Locked In...

In less that 6 hours, I'll be locked in the Lincoln Heights Jail in LA, reportedly one of the most haunted places in Southern California, along with the Los Angeles Paranormal Association.  I will be recording the experience, and hopefully will have something fun, scary, definite to post about the night.  I live for this stuff!  So excited!

Do you believe in Ghosts?

Progress Report - Hot Off the Presses

I know it's been a while, and I feel like I've been saying that a lot lately, sheesh.  It HAS been a while, and I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not, and that's okay too.

I wanted to pop in and give everyone a brief update on the projects I'm working on.  Not much has changed except for the fact that I recently uprooted my life from SMALLTOWN, ILLINOIS and hopped on over to bitchy LOS ANGELES, CA.  What am I saying?  I love this city...

What can you expect from me in the coming months?  Well, I'm not really sure.  I wanna' say that my novella will be finished, but I can't say for certain that it will.  What I CAN promise you is some really cool cover artwork, some excerpts from coming works, and a pledge to diligently work harder and with more commitment on said projects.

Here's where I'm at, right meow with the Novella.


When Angels Scream (Novella)

I'm not proud of that measly 11%, but I'm proud of how the story is coming along so far, and how much I love it.  It's good, Science Fiction-Horror.  Space Horror, if you will, with strong characters. 

Check back periodically for updates and more fun stuff to come :)

Andrew S.

