This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Open the Door
By Plot Roach
I sat in the closet, my back to the locked door. I could feel the vibrations through the wood. They had gone from pounding upon it to scratching lightly on its surface. I had been that tiny little space for six hours already and didn’t know if I could hold out much longer. Thirst and hunger were battling logic for control of my body. And I didn’t know when the appeal of a hot meal would overcome my urge to live.
Six hours before this I had been a happy mother, wife and helpful neighbor. My husband, Desmond, and I were busy setting out the picnic table and chairs, starting up the barbeque and chasing the kids around the kitchen as we were preparing for the block party that our neighborhood had every summer. It was the last weekend before the kids started off the new school year. A final hurrah of sorts for tired parents to celebrate the beginning of months worth of quiet time and give the kids chance to mourn the months of homework, pop quizzes and boring lectures to come.
We had the radio blaring some sappy pop song about love in the summertime when an announcement broke through declaring a state of emergency. At first we didn’t believe it. I mean, aren’t they supposed to lead off with that emergency signal tone. You know, the one that sounds peculiarly like when your ear ’goes out’ if you suffer from tinnitus.
There was nothing, no signal. Just some man hurriedly spewing information about ’dirty bombs’, viral infections and how to keep safe. We thought it was a joke. When the message didn’t change after about five minutes, we knew that it wasn’t. The man spoke of a contagion that had spread throughout the country, hitting every major city. No terrorist group had come forward claiming responsibility for the attack as of yet, and it was theorized that none would. The bigwigs in the government had stated that the attacks were too well planned, all of them hitting their targets precisely and all at the same time. No small political group could have executed that feat without major technology and funds, which small terrorist groups rarely had. And there was one more thing: ours wasn’t the only country being hit. It seemed that any largely populated area was a target, regardless religion, political persuasion or financial well being.
Through the radio, we heard the man chatter away at the state of the world around us. He only stopped when we heard the glass of his booth shatter. It was followed shortly by his dying screams. We looked to our neighbors for opinions on the matter. Hal, our neighbor who lived behind us, said that it must have been just a hoax. Though when we turned on the television or tried a different radio station, all we received was static.
Desmond and I told the kids to get inside while we went to the garage to pull out the emergency gear we had stored. I doubted that plastic and duct tape over the windows and air vents could stop whatever took out the man on the radio, but it made us feel as though we had some say in our fate.
About midway through this project, as Desmond was bringing in a box of emergency food and medical supplies, I saw Hal again. I waved and asked him if he had heard anything from Mary, his wife, or his kids. He merely growled and launched himself at me like a wild dog. I saw, too late, that he was bleeding from the ears and eyes. It was one of the symptoms that had been listed as signs of infection by the now deceased man from the radio. Desmond knocked Hal off his feet before he could reach me, but then the madman turned upon my husband. Desmond shouted at me to run and save the kids. Once inside the house I locked the doors, thinking us safe.
I pulled the children close and told them to stay quiet. We heard screaming all around us as other neighbors fell prey to Hal, and I assumed, the others infected like him. “But where’s Daddy?” my youngest asked, tears in her eyes.
“He can’t be with us now.” I said. I couldn’t admit to them, much less to myself, that he might be dead. I held them as they cried and tried to be strong for them as I knew that I should. Yet I could feel everything slipping away, even before it happened. We heard a crash from the living room. I had thought us safe from attack, but our windows had yet to be boarded up.
“Jen?” asked a voice from the other side of the locked master bedroom door. “Are you in there?” it sounded like Desmond. But if he had been infected…
“Daddy! It’s Daddy!” The girls yelled and ran to the door, throwing it open to reveal a very bloody man who used to be their father. I knew instinctively that it was already too late to save them as his arm swept them closer to him as he attacked. I turned an ran through the back door of the master bedroom and into the hallway closet, locking myself in. I knew that if I ran out of the house I might run into things much worse than my husband, but it might have been a quicker death.
