AWOL: A Character Lost

by Anthony Renfro

  AWOL: A CHARACTER LOST

  How far will he go to find his home?

  Anthony Renfro

  atothewr publications

  This is a work of fiction and I hold all the publishing rights.

  This book was produced using PressBooks.com.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Together

  The Winter Dead

  Together 2

  Fangs and A Full Moon

  Together 3

  Goodnight Killer 1

  Together 4

  Goodnight Killer 2

  Together 5

  Monster Mash

  Together 6

  Hunter

  Prologue

  Smoke Signals

  Nuclear War

  7:30 A.M.

  Chaos

  Going Home

  Bread Patrol

  About the Author

  Places to Find Me

  DEDICATION

  For all of those who believe in me.

  Thanks for being there.

  Thanks James for the cover: goonwrite.com

  TOGETHER

  The naked man was lying there, lifeless.

  Who was this mysterious man?

  What story did he belong in?

  Last night, after my discovery, I had searched my notes and all of the recent stuff I had worked on. I found just a few pieces of information about him, possible story connections and some minor clues like that, but nothing substantial.

  Frustrated and tired, I decided to go to sleep. The creative juices always flow strongest for me in the mornings, so I thought that would be the best time to figure this thing out.

  Morning arrived with sunshine and confusion. The good night’s sleep did nothing to help my cause.

  The man was still there.

  Something had to be done because a corpse in my creative center (if he is indeed a corpse), rotting away, corrupting all my ideas was something this writer didn’t need.

  I pulled myself out of bed, stretched, and then went into the kitchen to make coffee. While it brewed, I thought back into the creative part of my mind to see if the man had made any movements whatsoever in the short time since I had been up. He was still, lifeless.

  The coffee finished brewing (takes forever in the mornings). I poured myself a cup and made my way down to the office. I took a seat in my soft plush chair, sipped on the coffee, and made a decision.

  “Well,” I told myself, “it’s time to wake him up, if he can be woken up.”

  Then it happened. The man stirred. He was living after all.

  I watched and waited.

  The character sat up, shook the cobwebs free, and then stood on wobbly legs, leaning on the wall for support. “Hello?” He asked, looking around, blind in the dark.

  A lamp appeared beside him. “At your right foot there is a kerosene lamp. Pick it up and turn it on.” As I write this, the words light up in big bright letters on the wall – neon words of pink and green. The character nearly falls over with the surprising light. When he gathers himself, he looks up at the wall. We can now communicate.

  “Who are you?” The character turns on the lamp, and the small round room fills with light. He is standing on the concrete floor of a large silo, with infinite blackness above – stretching to the top of my imagination. “Where am I?” 10 doors surround him; they are black, dark, and ominous, with silver words written on them, reflecting the light.

  “My name is Anthony, and I am the author who made you. I don’t know your name for now. I’m hoping you will find it along the way.” I paused. “You’ve stumbled out of your story, and you are back at the spot where I first created you. The problem is, I don’t know what story you came from.”

  The character – five eight to five nine in height – read the words on the wall, and his heart sank.

  “You stumbled out sometime last night, and I found you when I went in to search my brain for something to write about.”

  The character read the words silently.

  “I do know that you are a runner. You are educated and smart, and have been around the world at least once. You are also 40 years old.”

  I thought of a mirror, and it appeared on the wall. The character moved the lamp to shine the light up and down his body as he looked into the mirror. It was true. The author was right. He was in great physical shape. He also noticed he had dark hair, unkempt, with streaks of gray. The hair hung down to his shoulder blades, and a dark goatee surrounded his mouth.

  “Here. Put on some clothes so you won’t be standing there like that. I’m sure you’re cold. Shine your light at the floor. You’ll see the clothes appear there once I create them for you.” I thought about what he should wear. I’m a simple guy myself, so a pair of jeans should work; magically they appeared. The character put them on. I then thought of a shirt, something from a band I like. The shirt appeared, and the character put it on. Rush was written in big letters across the front, with a picture of the band on the back side. Then I thought of shoes. A pair of sneakers and socks appeared in the room. “That should do it.” The character finished dressing. “Comfortable?”

  “Very.” He looked down at his shirt. “What’s Rush?”

  “A great Canadian rock band.”

  “Do I like them?”

  “You do, yes. You like a lot of different kinds of music. I know rock and heavy metal are strong influences in your life.”

  “I have the clothes and that bit of information. Now what?”

  “Since I don’t know what story you came out of, I’m hoping you will be able to find it yourself by looking at these doors. Each one of them represents a possible story you may be a part of.”

  The character steps up to one of the doors and shines the light on it. The word he sees written on the door sends chills down his spine.

  “Don’t look just yet,” I replied.

  “I don’t like the look of number 1.”