Hell Breaks Loose: Episode 10 - The UNwelcoming Committee

Hell Breaks Loose : Episode 10 - The UNwelcoming Committee

Mitch watched the pair of beaming headlights veer along the country road, turning onto the farmhouse's drive, taking the turn at, what he guessed had to be, fifty miles an hour.  The bed of the truck fishtailed, sliding into the wooden, split-rail fencing that lined the left side of the gravel driveway.  The fence shattered from the speed and a few sections flopped to the ground.
  "Holy shit!" Mitch shouted.  He ran around the kitchen table, through the entry way, and threw open the front door.  He stood, staring through the top half of the screen door, squinting against the harsh light shining on him from the, now, stopped truck.
  A cloud of dust settled by its huge, manhole sized tires, and the driver's door opened.  Out stepped a scrawny, silhouetted man, pulling on something Mitch couldn't see.  The figure stood there, holding the outside handle of the door.  Mitch wasn't sure, but he'd be damned if the man wasn't staring at him.
  The man walked in front of the headlights, leaving the driver's door open, and there stood a balding man wearing aviator-style prescription glasses, sporting a poor comb over.
  "And who might you be?" the man asked, clipping the left bib of his overalls.
  Mitch licked his lips, sizing the man up, unsure if he should even answer that question at all.
  "Think I'd like to know who's asking before I say anything more," Mitch said, locking the latch to the screen door.
  The man shook his head and laughed.
  "It's been a while since I's seen a kid, even longer since I seen one with a tough pair like you," he said.  "This ain't your house, kid.  Where's Lyle?"
  "You deaf, or just dumb?  I ain't sayin' one more word 'till I get your name, stranger," Mitch said.
  "How's about I give you my name, once your lying, flat on your ass with one hell of a shiner on them narrow cheeks 'a yours?  We ain't got time for this you little shit!" the man said, walking back and turning the truck off, setting the house and front porch in a cold darkness.
  Mitch heard the man's steps, heard the gravel crunching under his boots as he walked up the drive, then saw the man again when he stepped into the light coming from inside the house, onto the front porch.
   "Now, I can't be sure, but there may or may NOT be a coupla' dozen of them dead fuckers following my scent out here.  The sooner I can get in and talk to Lyle, the better.  You can take my word on it, kid, you won't wanna' keep me out here much longer, and that's for damn sure," the man said, pulling a handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbing his dirtied face.  "You've got about five seconds before the lid on my temper'll be irreplaceable."
  "The shit is going on down there?" Lyle shouted from the top of the stairs.
  The man took a step forward, trying to get a view of the stairs through the screen door.
  "Lyle, that you ya' old buzzard!" the man shouted.
  Mitch stepped back from the door, giving Lyle room as he walked down the stairs.
  "Bill!" Lyle smiled.  He unlatched the screen door, grabbed the front of Bill's overalls, and pulled him in for a tight hug, patting Bill on his back.  "Bill frickin' Denningham, thought I'd never see your scrawny ass again!"
  "This is really nice'n'all, but I'd be so stinkin' grateful if we could move this inside!" Bill said, spinning Lyle around, pushing him inside.  He glared at Mitch as he passed.
  Mitch clenched his jaw and closed the door behind them then locked it tight.  He followed them through the kitchen and into the living room, where Bill flopped onto the couch and rested his elbows on his knees, running his hands over the few strands of hair on his head.  He massaged his temples while Lyle eased himself into an armchair, across from the couch.
  Mitch stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.
  "Jesus, Bill, I thought you was dead.  Two weeks, nothing, not a word!  What the hell happened out there?" Lyle asked, adjusting his pajama bottoms.
  "You ain't bit, are you?" Mitch asked, tilting up his nose, inquisitive.
  "Shit," Bill laughed.  He leaned back into the couch and swatted his knee.  "Bitten?  It ain't got nothing to do with a bite, turning into one of them."
  "If that was the case, you wouldn't be standing there, Mitch," Lyle said.
  Bill smiled, amused.
  "This ain't no disease, no fuckin' virus.  You ain't there when you turn," Bill said, palming the side of his head.  "No, sir-ee, you're long gone by then, DOA, toe-tagged, whatever.  There's something else happenin'."
  "It's gotta be a sickness of some kind.  Maybe I beat it, by sleeping or something?" Mitch said.
  "Can't be.  Reggie would have turned then, when he was bitten, and as I recall, he'd been bitten more than once," Lyle said.
  "No, you're not listenin'," Bill said, gesturing with his hands.  "You can't explain this shit with science, okay.  It don't work like that, not any more.  Whatever is going on...it's like something from the good book, ya' know?  Look here," he said, standing up and pacing beside the coffee table, separating him and Lyle.  "I went to the Walmart, that Sunday, lookin' for food for us, just like I's says I's going to.  That much went just as planned.  I got us some canned goods, the few that weren't picked over.  Could tell the place was sacked, prolly pretty early on too.  Weren't nothing good but some beans and some canned spinach, but something is better than nothin'.  I was comin' out when I seen it, on the side of the building.  I don't know how I missed it when I went it, but I sure as shit saw it on the way out.  Was one of them penta-thingies, the ones they use when doing that damned devil worship, ya' know, sacrificing virgins, raping goats, and all that gussy stuff.  Was the size of a tractor tire, it was.  Even had some words written inside.  No idea what they were, weren't English or any language I'd recognized."
  He walked to the window on the far wall and stared into the pitch black night, folding his hands behind his back.  He sighed and dropped his head, leaning it against the glass.
  "This is beyond us, Lyle.  This is it," Bill said.  He turned, fear in his eyes.  "What I seen, the past two weeks...things are never gonna' go back to the way they were.  It's not just the zombies, not anymore.  It's the people too."
  "I can vouch for that," Mitch said, raising his hand, thinking about the mad butcher, remembering the look in his eyes when he died.  A shiver ran up his spine and goosepimples speckled his arms.
  "I..." Bill said, finding it hard to tell his story.  He gulped and looked around the room, trying to find the strength to tell it.  "I seen a group, living, armed men and women, and even some teens; saw 'em take a baby from a woman begging for food, just crying for anything.  They took her baby, sliced its throat, and drank its blood, then they raped and killed the mom and dragged their bodies, threw them into their truck and drove away."
  "Dear God," Lyle said, covering his mouth with his hand.
  "I had to sit there, listening to a gargled, dying baby, listen to the cries of this woman while they took turns with her; helpless," Bill said, tears forming in his eyes.  He ran his hand along his chin, deep in thought, back in time.  He covered his face with his hands, cried, then wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.  "Where's Reggie?  I just...I need to talk to him."
  Lyle looked at the floor, beginning to choke up.  He shook his head 'no'.
  "Where's Reggie!?" Bill shouted, standing up.
  "These kids were in trouble, needed our help," Lyle said, pointing his thumb at Mitch.  "Reggie did what he felt he had to do."
  "What happened?" Bill asked, stern and quiet, squeezing his fists taut.
  "Zombies got 'em, Bill," Lyle said, soft.  "Weren't nothin' anyone coulda' done."
  "Well who the hell sent you out there for these kids," Bill shouted, pointing his finger like a knife at Mitch who stood, petrified.
  For the second time in this conversation, Mitch was reminded of someone, this time his mother.  We help others, by helping ourselves.  Goin' out there, that's a fools game, that's what she had said after all, before he'd left the house, the thing that started all of this, set it in motion.  There must have been some truth in that, Mitch thought.  She'd be alive if he hadn't left, but, Pheobe might have been dead.  Was it a good tradeoff?  Maybe, maybe not.  Time would have to let Mitch know.  Either way, what's done was done, can't change that.
  "I should kill you where you sit, Lyle, for doing something so fuckin' stupid!  Nothin' here belongs to them!  They ain't got no right to any of our stuff!" Bill screamed.
  "As I recall, ain't none of it yours neither, Bill," Lyle said, pushing himself onto his feet with a grunt.  "I hired your ass and the way I sees' it, I can fire your ass too."  He pulled a revolver out of his pocket and pointed it in between Bill's eyes then cocked back the hammer.  "You ain't got no more right to anything in this house than these little ones.  I can ask ya' to beg, but I won't do no such 'thang.  We's equals here.  Nothing more to it."
  Bill stared down the barrel, his breathing quickening, sweat dripping down his forehead and cheeks.
  "Get that thing out of my face," Bill whispered.  He stood as Lyle backed down, clicking the hammer back into place.  "Enjoy your stay," Bill said, walking past Mitch.
  "Girls in your bed," Lyle said.  "You can take Reggie's room."
  Bill stopped and turned, facing Mitch and Lyle.
  "Not sure if I was followed.  If you two wanna' wake up with all your limbs 'counted for, should prolly get someone up in the attic keeping watch," Bill said, turning and heading upstairs.  "Least that's what Reggie would have suggested," he hollered from the top of the stairs.
  Lyle walked around the coffee table, putting the revolver back into his pocket.
  "Knew this thing would come in handy for something.  Don't ever sleep without it anymore," he laughed.  He touched Mitch's shoulder.  "Hate to say it, but he's right.  Should prolly get-"
  "No worries, Mr. Lyle," Mitch said, cutting him off, knowing what he was going to ask.  "I got this."
  Lyle patted Mitch's shoulder and smiled.
  "There's a rifle up there already, scope attached.  There's some night vision binoculars up there too, should come in handy I'd say.  You need anything, spot anything, you make sure to holler like the dicken's, okay?"
  Mitch nodded and took a deep breath.
  Lyle turned Mitch around and walked him up the stairs, to the upstairs hallway.  They stopped, about halfway to the end of the hall, and Lyle reached up, grabbing hold of a string weighted with a quarter tied to the end.
  "Attics up this way," Lyle said, pulling it down.
  Mitch hopped in, grabbing the string from Lyle when he saw he was struggling with it.
  A built-in step ladder unfolded before them and Lyle patted Mitch on the shoulder one last time.
  "Like I said, anything, you holler, ya' hear?" Lyle said then yawned.
  "Yes, sir," Mitch said, climbing onto the lower rungs.  "Get some sleep."
  "You get tired, you'll let me know?"
  "I've been sleeping for two weeks.  If there's one thing I don't feel like doing, it's sleeping."
  Lyle snickered and walked down the hall to his bedroom, shuffling his feet.
  Mitch sighed when Lyle was in his room with the door closed, then started climbing up into the dusty attic.  It smelled like old clothes and stale oil.  The attic was dark and cramped with a low, steeple ceiling.  Mitch had to hunch over as he planned out each step to the other side, maneuvering around boxes and random stacks of old, coverless books, lamps without hoods, and piles of clothing.
  Mitch's eyes started stinging from the dust flickering in the air and when he closed them they burned worse and almost lost his balance, nearly falling through a section of insulation.  He caught himself on a rafter and finished making it to the window on the other side of the attic.  The rifle was exactly where Lyle said it would be, propped up beside the window sill, beside a pair of binoculars.
  Mitch picked it up and felt the gun's weight in his hands.  It was lighter than he expected.  He propped the butt of the gun against his shoulder and looked down the scope, out the half-open window, testing it.
  He hunkered down on his knees in front of the window, which was still low enough to perch the gun on for stability, and grabbed the binoculars.  He held them up to his eyes, scanning the front lawn of the farmhouse, admiring the dark greens and blacks of the night vision.  So, he sat, for hours and hours, watching the night.
  He saw a rabbit around midnight munching on what looked like a cabbage.  A few hours later, a pair of dear ran across the lawn to the road, disappearing into the field on the other side.
  It was around four in the morning when Mitch finally dozed off, without even realizing he was tired.  If he'd just managed to stay awake a few minutes longer, just a few, he'd of seen them coming; would have seen the packs, the burning red eyes.  He would have smelled the blood and the decay in the early morning breeze.  But, he didn't.  He didn't see or smell a thing, because he was off, dreaming about when his daddy taught him baseball.  If only...

