How many days, you ask? Twelve. Twelve days of rain. Is it possible to drown in rain? A few more days and I might find out. It’s getting everywhere. Literally. Fucking. Everywhere. I think my blood has been completely replaced at this point.
We’re surprised the radio still works. I say works with a pinch of salt, thing never worked properly in the first place, but it’s managing fine. Managing better than any of us, that’s for sure. When I last wrote to you there were nine of us left. Toby died on Tuesday. Slipped and cracked his skull on Monday, stopped breathing the following morning. Rough for all of us, he was a good drinker. Still, bright side is we have more rum for the rest of us. Still going off the supplies we had when you were here. Running pretty low, but we’re managing fine. Just managing fine.
Mind writing in your next letter when you plan to send through Jim and his boys? We haven’t had a mechanic for a few weeks now, could do with getting the generator and the Jeep going. Jeep still goes of course, but it’s barely managing. Can’t do some of the muddier tracks anymore, had to do the hill patrol on foot yesterday. It’s tolerable, but it’s an inconvenience we could do without.
That’s all for now really. Try and get your letter through as quick as you can, we’re running low on supplies so I’d like to know when you’re sending Jim so I can get him to bring more.
Cheers.
“There’s literally nothing out there.”
“I know”
“So why the fuck are we going?”
“To get to the other side.”
“Are we chickens or something now?”
“Why the fuck not.”
Five weeks. George had been prepping this for five weeks. The day was here. He was ready. Finally, he was ready. The drive. The long, long drive. 5 days of open road were ahead of him, his for the taking. He was so ready.
“I’m not ready for this George.”
Charlie wasn’t ready. Charlie has forgotten their toothbrush.
“Do petrol stations sell toothbrushes?”
“I don’t know George, I don’t make a habit of buying toothbrushes.”
“Do you brush your teeth?”
“Of course I brush my teeth don’t be stupid.”
“Then you make a habit of buying toothbrushes.”
“Don’t be clever.”
“Don’t forget your toothbrush then.”
George was ready. So ready. So ready not even Charlie’s forgotten toothbrush was going to stop him. Escape was waiting. Freedom was waiting. The open road was waiting.
It was black, as roads tend to me. Made of tarmac, the standard in road making materials. It disappeared over the horizon, disappearing a little in the middle where it went over a hill, and reappearing behind a club of trees a little beyond that. It was beautiful. Gorgeous even. George was so ready.
He stood up, and the car rested back on it’s suspension when he got off. Charlie had gotten back into the passenger seat, and was staring straight out the windscreen. The light was bouncing in their eyes as George spoke.
“Ready yet?”
“Sure.”
“Sure?”
Charlie paused. The breeze drifted through the window and ruffled some hair. A cloud made its way through the sky to cover the sun.
“Sure.”
“I’M GOING IN.”
“GOING IN WHERE?”
“THE CASTLE.”
“WHY?”
“TO SAVE THE PRINCESS.”
“LILY, YOU ARE THE PRINCESS.”
Of course I’m the fucking princess. This tiara digs into my head and if I leave it in too long my hair just stays in place like deformed clay. You think I’d wear this piece of shit for fun? No. God no. I wear it so that when I save stupid posturing knights, they know how pathetic they are.
Alright. Let’s see what we’ve got. Standard castle stuff. Long rickety bridge. Big towers. The idiot’s probably in one of them, searching for me, while I’m down here having a ball with…I’ve forgotten their name already. Oh dear. Doesn’t really matter, the knight brought them. Not my concern, I’ve got a knight to save. I really should have been born a boy. Five brave and valiant knights have tried saving me. Five morons failed. Five sad men had to go back to my father empty handed. Do I get to marry myself if I save the princess that’s still stuck in the castle? I fucking better, the last one had stinky hair.
“PRINCESS, I REALLY MUST INSIST.”
“ON WHAT?”
“WELL, THAT YOU DON’T GO INTO THE CASTLE FOR A START.”
“AND FOR A FINISH?”
“COULD WE STOP SHOUTING?”
That is lame. Shouting gets me in the mood for this type of thing. Does the man expect me to whisper? Whisper, as I storm my own castle and save some pathetic excuse for a man of the King? Very lame indeed. I shall not go quietly. I know this castle. I’ve been stuck here long enough. I know the traps, I know where the guards are and the secret passages around them. I made half of them. I’m going to shout my way in and I’ll shout my way out, and no scared squire. I’m going in. I’M GOING IN.
