As I build this new website, thought I'd offer some free reading: the opening chapters of Destroyer of Worlds, below. Enjoy. If you like what you read, consider buying a copy here.
Corey
Saturday
I
On
the last weekend before the world came to an end, Corey Union carefully lifted
the shed door’s clasp and let it drop. It swung silently back and forth on a
single remaining screw. The woods around him were thick with midsummer
humidity, cooled only by puddles of shadow from the crowded canopy of mountain
laurel and elms overhead. Corey wiped rust from his fingertips onto his jeans,
then gripped the door handle. It had been in the sun and was hot against his
palm. The air swarmed with gnats. No mosquitoes yet, though they’d be out in
force later this evening when it cooled.
Why
would anyone have a shed this far back on the property? According to the
realtor, most of the six acres had never been used. The old man who’d sold them
the land had another hundred acre parcel on the other side of town. Until the
sale, he’d let both remain old growth
– that term was used a lot in this town. Corey thought a better expression
would be going to seed.
The
door was twisted in its frame. He pulled gently. When it did not move, Corey stepped
back and gave a quick, hard yank. It opened, the bottom dragging along the
thick growth of green along the forest floor, hinges grinding and snapping in
protest.
After
opening the door a few inches he waited, listening for the sound of bees. He’d
heard them earlier: a distant buzz, soundtrack to a life outside the city. No
swarm came charging out so he pulled the door the rest of the way open, having
to lift it and step down on the clumps of moss and teaberry to give it room.
He
stood in the doorway, letting his vision adjust to the gloom inside. The shed
was no bigger than a one-car garage, at least from what he could see through
the mountain laurel rising on either side of the structure and hiding the back
from view. A sheen of black mold grew over every board. No one had come back
here in a long time.
The
idea of bringing a flashlight in the middle of such a bright day had never
occurred to him. Corey hadn’t been this far into the property before, but
supposed since he now owned the land, the shed was his, too, and whatever might
be inside. Old places begat old things,
his wife Samantha would say.
His
shadow stretched along a dull, gray dirt floor. Aside from an s-curve left by a
snake at some point recently, no other prints, no other sign it had been
disturbed for some time. Corey stepped further inside, moving slowly to avoid
kicking up dust.
The
interior was hot and stagnant, though an occasional wisp of air circulated
through cracks and fissures in the walls and roof. A lone ceiling timber ran
the length of the room. From this hung an old length of rope, like shed
snakeskin, probably once used for hauling stuff to the sagging loft. Most of
the room was lost in a dull charcoal murk while his vision adjusted. Corey crouched, letting light spill
in from outside.
The
object was barely discernible, save a half inch of exposed metal reflecting
back the light from the doorway. It could have been anything, a piece of
half-buried rock, an old nail (though any nail in here, he reasoned, would have
long rusted over). Corey rose slightly, still stooping to keep the object in
the light. His crouching steps were silent on the dirt, small breaths of dust
kicked up with each. He glanced to the right side of the shed. There must be a
concrete foundation; otherwise the building would have long ago fallen in on
itself. Hard to tell. He reached the object and crouched beside it.
A
key. An old fashioned sort, judging from the long neck and ornate metal loop at
the exposed end. He dug away at the dirt with two fingers, hoping it might be
embedded in something... but no. Once enough gray earth had been cleared it
fell soundlessly on its side to expose the two-pronged end.
He
thought of his father’s ugly old clock, currently buried in one of the dozens
of boxes yet to be unpacked in the basement. Corey picked up the key, brushed
it clear. Some rust along the prongs and the handle. Nothing he couldn’t clean
up. Once upon a time it might have fallen from someone’s pocket, but minor
gusts blowing in from the cracks in the walls had long buried any tracks from
its former owner.
Corey
looked around from his new perspective, ignoring the growing ache in his
ankles. His pupils were probably so dilated he’d have to shield his eyes when
he stepped back outside, but the shed’s interior had finally begun to reveal
itself. Empty, no treasure chest or Pandora’s Box which might be opened with
the key which he held in his palm. Heavy. Cast iron? He thought again about the
silent, old clock in his basement. The odds of the key fitting were so
astronomical he almost let it drop back onto the dirt.
In
that moment, the wasps chose to announce themselves. Corey looked up at the
ceiling. Nothing but the single beam and dead rope, lines of sunlight peppered
with motes of snowy dust, swaying green shade beyond. Still, the unmistakable
whirring of a nest. He looked around with only with his eyes at first, then
slowly turned his head from side to side. The sound was growing louder, filling
the small room.
He
thought, Shit, shit, shit....
Corey
clenched the key into his right fist and moved only his feet, toes first then
the heel, pivoting on the dirt floor until he faced back towards the door. He raised his left hand to block
out the light.
