. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, but he knew from experience that there was nothing he could do. His body temperature would go from boiling hot to freezing in the space of seconds, as soon as he covered up he would throw his blanket right back off, gasping for cool air. His legs throbbed with pain and jerked involuntarily....The reason withdrawal is called "kicking the habit."
Worse than the physical pain, though, was the attendant mental anguish of withdrawal. Ben's mind was on a constant loop, replaying his worst memories in detail. The anxiety had gotten worse, Ben felt like he was constantly on the verge of a panic attack. With no option except to suffer, Ben kept reading and hoped to lose himself again in the story.
After a very long day, night finally began to fall. Ben lit another candle to read by and stayed on his cot. He had no interest in food, but forced himself to drink a little water. He knew all the vomiting and sweating, along with the diarrhea that'd started around noon today, had depleted his body, and he sure didn't want to get dehydrated out here. He wasn't able to keep much down, though, nearly every swig of water immediately came back up.
Ben mentally cursed himself for getting into this situation. He was a ****ing loser, a disappointment to everyone who'd ever cared about him. The pain was horrible, almost unbearable, but Ben knew he deserved it. He thought back over the last few years, every bad memory surfaced and he was forced to relive them. Multiple confrontations with his mother where she'd cried and begged Ben to get help had all fallen of deaf ears at the time, but they'd all been stored up in his memory for just this sort of occasion. He'd stolen from people, neighbors, so many times that it'd become normal. He associated with the dregs of society and actually fit in, he'd become one of them. Ben was overcome with shame and thought of suicide....it would end the torment he was going through, quick and easy. Ben considered it for a minute, but rejected the idea.....despite the pain, he didn't want to die and he'd made one last promise to his mother and, unlike countless before, intended to keep it.
Caught up in his personal hell, Ben hadn't spared a thought about what had happened last night. He was brought out of his reminisces when the usual ambient sounds of summer night in Alabama...a cacophany of bugs and croaking frogs.....stopped abruptly around midnight.
******damn battery dying. More asap******
Chapter 7, Unwelcome guests:
As the new day dawned, Ben lay on his cot, reading. He was completely engrossed in the story it told of the breakdown of civillization following an EMP. It was frightening, when the rule of law was stripped away many people became feral and morality was cast aside as useless. Formally law-abiding citizens banded together in self interest and took what they needed by force and intimidation, and criminals were free to live out their most depraved fantasies. Street gangs seemed to thrive in this new world using their organization to hoard supplies and generally terrorize anyone who stood in their way. Power was up for grabs and everyone from quickly assembled neighborhood raiding parties to drug dealing motorcycle gangs vied to expand their territories and control them with an iron fist.
Ben couldn't help but be reminded of Blood, whose mental instability and inflated self image made him a perfect candidate to take and hold power in these circumstances. Ben remembered the rifle toting henchmen from the other day, Blood was already taking advantage of the situation. If Ben ever made it off this island, there was no telling what kind of world he'd return to.
He was brought out of his thoughts by a sudden wave of nausea. Ben jumped from the cot and vomited outside the cabin's door. When he was finished, he went back to the cot to lie down. Yesterday's methadone had finally left his system and withdrawal had fully set in. Mr. Jones*....the ****ed up cousin of the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus...had arrived. (Note: junkies call withdrawal sickness/dope cravings "jonesing". I have no idea why.)
Ben laid on the cot and started to read again, but had trouble focusing. The pain in his bones had progressed from mild to excruciating in the space of hours. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, but he knew from experience that there was nothing he could do. His body temperature would go from boiling hot to freezing in the space of seconds, as soon as he covered up he would throw his blanket right back off, gasping for cool air. His legs throbbed with pain and jerked involuntarily....The reason withdrawal is called "kicking the habit."
Worse than the physical pain, though, was the attendant mental anguish of withdrawal. Ben's mind was on a constant loop, replaying his worst memories in detail. The anxiety had gotten worse, Ben felt like he was constantly on the verge of a panic attack. With no option except to suffer, Ben kept reading and hoped to lose himself again in the story.