Less than twenty minutes of being trapped, my daughters joined in with their father, trying to talk me into opening the closet door to join them. First they pleaded, with voices thick like honey. Then they shrieked as the pounded at the door in a frenzy of hate. Then they sat patiently, with someone’s nails tracing the woodwork pattern of a bundle of wheat that had been carved into our hall closet door.
Two hours ago I chewed the last stick of gum that I had hidden in an old coat pocket. I peed in a rubber boot and I’m wondering how long it will be until I’m forced to drink my own urine to survive. Because we had two young daughters, Desmond and I decided to keep the guns in a safe in the master bedroom closet -fifteen feet from where I am now. I feel the vibrations through the closet door and wonder when I’ll be forced to flee my hiding place. Will I be forced to out of starvation or will I choose to in order to try and make a run for safety. Or will I take a deep breath, accept my fate, and open the door.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Sanctuary at Iron Mountain
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Sanctuary at Iron Mountain
By Plot Roach
The young girl raced through the woods, egged on by the calls of the men who hunted her. She ducked under a tree branch just in time to avoid knocking herself unconscious, though the limb scratched her across the face and scattered leaves across her path. Her breath came in short gasps and she was forced to pause in the shade of a giant pine in order to regain her bearings.
A snap of a fallen tree limb and the calls of their dogs lead her to believe that they came closer to her with every heartbeat. She scanned the horizon through the trees and glimpsed Iron Mountain. If she could only get there before the men caught up with her, she could hide with her mother’s family. But the mountain seemed so far away and the men so close.
The sun pulled itself behind the mountain where she sought sanctuary. She could no continue running in the dark, but surely the men following her would not let a thing like the darkness keep them from their quarry. Choking back a sob, the girl smelled wood smoke. There, just thirty feet away and tucked into the side of a hill like some fairy tale cottage, was a home. She had not seen it at first because of how well it blended into the surrounding landscape. Perhaps she could persuade the owner to give her asylum from her hunters.
She dashed across the forest and pounded upon the door, wishing with all of her heart to be spared from the hunters’ wrath. When the door swung open, an old woman stepped aside, bidding her to enter the dwelling with the motion of one hand.
Once inside, the girl braced herself against one earthen wall while the old woman locked the door behind them. “Now, my dear.” the old woman cackled. “What is it that has sent you like a chased deer to my little home?”
“The men” the girl panted. “The church sent them… To look for witches… To exterminate them… And I…”
“They think that you are one of the godless ones and seek to redeem you in the eyes of God?” the old woman asked, a steely sharpness entered her eyes, yet her smile never faded. The girl merely nodded, still trying to catch her breath.
“Do you have someone to go to, my little dear?”
“If I can get away from them and get to Iron Mountain.”
“Good.” the woman said, and then pointed to the back door. “Go out the back way and I will keep them busy while you flee.”
“But they’ll hurt you as well, if they suspect that you aided me.”
“Oh, I’ve been known to handle a hunter or two in my day. And I’m not too old to defend myself in my own den.” the old woman said as she handed a bag to the girl. “Now here are enough provisions to get you to your kin, my lovely. And do not tarry, for I expect the men shall be here shortly.”
And with that, the old woman ushered her out the back door and onto the path of the girl’s freedom. Once inside her home, the old woman stoked the fire of her hearth and waited for the hunters. She did not have to wait long, and had barely unlocked the door before the men barged past her looking for the child.
“Where is she, old woman? We tracked her here.” said the leader. He was dressed in the fine robes of his religious station. He looked about her home with obvious distaste tattooing his features. And the old woman knew that he considered it beneath himself to dirty the hem of his robes by chasing after some filthy peasant child through the pagan woods. The rest of his men stood idly by, the chase had winded them and they wished for nothing more than warm food and soft beds.
“Where is the witch, wench?!” the priest demanded.
That was when the rest of his men noticed that something was amiss. The hounds that they had used to track the girl did not enter the old woman’s hut, but paused at the threshold. They whined and whimpered, their eyes rolling in their heads as if in pain or madness. The woman waved a hand at them and turned them into a flock of sparrows which raced off into the gathering darkness. The door slammed shut, locking the men in, as the hearth fire swelled in size behind the shadowed form of the old woman. At last her smile faded as she regarded the priest in his stained finery. “I’m so glad you could join me.” she whispered. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve had someone over for dinner.”