The
edge of the nest was a massive growth pushing out of the wall two feet from
where he’d stepped inside. It spread upward from the floor into the darkened
eaves, then stretched back into the corner. The nest was taller than he was,
and wider, filling the corner of the shed like a disease on the trunk of an old
tree. There had been a window on the
front wall, but Corey hadn’t been able to see through it when he’d arrived.
What he’d mistaken for an old, opaque curtain had been a small fraction of this
nest. Gray, papery, crawling now with tiny dark objects which had apparently
waited until Corey moved as far into this damned place as possible before
springing their trap.
Some
of the wasps rose from the nest, tentative recon patrols of ten or twenty,
drifting a few feet from the safety of the nest before returning, replaced by
twenty or thirty more, back and forth like this until the bright, taunting
daylight outside the doorway was dimmed with their presence. The lower half was
still clear. Could he crawl out without being stung? Out to clean air, and maybe
another forty years of breathing? He wasn’t allergic, but that wouldn’t matter
with a hundred or a thousand tiny drops of poison flowing through his system.
He
waited, heart pounding so hard he began to worry it might incite the swarm to
attack, and tried to get a read on what type of wasp he was dealing with. Hard
to tell in the gloom, but no yellow that he could see. That was good, wasn’t
it? Did plain old black wasps have poison, or just a bad temper and painful
bite?
A
drone landed on the dirt in front of him. It skittered across the ground in a
slow motion dance. Its fat, white-striped black body showed Corey just how
screwed he was. Fucked Royally, as
his coworker, Robert Schard, might say. The creature skittering along the dirt
in front of him, an advanced scout most likely, was a Paper Wasp. Known for
their aggressive, sting first and ask
questions later attitude. He’d had a few run-ins with them in the past,
most recently at the old house in Worcester when he was trimming the hedges.
Get too close, they stung you. Simple as that. Left unchecked, their nests
could swell to horrific sizes. This one had been unchecked for years.
The
scout finally lifted off the floor and joined the growing swarm filling the
upper half of the doorway and now the rafters. Like a blanket about to drop on
top of him. So many of them, thousands!
The sound of their anger became a roar, the pathetic label buzz long obsolete. A thousand pissed off lions pulling together
into a ball, getting ready to explode over him like a thunderstorm.
Now or never, he decided. With the key digging into his
palm – knowing it would be his only reward for the pain he was about to suffer
– Corey rose again into a half crouch and ran directly into the cloud, trying
to keep as low as possible.
The
cloud lifted before he reached the door. Only the tap, tap of a few slow-movers bouncing off his forehead. Then he
was through and running upright, watching the ground as the sun poured into his
expanded pupils, casting everything in a wash of white and yellow. He’d caught
them off guard. They were probably grouping themselves into a giant fist behind
him like in those old cartoons. Corey jumped over, and sometimes through, the
gauntlet of mountain laurel through which he’d come to reach the shed, praying
that he wouldn’t miss the threadbare path he’d followed from the house to get
here. He almost tripped when a branch grabbed his ankle. Instead of falling, he
hopped on his free foot, keeping a jerky forward motion until the plant gave up
the fight and released him.
Only
when he found the path at the edge of the property did he risk stopping and
turning, ready to sprint towards the house if even a single wasp gave chase.
A
dark cloud circled the shed, but nothing followed.
He
leaned forward and rested his clenched fists against his legs, trying to
breathe the hot summer air. All the while he watched the shed. The wasps spread
like ink across the front wall, covering the useless window, filling the door
frame. But they traveled no further. Corey took another deep breath, tying to
get his body to calm down. His face ran with sweat and his right hand
hurt.
He
opened his fists. The key had pressed so hard into his palm its impression
remained when he plucked it away with his left. There was a small cut at the
bottom of his hand, barely bleeding but enough to make him double check that it
wasn’t from the rusty section. He opened and closed his hand, trying to work
loose the impression in his palm while he tried, more successfully now, to slow
his breathing.
His
system was not yet ready to shut down the flight reflex which had probably just
saved his life. Breathe in; hold it. No,
can’t hold it, so just breathe out and try again. Slowly, slowly, his pulse
calmed. The air drifted more leisurely into him instead of pouring like magma.
At
some point, he’d closed his eyes. He opened them with a start. The wasps were
gone. With the exception of the door which now hung drunkenly open, the shed
looked much as it had when he’d first wandered back here to explore his new
land.
Where
the hell had they gone? He’d expected the wasps to linger after chasing a giant
from their cave.
He
took another long breath, let it out. Maybe he’d take a nap when he got back to
the house. He’d had enough excitement for the day. Wishful thinking, since Sam had her Hundred Things To Do This Weekend list waiting for him when he
returned, near death experience or not.
