Instincts (1)
INSTINCTS, by travis farren (part one of an ungoing fiction)
...
KENNY
I woke up to a feeling that I would compare to that of an axe
splitting my head. My brain seared with pain and I reached up with
uneasy fingers to tenderly probe at the spot where it burned. I
was greeted with the uncomfortable wet and telltale crimson of
blood. I surmised that I had smashed my head open sometime, but I
couldn't remember how it happened.
I rose to my feet, and after a short battle with vertigo, gained my
balance. I realized for the first time I was alone. Looking around,
I found myself in a dark warehouse, surrounded by dust and heaps of
metal that once formed shelves and lifts, now abandoned. All around
me were crates, forced open and ransacked long ago. Holding my head
in my hand, I stepped to the large doors of the warehouse, and
attempted to pry them open, eager to escape to the outside world.
Much to my dismay, I found the doors clung tightly to their current
positions, not willing to open. I pushed again, throwing my weight
against the metal frames, but they wouldn't relent.
I sat down on a crate for a moment and gathered my thoughts. When
did I end up in an abandoned warehouse? Where the hell did this
injury on my head come from? The memories would not come. I
struggled through the haze of my mind, but the last thing I could
remember was Alex, Jeremiah and I all riding in Jeremiah's beat-up
Bronco towards the lights of New York City, weaving in and out of
traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike. The tape deck had played a
rough translation Alex had made of a Bright Eyes mixtape, scratching
and popping the whole way down the road. We were all laughing and
singing together, I drinking gulp after gulp of flavored vodka out
of my flask, Jeremiah and Alex passing their joints back and forth.
My eyes had shined when I saw the city across the water. I writhed
in excitement, and shouted, "There she is! There's Manhattan!!"
Alex had grinned at me, my naivete making him feel like the wise
and experienced older brother he craved to be. Even Jeremiah, who
always remained cool and expressionless, couldn't help but crack
a half-smile at me. He blew smoke out the window, and in a soft
voice I could barely make out over the rushing wind and loud tape
deck, he said, "Yes. That's Manhattan. That's New York City." He
gazed at the tops of the lit-up buildings for a few minutes, his
mind filling with nostalgia at all the parties and adventures the
city had opened to him, then after a pause he said, "Say your
prayers, Kenny. You're in Yankee country now."
A clatter outside took me out of my memories and back to my urgent
want to get out of the warehouse. When the idea came to me, it was
simple. I pushed several of the crates to the wall in a pile, and
climed atop them to the broken glass window that hung out the side
of the warehouse. What I saw mesmerised me. The street was filled
with bodies. I couldn't count the men and women that filled the
space outside the warehouse. In a mob, they crowded around a garage
across the street, quivering and breathing and moaning. Their eyes
were dim with vacancy, and the noises that rose from their mouthes
drew me ill. They cried with gutteral moans and yells like beasts.
They clawed at each other, each eager to reach the garage door.
Raising their forearms, the ones in the front of the crowd smashed
and beat on the garage door to no avail, groaning all the while.
They were all covered in the brown-red of dried blood. It stained
their mouthes and clothes, their arms and fingers. I was terrified.
Crouching under the window, I paused to consider what the people
were doing. Were they a cult? Were they some kind of domestic
terrorists? The possibilities were endless, and yet each one I
thought of seemed more foolish than the last. I slumped on the home
I'd made of my crate and pressed my fingers into the pockets of my
hooded sweatshirt. I needed to get to a hospital, the gash in my
head was deep, and while the bloodflow had ebbed, it had not ended.
Regardless, I would not be leaving this warehouse while the mob
roamed outside it. While I had no idea of their intentions, the
dried blood under the fingernails didn't make me want to find out.
The headache I had next came on suddenly, more powerful that the
wound on my skull. This pain seared all along my forehead, like
fire. I clutched it and screamed out in agony, falling off my crate
and onto the concrete floor. Curling my knees to my chest, I moaned
in pain. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. All I could feel was
the searing pain in my brain, and then the copper taste in my mouth
as I spat out blood. After a nanosecond that felt like an eternity,
the world went black.