After the Fall: Tales of the Apocalypse...out NOW!

It's finally out, and ready for purchase.  Check out these amazing tales of destruction, horror, and apocalyptical distress and survival; one of which is mine.

Here's a brief teaser of my short...

Up the Road by Andrew Saxsma
What if the world was destroyed, not by disease, war, zombies, or famine, but by fairytales...

Support this upcoming publisher, and all these wonderful authors who've got a piece of this dastardly pie.  

Andrew S.

After the Fall: Tales of the Apocalypse

Coming Soon...From Almond Press

When They're Gone...

In the midst of a busy move between Chicago and LA, I'm posting another short story as I haven't had a chance to sit down and mash out a character interview.  This one, a favorite of mine, features my first ever Gay character.  I hope ya'll enjoy, and leave some comments!
-----------------------------

Private Sam Greene tried to slow his breathing while he hugged the side of his squad’s tan Humvee.  He unstrapped his helmet and leaned his head back against the window, staring up into the pearly blue afternoon sky.  Streams of beady sweat trickled down his dirt and sand covered face, sliding along his chin.  He tightened his grip on his assault rifle and plopped his helmet back on.

“You alright, Private?” a voice called out from the other side of the Humvee.  

A burly lieutenant, Mackey was his name, rounded the front of the vehicle, holding his rifle with both hands while his backpack bobbed back and forth with each step.  “Greene, you okay?” he asked again while he adjusted his bowl-shaped helmet, sounding less formal.

Greene stared out into the swirling desert, sprawling forever in all directions.  He wasn’t sure if the lieutenant could see him shaking, if he could tell he was scared shitless.  His blood ran cold and he had that constant feeling like he was at the apex of a roller coaster, staring at a drop while the cart waits to soar its way down, anticipating the release.

You know shits gonna’ happen, it’s just a matter of when, he thought to himself.  

“This your first time off base, Greene?” Mackey asked with a chuckle while he inspected his rifle.  He slid it around his shoulder by its strap then unholstered his pistol, checking that out too.

“Yeah,” Greene said, a lump getting caught in his throat.  “First time.”

“First time’s always the shit-kicker,” Mackey said, patting Greene’s shoulder.  “Don’t worry, Private.  You’re in good hands,” he said with a grin through his sand crusted face. 

Mackey lifted a tiny flap on his equipment belt and pulled out a piece of folded paper with his thumb and pointer finger.  When it was out, he unfolded it and spread it across the hood of the Humvee. 

“’Mere a sec’, Greene,” he said, waving Greene over.

Greene took in a deep breath, held it in for a minute, letting his muscles relax, then sighed.  He bounced his rifle in his hand, testing the weight of his gun, like he’d forgotten how much it weighed.  He walked over to Mackey and stopped right beside him, staring down at the paper, which was a map of the area, five-square miles worth of sand and rock.

Mackey circled an area near the upper right hand corner with his pointer finger.

“Couple a’ brownies were spotted here a few days ago,” Mackey said.  “Haulin’ supplies and weapons, munitions; the good stuff, ya’ know.  Radio chatter went dead around two-thirty this morning.  Just like that,” he said, snapping his finger. 

“So,” Greene said, his voice quivering.  “What are we supposed to do?” 

“Well, our boys seem pretty sure the sand storm that’s been building up there spooked ‘em away.  We’re talkin’ hundred mile an hour winds.”

Greene squinted his eyes and cocked his mouth, confused.

“And they want us to go up there?” Greene asked, getting pissed.

“They just want us to see if they left anything behind.  Supply requisitions are backlogged so far I doubt we’ll ever get toilet paper again,” Mackey said, slapping Greene’s chest to get him riled up.  “I’ve done a dozen of these bag and tag ops.  Trust me, if there’s a safe time to go sneekin’ around, it’s during a fuckin’ sandstorm.” 

“You said they were gone!  Why would we need to be sneaking?” Greene shouted, leaning over the hood and shaking his head, his brain trying to talk him out of this. 

“Relax, Private,” Mackey said, picking up the map.  “Our boys said they are, so they are!”

Greene stood up and stared at Mackey for a second, wanting to believe him, wanting to believe they were fed the right information. 

Mackey reached out and grabbed Greene by his shoulders, looking to his eyes. 

“You’ll be okay.  I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Mackey said, searching Greene’s eyes for a shred of trust. 