The tire had blown again. Front right, same as always. Dad swears it’s bad luck, cause it goes out every time we go camping. This time it was a rock on the road, same as back in November. He doesn’t even like camping, why does he always bother? Does he think I like it? The river’s a little cool I guess, it’s really twisty, but it’s not as cool as having phone signal, let alone wifi. Dad insists I read when I’m camping. Reading’s nice, but with internet access I can just download whatever books I want and read them on my laptop. Physical books are cool but they take up a lot of space.
The only thing I ever really get done on these camping trips is this writing stuff. Dad decided to take us to a therapist after Mum died, which I guess was a good idea. Then the therapist said that we needed a way to get our feelings out, to stop us from bottling them up, another good idea. Since I used to write fanfiction (super lame, I know), Dad decided that writing may be a good idea for me. So that’s all I really do on these camping trips. I write. My brother gets to play his stupid guitar. I got the short straw.
Seven camping trips. I don’t even get how Dad found seven different camping spots within our area. Seriously. We haven’t driven more than 2 hours on any of them, it’s incredible. Maybe Dad’s method of dealing with stuff is to seek out new camping spots. Can’t wait for next month. Or the month after.
What the hell am I meant to write here anyway? Perhaps I’m meant to give this stuff to the therapist next time? He didn’t ask for them last time, maybe he’s waiting to see if he can see change or progress. That’s what therapists are all about I think. Maybe the therapist would like to read about how good Dad’s getting at changing tires. Practice makes perfect Mr. Fitzsimmons. Practice makes perfect. So perfect Dad doesn’t even get surprised by it anymore. And we have two spares now, instead of one. Does mean that we get to take less stuff with us though, which is a little lame.
This weekend’s campsite is meant to have wonderful views of Mount Cohen. I’ll probably take a walk there later and see if my writing gets any more interesting halfway up that thing. Apparently it’s an old volcano. Must be stupidly old, because it barely even counts as a mountain anymore. It’s a little flat on one side, and that’s where the path is up to the top. The other side is a little steeper, but according to the guidebook it’s still climbable for casual hikers. Dad will give it a go, he’ll think of himself as a casual climber.
It’s meant to be quite scenic, Mount Cohen. Unfortunately, the road there leaves a lot to the imagination. There’s some gravel, some trees, and some clouds can be seen in the sky up above. Mr. Fitzsimmons, I hope this is helping you understand my problems here, because all I’m getting out of this is a sore hand. Can I stop now? Dad’s nearly done with the tire. You’re not even here Mr. Therapist, I guess it’s not up to you. I could be an adult and make the decision myself. I shall. My hand hurts.
Alice slept in again today. She sleeps in too much, we don’t need this during winter. If she doesn’t get up early then she won’t be able to get any coal before it’s all gone, and we’ll be freezing all night. Little James from next door died last winter when his mum was sick and couldn’t get to the drop zone in time. Then she killed herself and now that house is empty. The other kids on the street say it’s haunted, but it’s just the rats. They come into our house every so often but Dad kills them, so they don’t do it unless they’re really hungry.
The government moved the drop zone further away this year. They said it was so they’d be able to save money on fuel, which meant more supplies. Dad says they’ve just had enough of having to deal with us. The less of us there is, the less money they have to spend on us. Money’s pretty tight all round he says. I don’t know. Alice took me to the drop zone once, a few weeks ago, and the government people there had nice clothes. Not super fancy, like in the fairy tales, but they looked warm, and the people had colour in their cheeks. We don’t get colour in our cheeks unless it’s the middle of summer.
They turn people away if they run out of food and stuff. It gets pretty violent sometimes, especially in the middle of winter when people are desperate. It’s actually kind of dystopian if I’m honest, but it’s all we’ve really got. Everywhere’s gotten kind of dystopian in the last few decades. The poorer parts of the world went first, especially the poorer parts of Asia. Africa was already pretty bad. It sounds racist, but there wasn’t a whole lot further they could go. The rest of the world had a few years on the edge, but then the war in Eastern Europe kicked off again. Dad studied it at high school, back when high school still existed here. He said that the war in Eastern Europe meant that we ran out of oil and gas, and that’s why everything went to shit.
I should be at high school right now. I would be if the government still had money. The kids born in the capital get to go, but they have to or else we’ll have no one to keep the country functioning. Ted down the road has a cousin in the capital who came to visit once. He had nicer clothes than the rest of us, but he had the same look on his face. Dad said that that’s what matters, the looks on their faces. They may have nicer clothes but they’re still going through hell.