Corey
stood up, keeping one eye on the shed, and stretched muscles that were now
stiff with an over-abundance of adrenaline. He hoped the wasps had gone back inside and weren’t
creeping through the underbrush, getting ready to spring on him while his guard
was down.
That
was stupid, but the image was enough to make him pocket the old key – he’d give
it a better look when he got back to the house – and turn towards home. He
glanced behind him, further down the path. It wound through the rest of the
property and beyond. A roof and one white-shingled wall were visible through
the foliage. Maybe his neighbors enjoyed walking through the woods. The path
was overgrown enough to give him the sense it wasn’t a frequent occurrence. Did
they know about the nest? He’d mention it if they ever got around to meeting.
Hopefully they were decent people. With such a limited choice of neighbors, it
took only a single crappy one to ruin your day for a long time.
Corey
gave the shed one final glance then headed for home.
II
Hank Cowles enjoyed Saturday mornings,
especially the hour just before noon. People-watching.
An odd pastime for one of his ilk, but it gave him an ironic sense of
belonging. Here he was, an old man, sitting in a wobbly folding chair on his
front lawn, watching families scurry to the next big event in their vans and
SUV’s and feeding his fascination. On occasion, Hank would attend Saint
Malachy’s church, sometimes even served as usher. He loved that, passing the
collection basket from one cheapskate to the next and watching them squirm when
he lingered beside their pew after they dropped in a measly dollar or two. Not
that he gave two shits about the church, he just liked screwing with the people
inside.
“Fucking
crow-bar wallet heads,” he muttered. Nurse Charles looked up from her spot
beside the chair, decided he’d only been talking to himself and laid her small
head back onto her paws.
Fucking crow-bar wallet heads, Hank thought, smiling.
Amazing what nonsensical gibberish came out of his mouth when he wasn’t being
careful. But he enjoyed the nuances of human language. Cursing, especially.
Something therapeutic about telling a person to fuck off and get away with it for no other reason than that he was
a doddering old man who probably didn’t have complete use of his faculties.
The sun was hot. Hank ran both hands over his
face and balding head to wipe nonexistent sweat away. He did not perspire, not
unless he chose to and as a rule he did not. Still, his palms were cool against
his overheated scalp and he did enjoy touching himself. During these rare, hot,
New England summer days someone invariably walked past on their way to the Greedy Grocer – one of six ridiculously small shops crowded
together in Hillcrest’s only strip mall – and commented that perhaps he should
spend a little less time in the sun. He particularly looked forward to that
idiot Josh Everson who managed the Grocer.
The kid would drive past on his way to check up on his unreliable employees. If
Hank was out front, he’d stop his car dead center in the road (something only
possible in a sleepy little town like this). The moron would wave, look at
Nurse Charles and ask how Hank’s little “Shit Sue” was doing. He never spelled
it out, but Hank heard it in his voice, in his mind. The kid was insatiably
amused by the dog’s name, but made it a point never to ask how she got it. Hank
would never tell him, anyway. Still, of all the assholes in town, Everson was
OK. Nurse Charles wanted to rip his balls off with her little teeth, but she
wouldn’t. Not if Hank didn’t want her to.
No
sign of him this morning, and that was fine. Hank had other matters to ponder.
The wasps kept zipping past, telling him over and over, ad fucking nauseam, that the game was afoot. The clock would soon
be ticking. That probably meant Vanessa would be making an appearance soon. She
always did. Key in hand, Corey Union would get things moving along quickly. No
wasting time, putting off what could be done tomorrow, no, sir. He wasn’t that
kind of guy.
Hank
opened his eyes and laughed softly. Nurse Charles continued to lay on her paws
and pretended to doze, dreaming of death and blood and pain and...
...and
the same shit he, himself, had begun to dream. Last night, only a snatch of
memory remaining of a bright white cloud burning into orange, then red. A close
up of one child’s eye widening in wonder, then terror at the sight...
The
Shih-Tzu growled.
“Yea,
yea, fine,” Hank muttered. “What do you care?” He closed his eyes again and
turned his face towards the sun. “It’s a beautiful summer day, Charlie, and
hot. I’m allowed a little reflection.”
The
dog did not reply.
Hank
lowered his head, waved absently as Agnes Lewis drove by in her LeSabre. She
didn’t see him, too intent was she on not quite
remembering which side of the road to drive on. Looking at Nurse Charles, Hank
decided, Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next
day. They’d go for a walk across town and pay a visit to the nice family who
had bought his property. Between the dog and the wasps, he’d keep tabs on them,
including Vanessa, and make sure the clock was wound and kept on ticking....
Excerpt
from the Destroyer of Worlds
©
2012 G. Daniel Gunn
ISBN
978-0983732921
282
pages
Other
Road Press
Available Here and wherever books are sold