Greene nodded his head, agreeing, and quickly looked away in disbelief of what he was about to do.

Mackey tapped Greene’s shoulder a few times for reassurance then pulled a compass out of another pouch.  He got his bearings, studying the compass then shielded his eyes from the sun while he spun around, comparing the surrounding desert and rock formations to the map in his hand, flapping in the hot humid wind.

“The terrain is too rocky to drive, so,” he said, continuing to study, “we’ll have to walk.”

Greene stared at the mix of rock and sand beneath his boots, listened to it crunch as he stepped in place, waiting.  His mind was at home, in Ashland, Louisiana, standing at the creek behind his parent’s one-story house with the corny lawn decorations, watching the ducks bob their heads below water while bugs and birds chirped. 

“Okay,” Mackey said after a moment. 

Greene’s head was pulled back, halfway around the world, back into the Iraqi Desert, back where the fear was real and the sun seemed to beam down on you twenty-four seven.  He felt sweat slipping down his neck, down his shirt, and into his underwear.  His undershirt clung to his pits and his back.  He wiped his forehead then faced Mackey.

“It’s this way,” Mackey said, starting to walk down the hill beside the Humvee. 

Greene watched Mackey side-step his way down the hill then began to follow, reluctantly, with his rifle in hand.  Rocks rustled at his feet as he planned his steps, balancing himself while he walked behind.

After twenty minutes, Mackey reached the bottom, first, then Greene.  Mackey popped out the compass again then headed off toward an enormous bluff rising from the sand, stretching hundreds of feet into the air.

Greene wiped a gritty film of sweat from his brow with his sleeve and followed closely behind.

The wind picked up, brushing waves of sand over the rocks and into the air in misty swirls.  It whooshed by Greene’s face, pricking his cheeks.

Green pictured himself again, standing in front of the creek.  As he walked behind Mackey, he imagined fishing for catfish, his Iron Man tackle box by his feet, filled with live bait.  But there was something else there with him this time, something out of focus.  A person?  It gestured to him, with furry claws, and he could see it was smiling, and was it waving?

“What’s Ashland?” Mackey asked, trying to be heard over the growing winds. 

“What’s that?” Greene hollared, pulled from his day dreaming.

“Ashland,” Mackey repeated.  “You just said it.” 

“I did?” Greene said, staring at Mackey, confused, as they walked.  He wondered what else might have slipped.  The fact he was about as scared as a lost kid in a department store, looking for his mommy. 

“What is it?” Mackey asked, pulling out his compass and verifying their direction. 

“Ashland, Louisiana,” Greene said, watching the mosquitoes dance just above the surface of the creek in his mind.  A gust of sand blew into his mouth, drying his tongue and his throat.  He coughed then spit up the sand.  “It’s where I’m from,” he said, spitting up another wad. 

Mackey reached the foot of the bluff and turned to face Greene who caught up a second later.  He motioned his head up the bluff.

“We’re headin’ up there,” he turned and followed the rocky embankments up with his eyes.  “The slope ain’t that bad.”  He shielded his eyes from the sun then took a step back and looked to Greene at his side.  “Think you’ll be okay?”

Greene took a deep breath as he sized up the sand-covered, stony bluff.  He strapped his assault rifle around his shoulder.

“You first,” Greene said, looking worried. 

Mackey smiled, nervous, then walked up the slight incline to the first set of rocks jutting from the waves of sand.  He lifted his foot atop a tiny outcrop and reached for a rocky ledge above his head.  He lifted his body with a grunt, got his footing, then looked over his shoulder, down at Greene.

“You comin’, or you gonna’ wait for the brownies to give ya’ a lift?” he laughed.

Greene took another deep breath and let it out in a rough sigh.  He shook his head to himself as he followed Mackey up the bluff.  Sweat trickled into his eyes and burned as he climbed.  The grainy sand blew into his nose and mouth and smelled of dirt and age. 

“You got a wife back in Ashland, Louisiana?” Mackey shouted from above while he tested his footing on a rocky hump. 

Dirt and small rocks fell from underneath Mackey’s boot. 

Greene looked away until the debris had passed, then reached up and grabbed an apple-sized rock.  He gave it a good tug and it held tight. 

“I got an ex-wife,” Greene said with a strain while he pulled his body up higher and stabilized his footing. 

Mackey chuckled while he looked for a rock above to grab hold on.

“How old are you?” Mackey asked, shuffling a couple inches to his right.  His boot ground more sand down onto Greene.  “Sorry.” 

This bit caught Greene in the eye.  He looked down, blinking rapidly, and shook out what he could before the tears came.  He blinked away the tears in his eyes, now dirt-free again, then put his foot up onto a rocky ledge.

“Twenty-two!”  Greene shouted.

“Iddn’t that a little young to be divorced?”  Mackey hollered. 

Greene stiffened his jaw.  Anger welled in his gut, thinking about the separation, the god-awful divorce. 

“Not if she’s got a drug habit she can’t kick, and especially not when she runs off with five-thousand bucks that belongs to you,” Greene said, clearly still pissed about it.  “It’s actually why I’m here.  Army or the sidewalk.”

“You made the right choice!” Mackey laughed.

Greene shook his head.

“I’m not so sure,” he said.  “What about you?”

“Chicago!” Mackey grunted, pulling himself up onto another set of rocks.  He stopped to catch his breath.  “Good ‘ole Chicago,” he said to himself. 

“Wife?  Girlfriend?” Greene asked, looking over his shoulder at the ground now far below.  His heart skipped a beat.  Damn, that’s a long way down.  The wind built, gushing faster over the top of the bluff, filling the air with sand before dying back down. 

Mackey leaned back, trying to see the top of the bluff now that the wind had subsided.  He laughed.

“My partner, Mike,” he said with a grin, picturing him on the balcony of their third-floor apartment. 

“Huh?” Greene said, confused. 

