Blackhart Joe
Okay, I'm taking a rest on the SHC vs. STAR for now, working on another story (I have to skip around on projects periodically; I get bored and/or stuck otherwise). This is also a Rustbelt story, but begins in County Rooke instead of County Remington.
joe’s epilogue.
“no... not yet...
NOOOOOO!!” Joe awakens with a start, coughs, spits blood. Blood all over his face, crusted in his hair, stained in his clothes. His blood. A wave of crushing pain comes over him, like he was suddenly possessed of a powerful internal gravity. In his veins.
/pan of the abandoned quarry: Demolished black truck, large bloody rock, mattock, Joe, shallow slope covered with hoofprints. It is night; the Wild Moon’s full light dimly illuminates the scene.
Get up. Can’t get up. The mattock, lean on the mattock. Pull yourself up. Good. Walk. Can’t walk. Leg’s broken. In a splint already; good. Use the mattock as a crutch. Walk. Good. Now, the truck. Truck’s totaled. Look inside, find your coat and hat. Good. What’s that? …Jackbone’s satchel; very good. Now, up the slope. C’mon, Joe, move… through… the pain.
/cut to a dirt highway
/closeup of Joe’s eye: it widens
“Someone’s coming down the road…” See, Joe knows the algebra of need. The crushing pain… Dark lights come on in his head.
A lone traveler is coming down in a horse-drawn wagon. Joe hides behind a tree and grabs a softball-sized rock. He throws the stone to the traveler’s head, knocking him unconscious. Joe descends predator-like.
“You should live, my friend… but so should I.”
He pulls a chart and a tube from the satchel. Consulting the chart, he puts one end of the tube, tipped with an intravenous needle, into the unconscious traveler’s carotid artery. He waits for blood to full the tube before inserting the other end, also tipped with a needle, into a vein in his own arm. As blood flows from the traveler to Joe, the crushing pain slowly subsides. Relief like the numbing descent of death - but warmer.
joe’s epilogue.
“no... not yet...
NOOOOOO!!” Joe awakens with a start, coughs, spits blood. Blood all over his face, crusted in his hair, stained in his clothes. His blood. A wave of crushing pain comes over him, like he was suddenly possessed of a powerful internal gravity. In his veins.
/pan of the abandoned quarry: Demolished black truck, large bloody rock, mattock, Joe, shallow slope covered with hoofprints. It is night; the Wild Moon’s full light dimly illuminates the scene.
Get up. Can’t get up. The mattock, lean on the mattock. Pull yourself up. Good. Walk. Can’t walk. Leg’s broken. In a splint already; good. Use the mattock as a crutch. Walk. Good. Now, the truck. Truck’s totaled. Look inside, find your coat and hat. Good. What’s that? …Jackbone’s satchel; very good. Now, up the slope. C’mon, Joe, move… through… the pain.
/cut to a dirt highway
/closeup of Joe’s eye: it widens
“Someone’s coming down the road…” See, Joe knows the algebra of need. The crushing pain… Dark lights come on in his head.
A lone traveler is coming down in a horse-drawn wagon. Joe hides behind a tree and grabs a softball-sized rock. He throws the stone to the traveler’s head, knocking him unconscious. Joe descends predator-like.
“You should live, my friend… but so should I.”
He pulls a chart and a tube from the satchel. Consulting the chart, he puts one end of the tube, tipped with an intravenous needle, into the unconscious traveler’s carotid artery. He waits for blood to full the tube before inserting the other end, also tipped with a needle, into a vein in his own arm. As blood flows from the traveler to Joe, the crushing pain slowly subsides. Relief like the numbing descent of death - but warmer.