The girl, who had been racing through the darkened wood, heard the screams of the men and offered a prayer for the safety of the old woman. The path before her was lit by the full moon and the bag weighted heavily upon her back as she made her way to sanctuary.
Sanctuary at Iron Mountain
By Plot Roach
The young girl raced through the woods, egged on by the calls of the men who hunted her. She ducked under a tree branch just in time to avoid knocking herself unconscious, though the limb scratched her across the face and scattered leaves across her path. Her breath came in short gasps and she was forced to pause in the shade of a giant pine in order to regain her bearings.
A snap of a fallen tree limb and the calls of their dogs lead her to believe that they came closer to her with every heartbeat. She scanned the horizon through the trees and glimpsed Iron Mountain. If she could only get there before the men caught up with her, she could hide with her mother’s family. But the mountain seemed so far away and the men so close.
The sun pulled itself behind the mountain where she sought sanctuary. She could no continue running in the dark, but surely the men following her would not let a thing like the darkness keep them from their quarry. Choking back a sob, the girl smelled wood smoke. There, just thirty feet away and tucked into the side of a hill like some fairy tale cottage, was a home. She had not seen it at first because of how well it blended into the surrounding landscape. Perhaps she could persuade the owner to give her asylum from her hunters.
She dashed across the forest and pounded upon the door, wishing with all of her heart to be spared from the hunters’ wrath. When the door swung open, an old woman stepped aside, bidding her to enter the dwelling with the motion of one hand.
Once inside, the girl braced herself against one earthen wall while the old woman locked the door behind them. “Now, my dear.” the old woman cackled. “What is it that has sent you like a chased deer to my little home?”
“The men” the girl panted. “The church sent them… To look for witches… To exterminate them… And I…”
“They think that you are one of the godless ones and seek to redeem you in the eyes of God?” the old woman asked, a steely sharpness entered her eyes, yet her smile never faded. The girl merely nodded, still trying to catch her breath.
“Do you have someone to go to, my little dear?”
“If I can get away from them and get to Iron Mountain.”
“Good.” the woman said, and then pointed to the back door. “Go out the back way and I will keep them busy while you flee.”
“But they’ll hurt you as well, if they suspect that you aided me.”
“Oh, I’ve been known to handle a hunter or two in my day. And I’m not too old to defend myself in my own den.” the old woman said as she handed a bag to the girl. “Now here are enough provisions to get you to your kin, my lovely. And do not tarry, for I expect the men shall be here shortly.”
And with that, the old woman ushered her out the back door and onto the path of the girl’s freedom. Once inside her home, the old woman stoked the fire of her hearth and waited for the hunters. She did not have to wait long, and had barely unlocked the door before the men barged past her looking for the child.
“Where is she, old woman? We tracked her here.” said the leader. He was dressed in the fine robes of his religious station. He looked about her home with obvious distaste tattooing his features. And the old woman knew that he considered it beneath himself to dirty the hem of his robes by chasing after some filthy peasant child through the pagan woods. The rest of his men stood idly by, the chase had winded them and they wished for nothing more than warm food and soft beds.
“Where is the witch, wench?!” the priest demanded.
That was when the rest of his men noticed that something was amiss. The hounds that they had used to track the girl did not enter the old woman’s hut, but paused at the threshold. They whined and whimpered, their eyes rolling in their heads as if in pain or madness. The woman waved a hand at them and turned them into a flock of sparrows which raced off into the gathering darkness. The door slammed shut, locking the men in, as the hearth fire swelled in size behind the shadowed form of the old woman. At last her smile faded as she regarded the priest in his stained finery. “I’m so glad you could join me.” she whispered. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve had someone over for dinner.”