There were three knocks. Knock knock knock. You know what a knock sounds like. It’s one of those words, the ones that sound like what they are. Ono-something-or-rather, I don’t know. It’s a knock on the door how the hell do you want me to explain it? The door, this big wooden thing. You know what a door is. It’s a big wooden thing with a handle. This door is slightly bigger than usual I guess, but it’s still a door.
Nobody knows where it goes though. Well we do. It goes into the building. Small building, made of bricks. Small building, made of bricks, in the middle of the forest. Slightly bigger than a shed, slightly smaller than a house, I suppose. Nobody knows what’s inside though, that’s my point. Somebody’ll know, somewhere. Someone has to have built the damn thing. We have no idea who they are though, no idea why. And while they know what’s inside, we don’t. That’s what matters. That’s my point.
So this building with this slightly too big door, out here in the middle of the forest. People have gone into it. 37 in the last century, 6 six we started guarding it. Nobody has come out. Ever. This building has been here since before we’ve had reliable records of the area. People have been going in since before we’ve had reliable records of the area. Guess what. People haven’t been coming out since before we’ve had reliable records of the area.
Then all of a sudden, out of the blue, the there’s a knock at the door. Then another. Then another. Three knocks, like I said earlier. I jumed out of my seat. Probably shat myself too, I’m honestly too scared to check. We don’t even get given a gun, I’ve got a taser, a flashlight, and a baton. What the fuck am I supposed to do? We have no idea what’s inside. Nothing’s ever come out before. Fuck. Goddamn. At least at the beginning there were two guards. Now there’s only one, it’s me. Tonight it’s me. I could bar the door perhaps? That’s not going to work, it’s probably aliens or a monster or Death or something. A fucking chair isn’t going to stop them. I don’t know if I’m ready for Death. Or death. Whichever. Does it matter? Fuck I don’t know. I need a week to think this through, not…I don’t know how much time I have. It’s definitely not enough.
Maybe I should look on the other side. Open the door first, shine the light through. That could blind it, whatever it was that knocked. That’ll work. I’ve never seen light from the other side, it’s got to be dark. I’ll blind it. I’ll open the door, I’ll shine the light, and I’ll blind it. And I’ll yell, that’ll work too. It’ll add to the surprise, and the panic. The surprise and the panic. That’s all I’ve got. Fuck I need a gun. Okay. Okay. No, not okay. But okay. Breathe damn it. Okay. Fuck. Here goes nothing I suppose.
Uh, okay. So that’s weird. Did I really die? Does this mean there’s an afterlife after all or…wait, is that my body? I really look like that? Or looked like that, I guess. Being dead is going to take some getting used to. Man my hair was weird, what the hell. I don’t like the colour. They should make a thing so you can-oh wait, hair dye. Hair dye is totally a thing I forgot about.
Hang on. Did my hand just move? Did that just happen? Am I sure I’m dead? Goddamn this is weird. Is there a nicolas cage I’m meant to be seeing or-wait holy shit no my body definitely just moved. I can’t be dead. Am I? Zombies are a thing, at least they are in movies. Holy shit holy shit. I’m getting up. I’m not though, I’m floating. My body is getting up? Goddamn that sounds weird. My body is getting up and I’m not in it. Is this meant to be happening? This isn’t normal.
Maybe I’m dreaming. People dream about this stuff, surely. This has got to be a dream. Pinching yourself, that’s what gets you out of a dream right? Ow! Nope, apparently not. Or maybe I’m not dreaming. But what the hell could be going on?
Okay so my body has started walking. I’m in my house still, and it’s just walking towards the door of my bedroom. It’s staggering, as if it’s drunk or something. i wasn’t drunk when I died. Maybe I am a zombie after all. I don’t want to be a zombie. Is there someone there? Is there something I’m meant to do? Anyone? Please?
Holy shit no. Mum. She’s in the living room. No, fuck, no don’t. Nicolas Cage or whatever, please. Don’t fucking do this. No. Fuck. Stop walking dammit. Wait, no. I’m not walking towards the living room. Towards the kitchen? Do zombies eat real food? That’s definitely the fridge. No, walking into it doesn’t help.
I think I - it - just talked? I heard Mum’s voice, and then I heard mine? Wow, my voice sounds weird if that’s what I sound like. My body is still in the kitchen, it’s just standing there staring at the fridge. Please just want normal food, don’t eat my mum’s brain please. It’s saying something. I just punched the fridge. Mum said something. I can’t make out words, this is frustrating. Holy shit zombie me can open a fridge door…and take out a beer apparently. Okay.