After a very long day, night finally began to fall. Ben lit another candle to read by and stayed on his cot. He had no interest in food, but forced himself to drink a little water. He knew all the vomiting and sweating, along with the diarrhea that'd started around noon today, had depleted his body, and he sure didn't want to get dehydrated out here. He wasn't able to keep much down, though, nearly every swig of water immediately came back up.
Ben mentally cursed himself for getting into this situation. He was a ****ing loser, a disappointment to everyone who'd ever cared about him. The pain was horrible, almost unbearable, but Ben knew he deserved it. He thought back over the last few years, every bad memory surfaced and he was forced to relive them. Multiple confrontations with his mother where she'd cried and begged Ben to get help had all fallen of deaf ears at the time, but they'd all been stored up in his memory for just this sort of occasion. He'd stolen from people, neighbors, so many times that it'd become normal. He associated with the dregs of society and actually fit in, he'd become one of them. Ben was overcome with shame and thought of suicide....it would end the torment he was going through, quick and easy. Ben considered it for a minute, but rejected the idea.....despite the pain, he didn't want to die and he'd made one last promise to his mother and, unlike countless before, intended to keep it.
Caught up in his personal hell, Ben hadn't spared a thought about what had happened last night. He was brought out of his reminisces when the usual ambient sounds of summer night in Alabama...a cacophany of bugs and croaking frogs.....stopped abruptly around midnight.
******damn battery dying. More asap******
Chapter 7, Unwelcome guests (cont.) :
Ben lay on the cot and listened, waiting to hear whatever would come next. After a couple of minutes, the eerie silence was broken by an unearthly scream. It sounded closer tonight and Ben quickly grabbed his pistol from the floor underneath the cot, then snuffed out the candle. He felt better, more secure in the darkness. The cabin was well concealed, built up against a small hill in the back and surrounded by trees and thick underbrush. Weeds and vines grew all over the cabin's exterior making it next to impossible to see for any person who didn't already know it was there....but whatever making those awful, inhuman screams was definitely not a person. Ben was particularly bothered by the fact that the cabin had no door, only a rough square cut out in the front wall as an entrance. It's lack of any windows or other exits were as much of a problem as an advantage....if anyone, or anything, decided to come inside, Ben knew he'd be trapped.
Another scream tore through the silence, this time even closer. Ben then heard the sound of running footsteps approaching. ****, this was bad...He sat up on the cot and pointed the 9mm at the open entrance. There was another scream, then another, they sounded like they couldn't be more than 30 yards away. Ben's heart was pounding and his imagination began to run wild. He saw images in his mind of a huge cat walking upright on two legs, standing taller than Ben's own height of 6 feet, with glowing red eyes and an open mouth full of long, razor sharp fangs. Ben stared at the doorway, expecting it to appear any second with paws the size of a man's hand ending in wickedly curved claws ready to tear him apart and devour.
The screams stopped as suddenly as they'd began and Ben crept over towards the door to look outside. He leaned flat against the wall and peeked around the doorframe, but saw only darkness. He slid down to the floor and sat trying to calm himself down. He'd let the dope sickness and terror of the last couple days get to him and was freaking out over nothing. It was probably just a bobcat, he and Josh had heard them all the time on camping trips. Ben didn't believe in ghosts or monsters....well, except for Blood, but that was different. He managed to reassure himself and settle down a little when he heard another scream, this time sounding like it was right behind him.
******sorry y'all, i hate to stop during a part like this, but duty calls & I've gotta help my grandpa. I don't want to accidentally delete anything like yesterday so I'm gonna go ahead and post this. Will be back asap*******
Ben lay on the cot and listened, waiting to hear whatever would come next. After a couple of minutes, the eerie silence was broken by an unearthly scream. It sounded closer tonight and Ben quickly grabbed his pistol from the floor underneath the cot, then snuffed out the candle. He felt better, more secure in the darkness. The cabin was well concealed, built up against a small hill in the back and surrounded by trees and thick underbrush. Weeds and vines grew all over the cabin's exterior making it next to impossible to see for any person who didn't already know it was there....but whatever making those awful, inhuman screams was definitely not a person. Ben was particularly bothered by the fact that the cabin had no door, only a rough square cut out in the front wall as an entrance. It's lack of any windows or other exits were as much of a problem as an advantage....if anyone, or anything, decided to come inside, Ben knew he'd be trapped.