The girl, who had been racing through the darkened wood, heard the screams of the men and offered a prayer for the safety of the old woman. The path before her was lit by the full moon and the bag weighted heavily upon her back as she made her way to sanctuary.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
A New Breed
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
A New Breed
By Plot Roach
I finally agreed to go to the hospital when the pains were so fierce that I had to brace myself against the bed in a squatting position to keep from passing out. Larry, my husband, bundled up the kids and put them in the car while I pulled out my emergency bag from the hall closet. Having two kids means being ready for any emergency. We’ve had to use the bag three times since the birth of my first son, and I’m glad we keep it stocked and ready. Larry came back for me, shouldering the back and leading me down the stairs of our home like an invalid.
Once at the hospital, Larry had to wait with the kids in the main waiting room because children are not allowed in the emergency room. And I understood this and was a little grateful, since I didn’t want my kids scarred by this, should anything go wrong. But I was more than a bit nervous since I didn’t have Larry by my side.
Once behind the flimsy curtain, the staff were all business: change into this, pee into that, does it hurt when I press here, open up wide and other phrases those in a hospital have long since learned when placed into any emergency situation.
While they were running their tests, the pains got worse. The nurse ordered an ibuprofen and told me that it was the strongest thing that she could give me until they knew what was wrong with me. That little pill was like midget trying to put out a forest fire by pissing on it. The pain wracked my body and felt oddly familiar. But no, it couldn’t be, I told myself. The last time I had felt those pains was when I was giving birth to my youngest son.
The doctors scratched their heads and the nurses flitted about like demonic hummingbirds, everyone acting like they were doing the best that they could and that I was the unreasonable one for being sick with something that they couldn’t pinpoint.
When another wave of pain flowed through me I screamed for the nurse. “I think I’m pregnant and giving birth!”
“How far long are you?”
“I don’t know.” I said. “I didn’t even know that I was pregnant.”
“How can you not know something like that?” she asked.
“Ever see that show about women who didn’t know that they were going to have a baby?” I asked. And while I’m not one of those women who are built like a loveseat, I am a bit husky. But I had had no period to speak of, much less random spotting, since the birth of my youngest son.
“Then how do you know that you’re giving birth?”
“I’ve done it twice in the past two and a half months. I think I know what labor feels like!”
“I think its something else… you’re just dehydrated or something.”
I felt something trickling from between my legs and reached down feel it with my hands. I raised a bloody palm and asked: “Does dehydration do this?” she at least had the decency to run and grab a doctor. But by the time that they returned, the baby’s head was already out. The rest of the birth was relatively swift. My third son weighed in at nine pounds six ounces and had red hair.
Both my husband and I have dark hair. Our first son was born with brown hair, the second with blonde. And now there was a redhead in the family. Now we have a full set, I thought hazily.
A few hours later the doctors came to my bedside with the results of the tests. They were as curious as I had been about my surprise pregnancy. “When was the last time you had sex?” one of them asked.
“I don’t remember.” I said. I was being honest, I really didn’t remember. When you have two kids under the age of three, you’re lucky that you can remember your name, much less the last time you were intimate with someone. As it turns out, they asked Larry the same question. And his answer? We hadn’t, not since our last son had been born. There had been complications from the birth that needed healing. Then, after working full time and chasing after two kids, we were simply too tired for any hanky panky.
So how had I gotten pregnant?
It turns out that the doctors had an answer in the tests that I had undergone: I had an interesting new organ never before seen in human history. A little exploratory surgery proved what they had suspected: I was a “sperm vault”. Much like some insects, I could mate once with my husband and store up his sperm until it was needed to produce further pregnancies without needing to do the deed ever again. I could also somehow alter the DNA in such a way as to provide the maximum variation of my children (thus the different hair colors).
“You’re like a whole new breed of human.” one f the doctors said, his eyes bright with the possibilities.
“Or maybe you’re the next step inhuman evolution.” said another doctor.
My head was still spinning from the news. I would be pregnant for the rest of my child bearing days, having a baby every nine months with one month for the body to recover before becoming pregnant with the next child. Since I was only twenty, this left me with quite a few years left of baby making. And it occurred to me that we were going to need a bigger house -hell, maybe even our own city. Especially if I started having twins.