Uh, okay. So that’s weird. Did I really die? Does this mean there’s an afterlife after all or…wait, is that my body? I really look like that? Or looked like that, I guess. Being dead is going to take some getting used to. Man my hair was weird, what the hell. I don’t like the colour. They should make a thing so you can-oh wait, hair dye. Hair dye is totally a thing I forgot about.
Hang on. Did my hand just move? Did that just happen? Am I sure I’m dead? Goddamn this is weird. Is there a god I’m meant to be seeing or-wait holy shit no my body definitely just moved. I can’t be dead. Am I? Zombies are a thing, at least they are in movies. Holy shit holy shit. I’m getting up. I’m not though, I’m floating. My body is getting up? Goddamn that sounds weird. My body is getting up and I’m not in it?
“So we’re here now, huh?”
“Literally or metaphysically?”
“No like in a relationship sense. Don’t come at me with your metaphysics bullshit.”
“Do we have a relationship sense?”
“I don’t know. Do you want one?”
“I don’t know.”
The mountains didn’t seem to give a damn what we wanted or knew. Neither did the snow, the trees, or the lake. Small waves lapped against the jetty supports. I could see barnacles below the water’s surface. Marie didn’t move. Marie probably didn’t care.
The fire we’d started behind us was starting to die out. We’d built it wrong, I could tell, but neither of us had any idea how to build it properly. We’ll probably just throw more wood on it and hope that it survives. Or we could kill it, get back in the car, and go home. Marie wouldn’t like that. Marie wouldn’t like anything now other than to stand here and stare at the darkening sky. That was okay with me for some reason. I hadn’t been out here since I was 5 and I burnt my hand on the camping light. I hadn’t been anywhere.
“Hey, can you hold my hand?”
“You want me to hold your hand?”
“Yeah that’s what I said.”
“I thought-”
“I know what you thought and I don’t really care.”
So I held her hand. The sun went down and I held her hand. The fire died out and I held her hand.
“Okay I want to go home now.”
“Okay”
“I didn’t say you could stop holding my hand.”
“Okay”
One hundred grand, that’s what the man on the phone had said. Park was nervous. More nervous that he normally was. One hundred grand was a high price, and high prices usually meant danger. Last time he’d taken a job like that, he’d almost been killed and his employer had been found dead two days later. Never having gotten paid, Park had sworn not to take a job like that again, but here he was. The wrong people were after him, so he was forced to go after more wrong people. 11:58am.
Hundreds, no, thousands of people were milling about in the square below him. One shouted, his eyes darted to them. A car horn blew, he jumped. Park was nervous. Too nervous. He fiddled with his hat, letting his fingers trace the wide brim before pulling it down tighter on his head. It didn’t help. He took the hat off, and tried to play with his hair, forgetting that he’d cut it short. Another car blew its horn and Park nearly pulled the trigger. His eyes spotted a red dress in the crowd. Was that the woman? Maybe, hard to tell from this angle. She moved, and it wasn’t her. 11:59am.
Park breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the dusty air. This room was old, older than the man that had lived in it before yesterday. Old men don’t clean apparently. Perhaps they just like dust. The rest of the room was tidy, although that isn’t difficult for a room with 4 things in it. Another person shouted. He twitched and his hand flew into the glass. Too high up for people to notice. Lucky. It was almost time though, almost time to give away his position in fantastic fashion. He braced himself, breathed once more, and opened the window. The wind had died down, more luck. 12 noon.
He stared at the door. 12 noon, that’s what the man on the phone had said. Park was nervous. He stared at the door some more. The door stayed shut. Maybe that had been her, before, in the red dress? No, jet black hair. That’s what the man on the phone had said. Park’s eyes started to dart around the square, looking for a splash of red. A kid’s backpack, a red car. Not what he was looking for. 12:01pm.
Could she have been late? Maybe. Unlike her apparently, and not what the man on the phone had said. Park’s head turned slowly to the left. The phone was on the chair. Should he? Maybe. Should he wait another minute? Maybe. Another deep breath. He turned back to the door. Still shut. He stared some more and it still didn’t open, and a red dress still didn’t walk out. Did he miss her? Was he sure the other woman wasn’t her? He jumped and swore as the phone started ringing. He’d missed her. She hadn’t come. 12:02pm.