Another scream tore through the silence, this time even closer. Ben then heard the sound of running footsteps approaching. ****, this was bad...He sat up on the cot and pointed the 9mm at the open entrance. There was another scream, then another, they sounded like they couldn't be more than 30 yards away. Ben's heart was pounding and his imagination began to run wild. He saw images in his mind of a huge cat walking upright on two legs, standing taller than Ben's own height of 6 feet, with glowing red eyes and an open mouth full of long, razor sharp fangs. Ben stared at the doorway, expecting it to appear any second with paws the size of a man's hand ending in wickedly curved claws ready to tear him apart and devour.
The screams stopped as suddenly as they'd began and Ben crept over towards the door to look outside. He leaned flat against the wall and peeked around the doorframe, but saw only darkness. He slid down to the floor and sat trying to calm himself down. He'd let the dope sickness and terror of the last couple days get to him and was freaking out over nothing. It was probably just a bobcat, he and Josh had heard them all the time on camping trips. Ben didn't believe in ghosts or monsters....well, except for Blood, but that was different. He managed to reassure himself and settle down a little when he heard another scream, this time sounding like it was right behind him.
******sorry y'all, i hate to stop during a part like this, but duty calls & I've gotta help my grandpa. I don't want to accidentally delete anything like yesterday so I'm gonna go ahead and post this. Will be back asap*******
Chapter 7 (continued...again):
Ben froze...whatever was outside the cabin clearly knew he was here. He forced himself to peek from behind the doorframe. He could see vague shadows moving around in the darkness beyond the treeline. Ben placed his trembling finger on the trigger of his pistol, ready to shoot if anything came closer. Suddenly there was another blood curdling scream, then to his horror Ben saw a pair of glowing red eyes exactly like he'd imagined before. This was all he could take...Ben aimed the Glock towards the silhouette and fired, emptying the magazine in seconds. He ran back to his backpack and fumbled for the box of ammo and tried to reload the magazine, but his hands were shaking too much. He managed to load only 3 rounds before he dropped the box and spilled shells everywhere. Ben crouched along the back wall and pointed the pistol back at the door, ready to shoot anything that came through. Nothing came, however, and he didn't hear another sound the rest of the night.
******I appreciate everyone's patience. I keep having stuff come up unexpectedly when I'm trying to write and have to stop. I wanted to at least finish the last chapter.....it really sucked having to stop in the middle of a tense moment. I've actually read through the story so far and am convinced I need to do some editing.....but I'm having fun with it and hope I can keep it going somewhere. If so, and if y'all like it, I will eventually edit it and turn it into more of a real story/ maybe even a book if the ideas don't run out. That would be kinda awesome....anyway, I'm rambling again. I'll have more later, hopefully tonight******
Ben froze...whatever was outside the cabin clearly knew he was here. He forced himself to peek from behind the doorframe. He could see vague shadows moving around in the darkness beyond the treeline. Ben placed his trembling finger on the trigger of his pistol, ready to shoot if anything came closer. Suddenly there was another blood curdling scream, then to his horror Ben saw a pair of glowing red eyes exactly like he'd imagined before. This was all he could take...Ben aimed the Glock towards the silhouette and fired, emptying the magazine in seconds. He ran back to his backpack and fumbled for the box of ammo and tried to reload the magazine, but his hands were shaking too much. He managed to load only 3 rounds before he dropped the box and spilled shells everywhere. Ben crouched along the back wall and pointed the pistol back at the door, ready to shoot anything that came through. Nothing came, however, and he didn't hear another sound the rest of the night.
******I appreciate everyone's patience. I keep having stuff come up unexpectedly when I'm trying to write and have to stop. I wanted to at least finish the last chapter.....it really sucked having to stop in the middle of a tense moment. I've actually read through the story so far and am convinced I need to do some editing.....but I'm having fun with it and hope I can keep it going somewhere. If so, and if y'all like it, I will eventually edit it and turn it into more of a real story/ maybe even a book if the ideas don't run out. That would be kinda awesome....anyway, I'm rambling again. I'll have more later, hopefully tonight******
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