“I’m gay, dude,” Mackey said, looking down at Greene.  This wasn’t the first time he’d surprised anybody.  

“Oh,” Greene said, completely caught off guard.  His eyes widened.  “You make sure to tell them I didn’t ask that!”

Mackey laughed.

“Don’t worry, Private, that was repealed!” Mackey said, trying to reassure Greene’s discomfort. 

“That’s cool,” Greene said, unsure of what else to say.  His voice sounded uneasy. 

“Greene?” Mackey asked, getting Greene’s attention.

“I mean, I’ve just never met a,” Greene said, interrupted.

“It’s alright, dude.  You can relax,” Mackey said with a smile.  “No worries.” 

Mackey pulled himself up onto the summit of the bluff then lay down over the edge, reaching down to help Greene up the rest of the way.

Greene grabbed hold of Mackey’s arm and felt him yank, lifting him up onto the ledge.  He crawled to his feet while Mackey stood and looked out over the desert.  Greene brushed the sand from his pants then followed Mackey’s stare.  Oh shit!!

About a mile away, a wall of sand pushed its way forward, pluming toward the bluff, brushing up and along the canyon that stretched before them.   

“Their camp is right there,” Mackey said, pointing into the sand storm, near the end of the canyon rock walls.  “Just at the base.  It’s not much further.” 

Greene stared at the whirling wall of sand, anxious and worried.  Mackey didn’t show a shred of fear, a bit of unease.  Why?

“It’s better not to think about it,” Mackey said, as though he could hear Greene’s thoughts.  “We just…do what we have to.” 

Mackey looked over the edge of bluff, the side they’d have to climb down. 

“We’ll rest for a few, then head down.  Shouldn’t be as bad,” he said, looking back at Greene who took a swig out of his canteen. 

So, they rested a bit, talking about school, their homes.  Greene talked about his parents and of the creek behind his house, how the fishing was great during the summers.  Mackey talked about what it was like coming out to his family, how he’d met his partner, how he hoped they could marry legally one day. 

When Mackey called time, they gathered their gear together then began climbing down the bluff, Mackey first. 

After about an hour, Greene actually reached the desert floor before Mackey.  He watched Mackey climb down while he thought to himself about how gay people weren’t as bad as his dad had told him. 

Mackey dropped from the bluff and ran down the slope of sand, slowing to a stop beside Greene. 

“Told ya’ it wouldn’t be that bad,” Mackey said, slapping Greene’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Greene said, following Mackey as he headed onward through the rocky canyon.

“It’s just a straight shot now,” Mackey said, heading toward the sandstorm looming in the distance.

The wind had begun to pick up again, but this time it didn’t stop. 

It kicked up dirt, tiny rocks, and waves upon waves of sand.  It whirled around them like a never-ending smoke and only got worse the closer they got. 

Greene had begun to walk with his eyes shielded by his hand, leaning into the wind.  Mackey pulled down a pair of goggles over his eyes.

“Where’s your goggles, Private?” Mackey shouted over the wind.

“I left them in the truck,” Greene yelled back.

Mackey watched the sandstorm, stared at it through his goggles as they walked.  For a second, just a second, he thought he saw something, a familiar something, flicker in the swirling sands.

He walked quietly with his thoughts and pulled his rifle from off its shoulder strap to make himself feel better, safer.

“Did you see that?” Mackey asked on a whim.

Greene moved his head from side to side, trying to hear Mackey over the wind.

“I can’t see shit, man!” he yelled, still shielding his eyes from the sand.

The sky and their surroundings began to disappear around them as the sand began to envelop them, creating a vale of golden dust. 

The wind pushed against them as they trudged forward, fighting for every step.  Green could only smell the musty sand, could only hear the whooshing and thrashing of the wind.  The sand whipped against his cheeks, stinging any exposed skin.

It became harder and harder to walk against the wind and Greene found himself being pushed back a few steps every couple of minutes.  He caught glimpses, through the blinding sand, of Mackey having the same trouble. 

The wind took Greene’s helmet off his head, whirling it out of sight in seconds.

“Fuck!” Greene shouted, patting his head, feeling for the helmet that wasn’t there.

He turned around to see if he could spot it and the wind shoved him, forcing him with it.  He spun around again, giving up on the helmet.  Mackey was a ways ahead of him now.

“Mackey!” Greene shouted, trying to get his attention.  The wind stole any sound, making it impossible for him to be heard.

Mackey disappeared ahead, swallowed by the sand, and Greene had never felt more alone.  He pushed himself harder, fought against the wind.  His legs were on fire, his muscles strained to the point of exhaustion.  His shoulders burned and ached from carrying the weight of his pack. 

He gritted his teeth, struggling to pick up his pace.  The veins in his neck bulged while he screamed inside his head, GO! 

We’ve gotta’  be close to their camp, he thought to himself, worried, alone. 

“Mackey!” Greene shouted again.  This time he screamed loud enough it burned his throat.  “Mack-“ he said, cut off by the sand blowing into his mouth.  He stopped and hunched over, coughing up sand.  The wind whipped around him while he fell to his knees, coughing up more and more sand.

He covered his eyes with one hand and his mouth with the other.  He peeked through the spaces between his fingers, looking for Mackey.  All he could see was the swirling sand before it started to get into his eyes.

Greene leapt to his feet and ran as hard as he could.  His legs screamed, burning and growing stiff.  His pack bounced against his back as he ran, fighting against the wind, his fatigued body. 

He had been running for a minute before he realized the wind and sand had stopped.  He uncovered his eyes and saw a stone hut in front of him, fifty or so yards ahead.  Almost right beside him, the canyon wall stretched up into a haze of clouds and whirling sand.  But, where is Mackey?

Parked in front of the stone hut was a rusty pickup with a mounted machine gun in the bed.  A fresh belt of bullets had been loaded. Greene could see a pile of spent shells covering the floor of the truck bed and the ground beneath the truck.  The gun was titled back, aiming into the sky.  They were shooting from that spot.  What were they shooting at?