  “You probably won’t like what’s behind most of the doors. I don’t write dramas or love stories. Now, here’s what I need you to do. Look at the writing on each of the doors. I need to know if they trigger anything inside your head. Can you do that for me?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good. They don’t have titles, so I’m hoping just a generic word about each genre will help trigger your memory.”

  The light starts to move while the character goes around the room, checking each door. He stops when he finishes reading them. “None of them trigger anything in my brain.”

  “I was hoping that one of them might, and that it wouldn’t come to this.”

  “Come to what?”

  “You will have to open each one and step inside to see if you belong.”

  “I won’t vanish, or get lost, or even die just by stepping through one, if it’s not my story?” The character asked, obvious concern rushing through him.

  “Not sure. I’m just playing hunches right now.”

  “Your audience must love you if you’re this lazy a writer. A true author would know where I belong.”

  Ouch. That hurt, but it was true. I should have notes lying around, but I’m a “wing it” kind of writer. I go with the flow, and I take few notes, much like I did in school. Maybe that’s why my grades weren’t that great. “That may or may not be true, but the situation stands as it is. This is the only way to fix it. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Not as sorry as me.” The character stepped up to door number 1 and reached for the silver handle.

  “Wait!” The light words on the wall flashed bright, brighter than they had before, since that statement ended with an exclamation point.

  “What do you want? I really want to get home.” The character think
s of the words on the doors and wonders if maybe this room isn’t a safer place.

  “I have a few things to tell you before you go.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Here are a few notes I found lying beside my computer.”

  “Okay.”

  “You have a wife and two kids.”

  “What?”

  “Since they’re not here, I’m assuming they haven’t slipped out of their story; they are safe and sound back where they belong. However . . .”

  “I knew that was coming.”

  I continued, ignoring his statement. “. . . they could have slipped out, just like you did, but they didn’t wind up in this room.”

  “What do you mean? If I’m here, shouldn’t they be? This is where you created us.”

  “True, but since you slipped out, I’m not so sure they couldn’t either. If you can get out, then logic dictates they could as well.”

  “Then they should be here, with me, right now.”

  “You would think so, but I have never had a character slip out like this before. The rules are all new to me. Maybe all of you slipped out together and somewhere in that void you all went in separate directions. You just happened to wind up here. Maybe it was some part of my subconscious that forced you into this room so all of you wouldn’t be lost. Who knows?”

  “Will I know what they look like?”

  “You should. When I created my notes, I wrote up all four of your back stories. I assume since you were created to be together you should know each other.”

  “Is that all you can remember or tell from your notes? You can’t give me anything other than that?”

  “Sorry, that’s it.”

  The character stood there, annoyed, after he read that.

  “One other thing; since I’m not sure what story you belong in, your skills may not fit the story. Let’s say you’re in the werewolf story, but your skills are better suited for vampire hunting. You may not be able to adapt, and that may cost you your life. Keep that in mind. I spilled coffee on your skill set. Sorry about that. Also, if you remember me or any of this, then don’t say anything. I don’t think the other characters can find their way out, but I don’t want them slipping from their stories if they don’t like where they are. Pretend I don’t exist when you are in each story. Got that?”

  “Sure, but what happens if I die in a story I don’t belong in?”

  “I don’t know. If you don’t belong there, you probably can’t die there. I would assume you would come right back here, but that is just a guess.”

  “You really suck. You know that?”

  I ignored him. “Good luck. Now you must go. The clock’s ticking.”

  “Thanks, but I meant what I said. You really do suck.” The character turned off the lamp, and put it by his feet. He grabbed the handle to the door marked Zombie and turned it.

  The door opened.

  The round room filled with light. A rush of cold wind and snowflakes drifted into the room. The character jumped forward. The door closed, and the room fell back into dark silence.

  I went back to my coffee and the other things I had to work on for the day. It’s tough being a stay-at-home dad when you’re trying to be a full-time author.

  THE WINTER DEAD

  Eric surveyed the road ahead and behind him. The world was filled with death. The highway was littered with silent, rusting cars, sitting on rotting tires, waiting on drivers who were never going to drive them again. Ripped apart, torn open and partially eating corpses littered the ground in various forms of decay; and, from the looks of it, the corpses ranged from children to elderly adults. The zombies had done a number on them when they went into their “feeding frenzy”. The bodies that weren’t on the ground or pulled from their cars were still seated, and most of them still strapped into their seat belts, like they were still driving to whatever destination they had been going to before the world fell into death’s harsh embrace.

  Eric breathed in deep and felt the cold air settle into his lungs. Bitter winter winds whipped at his face and tore at his clothes, trying to get inside the protective layers. Flakes of snow fell from the sky, nothing more than flurries.