I dreamt about the past in flashes. The bronco, rolling through
Times Square. The fire and pandemonium all around. Buildings, once
bright with neon glitter had burst into destructive orange flame.
The people ran through the streets with abandon, the ones with the
dead eyes chasing the ones who still had eyes full of light. Full
of fear. Full of panic. The mob clutched the living and sank their
teeth into life-colored flesh, splattering blood and gnawing for
that bone. The lifeless ones were eating the living. Jeremiah's
eyes, steeled against the chaos, swerving around the people who
flooded the road. Alex screaming, pointing, flipping on the radio
only to hear the tones of the Emergency Broadcast System, and
myself, frozen in fear. What had become of New York? Then at once,
I recalled the collision. The bus that had swerved around the bend
at breakneck speed, it's passangers both the living and the dead,
and the way it's metal thrusted into Jeremiah's Bronco. Our vehicle
rolled and rolled until it came to rest. I recalled Alex in the
passenger seat, the broken glass of the window ripping open his
throat and extolling scarlet red, his eyes closed tightly. I saw
Jeremiah, shaking me to try to force me awake, telling me we had
to run. I also recalled myself, screaming at oblivion, and praying
for death.
When I woke up for the second time in the warehouse, the screams of
my dream were merging into reality, and the screams of a young
woman pierced the air. I staggered up my crates to the window,
where I looked out across the street to the garage. On the roof, a
young woman with long red hair tied tight by rubber bands, dressed
in black boots, threw a glass bottle that burned brightly into the
mob of the undead. Flames ripped from the broken glass and onto
the flesh of the mob. Those covered in fire screamed and fell to
the ground, rolling. The woman was screaming, "The door is giving
way . . !"
I looked, and it came to pass. The men and women with the dead eyes
that never blinked had smashed and smashed, and the door of the
garage had crumpled, giving way to the ten or twelve people inside
who cringed and shouted in fear. The crowd advanced, and to my
horror, the massacre began.
>>END OF PART ONE
...
Next installment in seven days. See you then, I hope. To comment on
this work, comment on this entry, e-mail me or IM me (xuratuinblue)
...
KENNY
I woke up to a feeling that I would compare to that of an axe
splitting my head. My brain seared with pain and I reached up with
uneasy fingers to tenderly probe at the spot where it burned. I
was greeted with the uncomfortable wet and telltale crimson of
blood. I surmised that I had smashed my head open sometime, but I
couldn't remember how it happened.
I rose to my feet, and after a short battle with vertigo, gained my
balance. I realized for the first time I was alone. Looking around,
I found myself in a dark warehouse, surrounded by dust and heaps of
metal that once formed shelves and lifts, now abandoned. All around
me were crates, forced open and ransacked long ago. Holding my head
in my hand, I stepped to the large doors of the warehouse, and
attempted to pry them open, eager to escape to the outside world.
Much to my dismay, I found the doors clung tightly to their current
positions, not willing to open. I pushed again, throwing my weight
against the metal frames, but they wouldn't relent.
I sat down on a crate for a moment and gathered my thoughts. When
did I end up in an abandoned warehouse? Where the hell did this
injury on my head come from? The memories would not come. I
struggled through the haze of my mind, but the last thing I could
remember was Alex, Jeremiah and I all riding in Jeremiah's beat-up
Bronco towards the lights of New York City, weaving in and out of
traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike. The tape deck had played a
rough translation Alex had made of a Bright Eyes mixtape, scratching
and popping the whole way down the road. We were all laughing and
singing together, I drinking gulp after gulp of flavored vodka out
of my flask, Jeremiah and Alex passing their joints back and forth.
My eyes had shined when I saw the city across the water. I writhed
in excitement, and shouted, "There she is! There's Manhattan!!"
Alex had grinned at me, my naivete making him feel like the wise
and experienced older brother he craved to be. Even Jeremiah, who
always remained cool and expressionless, couldn't help but crack
a half-smile at me. He blew smoke out the window, and in a soft
voice I could barely make out over the rushing wind and loud tape
deck, he said, "Yes. That's Manhattan. That's New York City." He
gazed at the tops of the lit-up buildings for a few minutes, his
mind filling with nostalgia at all the parties and adventures the
city had opened to him, then after a pause he said, "Say your
prayers, Kenny. You're in Yankee country now."