Greene pulled his rifle off his shoulder and readied it in his hands.  He looked down the scope as he crept forward, listening to the quiet sandstorm swirling and surrounding the camp, as though he was in the eye of the storm itself. 

He saw movement in the hut through the square, empty window.  Mackey poked his head up, eyes wide with terror.

“Run!” Mackey shouted, standing up and waving Greene over to the hut. “Run, run, run!” 

Greene looked around.  His blood ran cold and he began to run even harder than he’d run in the storm.  He closed his eyes, concentrated on his legs.  He slammed into the wooden door of the hut and Mackey leaned into it, closing it tight. 

Greene collapsed against the wall and slid down, leaning against it, onto his butt, panting and trying to catch his breath.

“What the hell, Mackey!” Greene said between labored breaths. 

“Shutup!” Mackey said, hushing Greene.  He looked out the window, into the sky, rifle in hand.  “There’s something out there,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?” Greene asked.

“Shutup, God-damnit!”  Mackey whispered violently.  He followed something in the sky with his eyes, watching it overhead.  Greene watched him cower away from the window, back into a corner, and begin to pray with his eyes shut tight.

A rotten, summery roadkill smell wafted into Greene’s nose and made his eyes water.

Greene looked around the tiny stone hut while his breathing found a good, calm rhythm.  It was dark and the air was heavy, filled with dust and that god-awful smell. 

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the dried puddle of blood in the corner.  He pushed himself back up along the wall to his feet and backed into the corner when he saw the other thing. 

A hand, severed, the source of the dried blood and the foul stench of decomposed flesh, sat in the corner, its fingers gnarled and contorted.  Flies buzzed around it, crawling over the torn flesh and stringy pieces of meat around the wrist.  Next to it, an overturned wooden table with a broken lantern beneath it was surrounded by shards of glass.

“Mackey!” Greene screamed, pointing at the hand in the corner.  He hugged the wall, sliding until he ran into Mackey and pulled at his shoulder.

Mackey shoved Greene away and continued to pray.

Greene fell back into the wall of the hut and caught himself before he fell then stared Mackey, pissed.  His anger left the moment he saw Mackey’s eyes.

Mackey stared at the ceiling, his eyes glossed over, tears flowing down his cheeks.  His mouth ran a mile a minute, mumbling to himself while he clutched his gun tight.  His face was drenched with sweat and his undershirt was soaked through. 

Greene inched closer, trying to hear what Mackey was mumbling.  As he approached, he looked at the hand in the corner through his peripheral vision.  He leaned in close to Mackey, staring at his lips.

“It’s not real…it’s not real…it’s not real…it’s not real…” he said, over and over again.  “It was just a toy,” he said to himself.  “It wasn’t alive…it wasn’t alive…”

In a flash, Mackey stopped and perked up, as if someone had called his name.  He looked around the hut, looked beyond Greene like he was the only one in the hut, like he was alone.

“Mackey, what the hell is going on with you?” Greene whispered, raising his hands to ensure Mackey that everything was okay.  “You’re okay.  Everything is okay!”

Finally, Mackey’s eyes rested on Greene.  He nodded his head ‘no’ then licked his dried lips, backing away from Greene.

A thud slammed down onto the roof, shaking the hut, raining dust down onto both Mackey and Greene.

They both looked up as more thuds shook, going from one end of the roof to the other.

“What is that?” Greene whispered, ducking low. 

The thuds stopped above the doorway.

“Those are footsteps,” Mackey said, frozen in place.  He was shaking, uncontrollably, skin pale and cold. 

The wooden door blew inward, shattering into pieces and splinters.  The force behind it flung Greene against the wall and crashing to the cold stone floor.  His eyes blurred for moment and in the daze he saw something reach down through the doorway and yank Mackey out while he screamed.  It was gut-wrenching and guttural, the scream.

Greene launched himself to his feet, his vision still blurry.  Mackey’s scream travelled up, fading as it flew into the sky, up into the swirling sandstorm above the camp. 

Greene stood just outside of the hut, staring up into the storm, looking for Mackey, no longer hearing his scream.

“Mackey!” he shouted into the sky.  “Mackey!” he shouted again.

He waited, watching the shifting sands overhead.

Then he saw it, for just a brief second.  At first, he wasn’t even entirely sure he’d seen anything at all.  He almost laughed, in fact.  He thought he’d just seen…no…it couldn’t have been.  It’s not possible.

Back home, in Ashland, when Greene was just ten and walking home alone from tee ball one afternoon, tossing the ball up into the air and catching it.  He caught it, tossed it, caught it again, and tossed it, all the way up the schoolyard.  He crossed the street and continued, passing Cliff’s Theater a few blocks ahead.  Outside, an usher hung a movie poster and in between tosses, Greene saw the poster.  Werewolves From Space II.  He saw the furry werewolf wearing a space suit, and it scared him down to the bone.  He had nightmares for months after seeing that poster of the werewolf with a jetpack, descending down onto some helpless couple making out in a 50’s style Cadillac. 

He thought he’d just seen that werewolf, wearing the space suit, carrying Mackey’s dead body.  But there was more, something…something behind the werewolf, wearing its skin…and just when he was sure what he’d seen, it changed into something else.  He didn’t stick around to see what.

A chuckle broke from within the sandy mist over Greene.  It was vicious, deep, and powerful, and there was something else about it too.  Later, when he’d get state-side, still unable to talk about what had happened, he’d been able to put his finger on it.  There was hunger in that laugh, an old, never-ending hunger.

Greene retracted into the hut while a tear slipped down his cheek, a tear of sheer awe while the thing’s laughter rattled his bones.  He wondered what Mackey had seen it as, before it took him, before it killed him.  A toy?

He backed into the stony wall, hard.  His head bounced off the cold rock, but he wasn’t phased.  He wasn’t in the here and now.  He was elsewhere.  He was back in Ashland, fishing on the creek.