  “It is something,” Eric replied, looking down at the white and grey cat in its carrier. He then put his eyes back on the man that just seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  Eric stood about six feet tall, with a long beard, and long hair. He had been alone for quite some time, so his appearance would be enough to frighten most people. He wasn’t emaciated or thin, actually quite muscular, but the lack of a good shower was starting to catch up with him, dirt now clung to anything and everything it could attach itself to. He did his best to stay clean, but without hot soapy water there was only so much he could do.

  “I guess we should go check it out. It would be nice to have a conversation again. However -” Eric took out his pistol and checked the chambers. Six bullets accounted for, waiting for launch, full, locked and loaded. “- we will have this little guy just in case, just in case that guy gets all bite on us.” He began to walk, carrier in his left hand, gun in his right.

  15 minutes later, they were almost up to the spot where the character was sitting with his back against a car. The dead person behind the wheel was still strapped in. The zombie or zombies that had attacked her had torn out a gigantic hole in her neck, eaten her left arm, her left ear, and most of her left leg.

  Eric approached the character with cautious steps as he sat the carrier down. The character moved, and Eric stopped. He pointed the gun at the person dressed only in jeans, tee-shirt, and tennis shoes. The song “The Trees” sprung into Eric’s head as he looked at the RUSH shirt flapping in the wind, the fibers barely able to keep in the slightest amount of warmth.

  The character was doing his best to stay warm, but even holding himself with his arms crossed over his chest still wasn’t working. The character thought of the author, the writer of this story, and wondered how warm he was right now, probably at home with his wife and kids, sipping coffee, basking in his riches. The character seethed at the thought, and that seething kept him just a notch warmer. If the author was standing here right now, he would strangle him with his bare hands and then crawl inside the warm corpse for safety and shelter. At least that would keep him warm until the author’s body went cold.

  Eric moved closer to the character – grip on the gun tight, trigger finger ready in case it wasn’t human. “Hey buddy? You okay?” Gun still pointed down at the character just in case this was a zombie who had learned a new attack technique.

  “I’m cold. You wouldn’t have something I could wear?” The character replied, finally noticing Eric, and the gun in his face. His teeth chattered like tapping skeletal fingers as he sat there and hoped this stranger had something warm for him to wear.

  Eric put the gun back in its holster when he realized it was human and not zombie. “Take it easy. My name is Eric.” He took the backpack from his back and dropped it onto the ground. He rummaged around inside and produced a dirty and well worn sweatshirt. Eric handed the sweat shirt to the character. “Put this on. It’ll keep you warm.”

  The character took the sweatshirt and did as he was requested. He sat there a moment and collected his thoughts, the fibers blocking out the cold, warmth like a slow drip returning to his body.

  “Thirsty?” Eric asked, taking a seat beside him.

  “Yeah,” the character replied. “Where am I?”

  “Hell, to be exact,” Eric replied, giving the character a bottle of water to drink. The character chugged it down washing away the harsh sandy taste at the back of his throat. He was a lot thirstier than he realized.

  “Are you talking time and place or what?”

  “Whatever, just a point of reference is all I’m looking for?” The character asked, finishing the bottle of water.

  Eric let the cat out of its cage and it placed its purring frame on Eric’s lap. He stroked the cat and talked. “I’m not sure what state, be
en walking for days, somewhere near the Rocky Mountains, probably Colorado. It’s mid to later morning, not sure the time, no need for a watch these days.”

  “Are we safe out here?”

  “I think we’re okay for now. I haven’t seen any corpses for a while. We should find some shelter soon though. There’s a big storm rolling in.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I’ve got a nose for weather.” Eric tapped his nose after he said that, and smiled.

  The two sat there a moment in silence. The cat’s purr and that cold bitter wind the only sounds in this silent world. The snow flurries had ended, and now it was starting to snow – small flakes, growing larger quickly. The snow was on attack mode, and it wouldn’t be long before the ground would be covered.

  The character turned his face up to the snow and let the coolness land on it. The flakes at first melted and ran down his cheeks. Then they started to congeal and coat. The character shook his head free from the white invaders.

  “We should get moving.”

  “Where to?”

  “Forward,” Eric replied, standing up. The cat leaped off his lap and started pouncing after the snow as it fell.

  “Where’s forward?”

  Eric leaned down and helped the character up. “I don’t know. I don’t really have a plan. I’ve just been walking and hoping to find some place to call home for a while.”

  “No family.”

  “Zero,” Eric replied, without saying anymore on the subject.

  The character didn’t try to pry and just left it alone. When a man wants to talk, he’ll talk, until then, you have to just give him space.

  Eric slung the backpack over his left shoulder and put the gun in his right hand, finger inches from the trigger. He picked up the cat carrier and started to move. The character, as well as the cat, followed after him.

  *

  Dusk was settling into the world around them, the snow was falling as heavy as it had fallen all day, and little did they know, zombies were starting to move in.

  “Eric, can you stop? My feet feel weird,” the character replied, as he leaned against a car. The four occupants inside of this car were partially eaten, and currently frozen.