A New Breed
By Plot Roach
I finally agreed to go to the hospital when the pains were so fierce that I had to brace myself against the bed in a squatting position to keep from passing out. Larry, my husband, bundled up the kids and put them in the car while I pulled out my emergency bag from the hall closet. Having two kids means being ready for any emergency. We’ve had to use the bag three times since the birth of my first son, and I’m glad we keep it stocked and ready. Larry came back for me, shouldering the back and leading me down the stairs of our home like an invalid.
Once at the hospital, Larry had to wait with the kids in the main waiting room because children are not allowed in the emergency room. And I understood this and was a little grateful, since I didn’t want my kids scarred by this, should anything go wrong. But I was more than a bit nervous since I didn’t have Larry by my side.
Once behind the flimsy curtain, the staff were all business: change into this, pee into that, does it hurt when I press here, open up wide and other phrases those in a hospital have long since learned when placed into any emergency situation.
While they were running their tests, the pains got worse. The nurse ordered an ibuprofen and told me that it was the strongest thing that she could give me until they knew what was wrong with me. That little pill was like midget trying to put out a forest fire by pissing on it. The pain wracked my body and felt oddly familiar. But no, it couldn’t be, I told myself. The last time I had felt those pains was when I was giving birth to my youngest son.
The doctors scratched their heads and the nurses flitted about like demonic hummingbirds, everyone acting like they were doing the best that they could and that I was the unreasonable one for being sick with something that they couldn’t pinpoint.
When another wave of pain flowed through me I screamed for the nurse. “I think I’m pregnant and giving birth!”
“How far long are you?”
“I don’t know.” I said. “I didn’t even know that I was pregnant.”
“How can you not know something like that?” she asked.
“Ever see that show about women who didn’t know that they were going to have a baby?” I asked. And while I’m not one of those women who are built like a loveseat, I am a bit husky. But I had had no period to speak of, much less random spotting, since the birth of my youngest son.
“Then how do you know that you’re giving birth?”
“I’ve done it twice in the past two and a half months. I think I know what labor feels like!”
“I think its something else… you’re just dehydrated or something.”
I felt something trickling from between my legs and reached down feel it with my hands. I raised a bloody palm and asked: “Does dehydration do this?” she at least had the decency to run and grab a doctor. But by the time that they returned, the baby’s head was already out. The rest of the birth was relatively swift. My third son weighed in at nine pounds six ounces and had red hair.
Both my husband and I have dark hair. Our first son was born with brown hair, the second with blonde. And now there was a redhead in the family. Now we have a full set, I thought hazily.
A few hours later the doctors came to my bedside with the results of the tests. They were as curious as I had been about my surprise pregnancy. “When was the last time you had sex?” one of them asked.
“I don’t remember.” I said. I was being honest, I really didn’t remember. When you have two kids under the age of three, you’re lucky that you can remember your name, much less the last time you were intimate with someone. As it turns out, they asked Larry the same question. And his answer? We hadn’t, not since our last son had been born. There had been complications from the birth that needed healing. Then, after working full time and chasing after two kids, we were simply too tired for any hanky panky.
So how had I gotten pregnant?
It turns out that the doctors had an answer in the tests that I had undergone: I had an interesting new organ never before seen in human history. A little exploratory surgery proved what they had suspected: I was a “sperm vault”. Much like some insects, I could mate once with my husband and store up his sperm until it was needed to produce further pregnancies without needing to do the deed ever again. I could also somehow alter the DNA in such a way as to provide the maximum variation of my children (thus the different hair colors).
“You’re like a whole new breed of human.” one f the doctors said, his eyes bright with the possibilities.
“Or maybe you’re the next step inhuman evolution.” said another doctor.
My head was still spinning from the news. I would be pregnant for the rest of my child bearing days, having a baby every nine months with one month for the body to recover before becoming pregnant with the next child. Since I was only twenty, this left me with quite a few years left of baby making. And it occurred to me that we were going to need a bigger house -hell, maybe even our own city. Especially if I started having twins.
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