He sat in the corner of the hut, hugging himself.  Images of the werewolf flashed in his head and a voice pierced his mind.

...you’re next, Greene-boy, a throaty voice said, whispering into Greene’s head.  It laughed again and Greene covered his ears to make it stop.  Remember the nightmares? 

After a few hours, the storm waned and the sands settled.  The sun set and Green stayed, huddled in the corner of the hut.  He wished someone would come, he didn’t want to be alone anymore.

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Thanks for reading, and don't forget to follow me on Twitter and like me on FaceBook to stay 'in the know'.  

-Andrew S

A couple weeks ago, I posted an excerpt from a short story I was doing for a contest.  Unfortunately, I did not win THIS particular contest, but I still loved this story, and wanted to share it in lieu of this week's episode of What About Now?  This weekend, my last in Illinois, is so packed full of things, I won't have a chance to fully commit to doing an interview with one of my characters.  So, here is something else for you to Enjoy!

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(picture credit "Exit Humanity")

For Naught

by Andrew Saxsma

      “Beware, thy brother, for when the world divides North and South, torn by color and creed, the devil shall choose a side.  May heaven have mercy on those poor souls, the ones who fall, and the ones who shall face him.”

      Willy dropped his cloth knapsack from his shoulder, flopping it down beside his bloodstained boots in a puff of dry, arid sand.  He huffed and puffed, chest hitching as he stared into the canyon ahead, lined by steep, golden cliffs towering, shadowing the small outpost just within the canyon’s mouth.  A hot breeze washed through Willy’s matted, greasy hair, kicking up a tuft of swirling desert sand.  He wiped his sweat-soaked face with the back of his hand, sliding the sleeve of his union uniform across his forehead.  He tried swallowing but without spit, his tongue could only click against the roof of his crusted mouth and chapped, sun-scorched lips.

      He stared at the shoddy collection of wooden-paneled homes and shops, shielding his eyes from the flaming sun in the sky, burning the ground around him, streaking waves of heat as far as the eye could manage.

      “The devil chose…” his cracked, waterless voice gasped, whispering to himself.  “He chose…he chose…”

      Willy’s head sunk to the side, mouth hanging like a deerskin in the sun, eyes still staring at the tiny outpost.  His eyes followed the split-post fence, funneling the dirt road into the center of town, to a sign with white painted lettering, ‘Diablo Canyon’. 

      He sneered, bearing his yellowing teeth and festering gums.  He slumped, scooping his knapsack by the strap, flung it over his shoulder, and balanced himself down a steep outcrop of sandy rocks, nearly face-planting into a tall, broad cactus.

      He made his way to the dirt road, cutting down the center of town, passing a rattlesnake that hissed then slithered away faster than you could shove gunpowder down the barrel of a musket.

      Willy eyeballed the hanging ‘Diablo Canyon’ sign as he walked underneath it, watched it creak back and forth in the hot breeze, knapsack bouncing against his back, clinking pots and cookware together.

      He scanned the empty windows of the buildings and homes, walking to the wooden porch of what looked like a general store.  He pressed his face against the front glass window, cupping his hands around his eyes to see inside.  A till sat on a counter, barring a shelf full of bags of grains and rice and horse feed, and bottles of whiskey.

      “Imma’ have me some ‘a that!” he said.

      He smiled then spotted a hand hanging out beyond the counter, on the floor, its owner hidden, soaking in a puddle of fresh blood. 

      Behind him, on the dirt road, he heard rustling.  In a blink, he pulled a Colt from a hidden holster and clicked back the hammer, spinning around on a dime.  He loosened his posture and eased the hammer back into place, staring at a tumbleweed bouncing further into town, flipping end over end.  He smirked, watching it roll along, and he spotted another body, feet poking out of an alley between a saloon and a stable; boots covered by the bottom of a bloodied dress.

      The more he looked around, the more he noticed the bodies, not quite hidden here and there, out just enough for someone to notice.  Limbs and faces around corners, puddles of blood flowing from underneath doors, and toward the town’s center, a pile of dead men, women, and children, stacked a foot or two off the sand and blood mixed ground.  The breeze licked up a cloud of sand, spewing it over the pile and Willy had to look away.

      “Oh, sweet, sweet, Willy,” a rather pleasant voice called from across the road.

      Willy looked, and there, in front of a tiny, one room church, stood a woman.  A bonnet hung over her the brow of her forehead, shadowing her face in darkness.  Dried blood stained the white cotton top of her gown.  Bloody handprints had traced lines around and over her chest.  The skirt of her dress swayed in the breeze, giving glimpses of her boots and bloody footprints they had left as she exited the church.

      “Look what you did,” she said, and Willy could almost hear her smiling.

      Willy, gun hanging at his side, quietly clicked back the hammer of the Colt.

      “Oh,” the woman said then giggled.  “Come on, Willy.  You should’ve learned by now, those don’t scare us.”

      Willy shifted his eyes, looking up and down the street without moving his head.

      “Think you’re gonna’ skedaddle again?  There’s nowhere to go this time, Willy,” she said.  She stepped off the church’s porch, boots crunching into the sand and stood, hands at her side, head hanging low, facing the ground.

      A cloud passed in front the blazing sun, blanketing the town in a brief, cool dimness, revealing dozens of reaching, dead, greedy hands, grabbing out from behind the woman, clawing at the humid air.  The sun edged out from behind the cloud, shaving away the hands, hiding them behind the light once again.

      Willy gritted his teeth, fighting back a tear and a shiver.  He gulped, hard, and tightened his hand around the colt.  Beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck, fumbling down from his hair, gliding down his back and soaking into his undershirt and britches.

