So a couple weeks back I was invited to have dinner at a
friend’s house. During some of our discussions I was asked to read something
from the books I am currently writing. To my friend’s defense, I was given
ample time beforehand to read something days before the dinner, however as
always I procrastinated what to read from one of my books plus I was very shy
about it. If I had been more prepared and mustered up the courage to read
something out loud, I would have felt confident to read this excerpt:
I slam the garage door behind everyone. Sierra finally
catches up to me and climbs in through the driver’s side door without opening
it. She slithers into the back seat and lays there wounded and nearly infected by them. I set Henry down in the passenger
side and place a temporary barricade to the garage door. Thunderous poundings
beat at the nearby walls and door. I can hear them so clearly, just itching to
get to us. Their taunts are too real to let go. Heavy whispers dart at
me, “Why are you trying so hard?” or “Just get what you want and leave everything
else,” I stand there puzzled trying to register what is being said to me. Who
is saying this?
“Tango. . .” I have never heard Sierra call out my name with
such pity and weakness. “. . . I think we need to drive the
car.” A couple of arms punch through the walls into the garage. “Let’s go
somewhere else. . .” Sierra suggests as if she was asked what to do next on
such a ‘casual evening’.
I hear sirens
from outside and the technotic beats are pulsating even louder to where I get
down for cover. Henry is louder than ever as well, as he is left there crying.
How did I get into this? I can’t take care of anything. Nothing is working.
Getting up and jumping into the driver's side, my right hand cranks one down on the gear lever, pulling out
in reverse as the walls and door of the garage crumble down freeing the captive
monsters into continuing their pursuit after us. I speed out of the neighborhood.
Bodies fly up on the hood as I gun it forward. The windshield wipers smear out the dark sludge that was bled out from their eyes and mouths.
Amidst all of this, an ongoing
echo of a faded song from outside – above us, washes over the dome of the sky
we are under as if high shrieks of a living being is dying slowly to a halt. Growls and snarls are ensued into the air being scratched in as I watch
for more dark figures moving radically to catch up to us from my rear view
mirror.
I should be stunned with absolute horror along with my heart rate
pumping in more and more adrenaline, but I proceed with my foot on the gas as I
look out to see the faded emerald clouds being sucked out from the horizon,
with the blackness encroaching so steadily sinking over the expanse with
confident dominance. I take a peek at the folded piece of paper that the muted
girl gave me while maintaining our hasty getaway. Unfolding it I quickly read
out letters in misspelled crayon characters put together to create a message:
No More Mountain .
. .
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