fic: being
this is a new beginning for my novel "Being" mostly for Laura to look at, but if you like it please feel free to comment too!
The last of the daffodils are dying and Scout thinks of the unfinished garden at her parents’ house. The dirt tilled and ready for the seeds that sat in packets or jars in the kitchen, the azalea bushes around the back of the house starting to bloom in pinks and purples. It’s almost time to start planting the tomatoes and peppers; time to stick baby stalks of corn into the ground. But last she spoke to her mother, Ingrid said she was in Colorado, and her father is in England. The garden will lay untouched until she gets home, after this assignment.
It’s just as well, she thinks. In Pennsylvania, and most of the east coast, spring plays jump rope with winter; this week would be warm, next week it would snow again. You’d lose your budding plants if you started too soon. She’s not sure how it works in Indiana, but it’s April and she wears jeans and a jacket. Her breath condenses in light puffs on the air. But she keeps the window cracked while Cam waits in line inside the gas station.
The truck runs and the heater pumps out luke-warm air. She sits in the passenger seat with her legs tucked under her, going over notes she had scribbled down on the back of a paper placemat from the quaint dinner they ate at the day before. The call came from a contact of his; she wrote down what he repeated; name, location, supplies. An estimation how long the job would take.
People walked in front of the truck, laughing loudly. She glances up at them, then past them to the sky where the moon hung low, bright silver and cold. She clicked her jaw and put down the notes.
Cam waltzes out of the station and holds the door open for the two girls who walk past giggling and grabbing onto each other by the hands. They smile at him and he grins back before letting go of the door. He gets into the truck and drops the plastic bag on the floor. She digs through it for a bottle of water.
“You didn’t get any crackers,” she says.
“Didn’t have any. Look at the size of that place.” It doesn’t even have a bathroom, he had to go around back to piss.
“But they have beef jerky?” she pulls it out and waves it back and forth. He tries to snatch it from her but she holds it back.
He sighs and reaches over the middle of the seat for her; putting one hand on her hip and stretching out the rest of his body over her to grab the meat. She narrows her eyes and he kisses her chin before leaning back in his own seat. “You want some?” he asks.
“No.”
She rolls down the window the rest of the way to inhale the sharp coolness outside, away from the scent of the dried teriyaki beef. Her stomach growled and settled. She tapped her nail along a scratch in the paint on the outside of the door. “We’re going to be late,” she says, still watching the moon.
“We got everything ready?” he finishes off the jerky.
“Yeah it’s in the back.”
He puts the truck in reverse and pulls out of the parking lot. “Jesus, it’s freezing,” he says while pressing the button to roll up the window. She rests her head on the glass. He’s not built for the cold, not like she is, Southern summers and springs bred into his skin and bones. He dresses in too many layers during the winter; a t-shirt, a long-sleeved, a flannel and a coat, while she’ll walk around the hotel room in her underwear and one of his shirts.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, turning to look at her a second, waiting for her to visually acknowledge him before putting his attention back on the road.
She glances at him long enough for half a smile and a shrug. “Not really.”
“You’re weird.” He chuckles. She nudges him with her foot and he puts down his hand to rest on her ankle, running his thumb over the bone, under the cuff of her pants.
The cemetery is just over the hill. Cam parks the truck in a gravel parking lot. They slip out of the cab and he pockets the keys. She unlocks the footlocker in the back and they stare at their equipment a minute.
“Sure we have enough holy water?” he asks, grabbing a jar and swirling it around a bit.
“Yeah. They’re zombies, not vampires.”
He still looks skeptical as he loads his pistol. She takes the rounds of rocksalt from her coat pocket and stuffs them into the shotgun. Old Blue she calls it, the name etched into the barrel. They start up the hill, towards the orange glow of a bone fire. Scout hears the low banging of a drum, throaty sinking, and the unmistakable groans and shambling of the undead.
~
The last of the daffodils are dying and Scout thinks of the unfinished garden at her parents’ house. The dirt tilled and ready for the seeds that sat in packets or jars in the kitchen, the azalea bushes around the back of the house starting to bloom in pinks and purples. It’s almost time to start planting the tomatoes and peppers; time to stick baby stalks of corn into the ground. But last she spoke to her mother, Ingrid said she was in Colorado, and her father is in England. The garden will lay untouched until she gets home, after this assignment.
It’s just as well, she thinks. In Pennsylvania, and most of the east coast, spring plays jump rope with winter; this week would be warm, next week it would snow again. You’d lose your budding plants if you started too soon. She’s not sure how it works in Indiana, but it’s April and she wears jeans and a jacket. Her breath condenses in light puffs on the air. But she keeps the window cracked while Cam waits in line inside the gas station.
The truck runs and the heater pumps out luke-warm air. She sits in the passenger seat with her legs tucked under her, going over notes she had scribbled down on the back of a paper placemat from the quaint dinner they ate at the day before. The call came from a contact of his; she wrote down what he repeated; name, location, supplies. An estimation how long the job would take.
People walked in front of the truck, laughing loudly. She glances up at them, then past them to the sky where the moon hung low, bright silver and cold. She clicked her jaw and put down the notes.
Cam waltzes out of the station and holds the door open for the two girls who walk past giggling and grabbing onto each other by the hands. They smile at him and he grins back before letting go of the door. He gets into the truck and drops the plastic bag on the floor. She digs through it for a bottle of water.
“You didn’t get any crackers,” she says.
“Didn’t have any. Look at the size of that place.” It doesn’t even have a bathroom, he had to go around back to piss.
“But they have beef jerky?” she pulls it out and waves it back and forth. He tries to snatch it from her but she holds it back.
He sighs and reaches over the middle of the seat for her; putting one hand on her hip and stretching out the rest of his body over her to grab the meat. She narrows her eyes and he kisses her chin before leaning back in his own seat. “You want some?” he asks.
“No.”
She rolls down the window the rest of the way to inhale the sharp coolness outside, away from the scent of the dried teriyaki beef. Her stomach growled and settled. She tapped her nail along a scratch in the paint on the outside of the door. “We’re going to be late,” she says, still watching the moon.
“We got everything ready?” he finishes off the jerky.
“Yeah it’s in the back.”
He puts the truck in reverse and pulls out of the parking lot. “Jesus, it’s freezing,” he says while pressing the button to roll up the window. She rests her head on the glass. He’s not built for the cold, not like she is, Southern summers and springs bred into his skin and bones. He dresses in too many layers during the winter; a t-shirt, a long-sleeved, a flannel and a coat, while she’ll walk around the hotel room in her underwear and one of his shirts.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, turning to look at her a second, waiting for her to visually acknowledge him before putting his attention back on the road.
She glances at him long enough for half a smile and a shrug. “Not really.”
“You’re weird.” He chuckles. She nudges him with her foot and he puts down his hand to rest on her ankle, running his thumb over the bone, under the cuff of her pants.
The cemetery is just over the hill. Cam parks the truck in a gravel parking lot. They slip out of the cab and he pockets the keys. She unlocks the footlocker in the back and they stare at their equipment a minute.
“Sure we have enough holy water?” he asks, grabbing a jar and swirling it around a bit.
“Yeah. They’re zombies, not vampires.”
He still looks skeptical as he loads his pistol. She takes the rounds of rocksalt from her coat pocket and stuffs them into the shotgun. Old Blue she calls it, the name etched into the barrel. They start up the hill, towards the orange glow of a bone fire. Scout hears the low banging of a drum, throaty sinking, and the unmistakable groans and shambling of the undead.
~