      “Your brothers in arms are waiting for you, Willy,” she said, and he could hear her smiling again.  “They missed ya’ back at Bull Run.  Word is, and I hate to believe rumors but, they’re saying you’re a deserter, that you’re yella’.”  She took a step forward, dress flowing.  “Ya’ know, before they died, your company, they all thought you were tougher than a sheet of iron crackers.  Oh yes, indeedy.  It’s true, Willy.  Now, though, I’m afraid you’d be hard pressed to get so much as a bluff your way.  Why, most of them, they want you to choke on an Arkansas toothpick, which I’m quite inclined to deliver.”

      She raised her head, catching a glint of sunlight across her face.  Her eyes bled, spilling rivers of blood down her cheeks, pupils cloudy, empty.  Her mouth stretched back, tearing the corners of her lips like rain-soaked parchment, ripping into a horrific, grisly smile.  Blood dribbled down her chin, dripping to the front of her gown like a leaky well spout.

      “Beware, thy brother, for when the world divides North and South, torn by color and creed…the devil shall choose a side,” she whispered aloud.  “I’m thinkin’ pappy made the right choice, don’t ya’?”

      Willy’s free hand trembled as he reached slowly into his knapsack, sifting through papers and jerky, feeling blindly for them.  He licked his lips, nervous, and blinked again and again, scared shitless as she took another step forward, smile ripping up into her cheeks now.  She gurgled laughter, the tear spreading clear to her ears, and Willy could see something wriggling inside her skull, something black, something laughing at him.

      Willy sighed, pulling out a pair of heel cast three ringers, made especially for his colt, dipped in iron and quick-cooled in holy water.

      The thing inside the woman shut up real quick and the torn skin-smile fused together in a flashing singe, leaving a lumpy, bloody scar from ear to ear as her lidless, empty eyes stared upon the bullets Willy rolled around in his hand, his other hand still clutching his colt like the reigns of a wild mare. 

      “Ah,” Willy said, “you recognize ‘em, huh?  I dug these out of one of your buddies’ skulls.”

      The woman’s lips peeled back, sliding over her rotten, moldy teeth, a look of disgust on her evil face.  Her right hand rose from her side, wind whipping her dress, fingers dangling like freshly woven yarn except for her pointer finger, aimed right at Willy.  Her lips moved, making no sound, and this made Willy’s eyes water with fright.

      Willy flipped open the chamber of his colt, popped in two bullets, hands shaking, dropping one round in between a pair of floorboards beneath his boots, then whipped it closed again and aimed right between her eyes, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth.

      She laughed and brushed her hand through the air, swatting at nothing, and Willy felt a wall of air slam into his chest, launching him off his feet, punching him through the window of the general store behind him.  He fired a shot on accident as he covered his face, flying in a cloud of broken glass and splintered wood, right into the till counter.  His head slammed into it, cracking the counter's broadside, and he was sure he was blind for a minute, seeing only hot-white sparkles with a droning high-pitched hum in his ears.

      He rolled over onto his stomach, gun still in hand, glass falling from his greasy, bloody hair.  He groaned, grabbing his tight, throbbing rib as he sat up onto his knees, head pounding.  He screamed out as he stood and turned, looking through the broken window, glass shards dangling from the sill.  A sliver of blood trickled down his forehead, around the grooves his nose, following the curve of his lip to his bruised chin.  He slouched, holding his side.

      The woman took another step forward, laughing like a donkey, amused.

      “Join your brothers, Willy,” she laughed.  “You weren’t supposed to survive.”

      Willy reached into his satchel, pulling out a bottle wrapped in a dirty-stained cloth.  He ran to the window, unwrapping it, and held a bottle of clear liquid out, popping off the cork.  He used his thumb to cover the lip of the bottle and turned it over, sprinkling the water over the edges of the window as the woman began running across the street with a sickening speed.

      He leapt to the door, sliding across on his knees and poured the rest of the bottle over the edges of the door in a straight, complete line.  The woman slammed her hands into the sides of the door frame, catching herself before she could enter, stopping her momentum all at once.  Her dress swooshed between and around her legs, flowing through the doorway and a bright white flame bit at its tips, singeing the fabric.

      She leaned in as close as she could, kneeling in front of Willy who simply looked up into her empty eyes, and she hissed, flinging her tongue around her scarred lips like a dagger.

      “We will get you, Willy, and when we do, oh, how you'll cry,” she whispered, grinning and tilting her head to the side.  Her grin faded when she felt the cold barrel of the colt press against the underside of her chin.

      Willy smiled.

      “We’ll see the devil at Appomattox,” he whispered, pulling the trigger.  The bullet went clean, up through her skull, ripping the bonnet off her head with a pop!  The woman sniffed the air, smelling the coppery, hot smell of gunpowder, shocked.  A black, liquid-like mist slithered through the bullet hole in her throat and bubbled out the top of her blood-splattered crown, dissipating into the air like a fine fog.  Her surprised corpse tipped forward, through the doorway, igniting into a fierce, white flame as it passed the threshold, until only a cloud of ash and a pair of scorched, burn-severed legs were left, bobbing back and forth to a slow stop.

      A gust of wind washed across the dirt road, whipping sand into the air in fierce slashes.  It flowed, snake-like, splitting and spreading over the corpses of the townsfolk like tentacles, wrapping around their arms and necks, flowing underneath their dead, bloated bodies.  They stretched, contorted, screaming to life, some rising to their feet, others crawling through the sand toward the general store, toward Willy.

      Willy watched, chewing on his lip, knowing he was out of bullets, as the dead folk closed in on the store, surrounding it, clawing out for him, wanting him.  He sighed, set the empty bottle of holy water on the till counter, reached underneath, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass.  He popped open the bottle, poured himself a shot and tossed it back with a biting hiss.  He hopped up, sitting on the bar, and topped off the shot glass again.  He raised his glass to the zombies, held at bay by the line of holy water in the doorway and window.  He held the glass raised, worried, for the first time in a long time, watching the water slowly drying up. 

      “We’ll see you at Appomattox,” he said, again, knocking back the whiskey.

THE END

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Peace!

Andrew S.