WRiTE CLUB 2013 Play-offs Round Two - Bout 3

Yesterday we had a bit of a boo boo.  It seems the piece that was originally posted and attributed to Alone, was actually Imalie Teller's.  The mistake was caught before noon and quickly corrected, and no real harm was done because it was the writing going against one another...not the authors name.  If you voted for Alone before noon, your vote was automatically converted to Imalie Teller.  I'm sorry to both writer's for the confusion.

Continuing on with the second round of the WRiTE CLUB play-offs, our ten contestants will be battling it out with brand new writing samples.  The bouts will be posted on Mon - Tue - Wed - Thur - Sat, but the voting will remain open for all bouts until Sunday at noon.  Today we have Bout #3.

Once again...every vote counts. The contestant who doesn't win their bout...but garners the most votes amongst all of the other losers...will become a wildcard winner and advance to round 3.  

Whether you've been following along from the beginning or this is your first time here...no matter...it's just a matter of choosing the one you feel deserves to move forward. Please offer some critique if you have time.  Anyone reading this can vote (after signing up on this LinkyList) so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun. 

 
And now...stepping into the ring with a brand new story to tell...here is Gordon Holmes.

Standing watch has never been my favorite activity. Well, it’s the lack of activity that bothers me.  I've been pacing for two hours, a set of binoculars practically glued to my eyeballs.  Sun glints off the rooftops, sent stabbing pains of light all the way to the back of my head.

I usually pull my stint during the witching hour with night vision goggles.  I see everything that moves or leaves a heat signature. And it keeps the bugs from eating my face off. Mosquitoes were aggressive enough before the Insectoid aliens arrived, but now the tire dump two miles outside of the school grounds was a breeding ground for Aedes as large as Monarch Moths.

Last week Jimmy Huntell somehow enticed Lucy Plume to sneak out after chores and meet him for some afternoon delight. Lucy was barely alive when my patrol found her beneath a swarm of the blood suckers and surrounded by a unit of armed Insectoids that  looked like they were guarding the meal.

My value to the army isn't just my lightening fast feet; I can mentally hear the bugs. Can’t understand them too often, but if I’m close enough I get visual pictures from their hive mind. But I can sense a buzzing over a mile away, which is how I knew where to find our missing lovers.  Jimmy was a shriveled husk, barely recognizable as a human.

Lucy was flat on her stomach, her back, legs and arms covered with black and white striped, skeletal bugs I’d never seen before. Once the shooting started, most of the bugs  took flight and joined the battle, swooping in and slashing faces and hands with razor sharp legs and gaping proboscis. I lost two boys in that fight; one when a spray of gunfire from Ray’s M9 ripped his head off, the other took several disrupter hits from the Insectoids.

The bugs have no odor when they’re live, but the putrid smell when you kill one is bad enough to make a man vomit his last meal. All told we killed four, wounded two and scared off two small ones that never even pulled a disrupter. Most of the mosquitoes flew off after their initial attack; but several never detached from Lucy’s naked body. Ray had a lighter and he burned off four. The last one was so bloated it couldn’t fly off, and we stuffed it and the burnt bodies into a back pack to take back for study.

I was on this gym roof in the heat of the day because of those overgrown mosquitoes. General Guff wanted more live bodies, and since Aedes were day feeders and breeders, I figured it’d be best for my crew to surprise them after dark. I hadn't collected bugs since I was in the fifth grade, but this seemed like a good time to clean out the mayonnaise jars and go exploring.

Whatever General Guff wants, Gordon Fucking Holmes would deliver.

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And with their own brand new piece of writing (the right one this time), welcome back to the ring....Alone.

Thanksgiving 1972 

Allison 

The road led nowhere. Or so it seemed.

Darkness blanketed the trees along the lane as the truck’s headlights dressed the bottoms of them in its glow.

“Um…how much farther, Mister?” I searched his grizzly face, as his black emotionless eyes glared into mine. He smeared on a sly grin then focused back on the road.

It was that very smile that coaxed me into his car, promising me a ride to the nearest payphone to call a tow.

But now…the smile haunted me.

The man’s hand reached to my exposed leg. I flinched against my seat, inhaling. He stopped a moment, and redirected to turn the radio dials. He spun them left and right till Loretta Lynn bellowed through the speakers.

I exhaled, closing my eyes. “Um….”

“Soon, honey…soon.” He cooed through dried lips, turning the radio's volume up.

Out the window, I saw only black. No road signs or signs of life.

My stomach churned with regret.

“My-my parents are expecting me for Thanksgiving dinner anytime now so…at least they know I’m on this road, ya know?” I tried to sound as convincing as possible, while a nervous sweat escaped my pores. “I…um, called them from a payphone right before the car broke down. Maybe twenty miles before.”

The man broke his eyes from the road again, lingering them on me. His smile drew wider, exposing yellow, crooked teeth. “That’s good, honey…that’s good.”

Inching closer to the truck’s door, I found the handle, and rested my palm on it. My heartbeat echoed in my ears. God willing, I’d make the leap and jump out.

I checked the speedometer. Fifty-five. It’d be a hard fall, but it’d save my life.

In the distance, a green rectangular sign reflected back the next gas station to be fifteen miles away. A deep breath escaped me, calming my nerves.

Just a few more miles and I’d be safe again.

“See, honey? Almost there,” he comforted with a projected Cheshire grin. “Thirsty?”

I relaxed in my seat. It’d been hours since I’d had anything to eat or drink. “Yeah…yeah, I am.”

The man pulled a flask from his jacket’s inner pocket, unscrewing the top with one hand, and offered it to me. I paused, unsure of his motives, till a coercing frown emerged.

Just one sip. Enough to satisfy him, and my dry throat.

Just one.

Returning the top to the flask, wincing from the liquor’s strength, I handed it back coughing. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, honey,” he chuckled gruffly. “You’re welcome.”

The music continued playing in the background, then stopped.

“Cops confirm the roadside snatcher is still on the loose. Repeat, roadside snatcher--”

He turned the radio off quickly.

“Mister.” My eyes grew heavy, head fogged. Glancing from the road to him was a blur of neon lines. “You’re….” Movements slowed, almost melting into each other. “You’re….” I felt myself dozing, unable to focus.

His haunting smile grew as he swerved hard down a dirt road.

I saw black.

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Leave your vote and we'll see you back here tomorrow for the next match-up!

Remember the WRiTE CLUB motto, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!