A clatter outside took me out of my memories and back to my urgent
want to get out of the warehouse. When the idea came to me, it was
simple. I pushed several of the crates to the wall in a pile, and
climed atop them to the broken glass window that hung out the side
of the warehouse. What I saw mesmerised me. The street was filled
with bodies. I couldn't count the men and women that filled the
space outside the warehouse. In a mob, they crowded around a garage
across the street, quivering and breathing and moaning. Their eyes
were dim with vacancy, and the noises that rose from their mouthes
drew me ill. They cried with gutteral moans and yells like beasts.
They clawed at each other, each eager to reach the garage door.
Raising their forearms, the ones in the front of the crowd smashed
and beat on the garage door to no avail, groaning all the while.
They were all covered in the brown-red of dried blood. It stained
their mouthes and clothes, their arms and fingers. I was terrified.
Crouching under the window, I paused to consider what the people
were doing. Were they a cult? Were they some kind of domestic
terrorists? The possibilities were endless, and yet each one I
thought of seemed more foolish than the last. I slumped on the home
I'd made of my crate and pressed my fingers into the pockets of my
hooded sweatshirt. I needed to get to a hospital, the gash in my
head was deep, and while the bloodflow had ebbed, it had not ended.
Regardless, I would not be leaving this warehouse while the mob
roamed outside it. While I had no idea of their intentions, the
dried blood under the fingernails didn't make me want to find out.
The headache I had next came on suddenly, more powerful that the
wound on my skull. This pain seared all along my forehead, like
fire. I clutched it and screamed out in agony, falling off my crate
and onto the concrete floor. Curling my knees to my chest, I moaned
in pain. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. All I could feel was
the searing pain in my brain, and then the copper taste in my mouth
as I spat out blood. After a nanosecond that felt like an eternity,
the world went black.
I dreamt about the past in flashes. The bronco, rolling through
Times Square. The fire and pandemonium all around. Buildings, once
bright with neon glitter had burst into destructive orange flame.
The people ran through the streets with abandon, the ones with the
dead eyes chasing the ones who still had eyes full of light. Full
of fear. Full of panic. The mob clutched the living and sank their
teeth into life-colored flesh, splattering blood and gnawing for
that bone. The lifeless ones were eating the living. Jeremiah's
eyes, steeled against the chaos, swerving around the people who
flooded the road. Alex screaming, pointing, flipping on the radio
only to hear the tones of the Emergency Broadcast System, and
myself, frozen in fear. What had become of New York? Then at once,
I recalled the collision. The bus that had swerved around the bend
at breakneck speed, it's passangers both the living and the dead,
and the way it's metal thrusted into Jeremiah's Bronco. Our vehicle
rolled and rolled until it came to rest. I recalled Alex in the
passenger seat, the broken glass of the window ripping open his
throat and extolling scarlet red, his eyes closed tightly. I saw
Jeremiah, shaking me to try to force me awake, telling me we had
to run. I also recalled myself, screaming at oblivion, and praying
for death.
When I woke up for the second time in the warehouse, the screams of
my dream were merging into reality, and the screams of a young
woman pierced the air. I staggered up my crates to the window,
where I looked out across the street to the garage. On the roof, a
young woman with long red hair tied tight by rubber bands, dressed
in black boots, threw a glass bottle that burned brightly into the
mob of the undead. Flames ripped from the broken glass and onto
the flesh of the mob. Those covered in fire screamed and fell to
the ground, rolling. The woman was screaming, "The door is giving
way . . !"
I looked, and it came to pass. The men and women with the dead eyes
that never blinked had smashed and smashed, and the door of the
garage had crumpled, giving way to the ten or twelve people inside
who cringed and shouted in fear. The crowd advanced, and to my
horror, the massacre began.
>>END OF PART ONE
...
Next installment in seven days. See you then, I hope. To comment on
this work, comment on this entry, e-mail me or IM me (xuratuinblue)