Part 2 (The title had nothing to do with the story, except that it explained why I am writing)

I opened my eyes, and saw the world was white. While I had slept, fog had crept in and covered the trees. It was like waking from one dream into another - for a moment I laid there, listening to the hushed damp sound of fog. But something was not right...I recalled the quiet of the previous night, and sat up, looking for Chuck. I felt heavy.

He had not moved. He was watching me with sunken eyes, still clutching his rifle. The skin of his face sagged as though it might slough off, too tired to hang on any longer. But, he was leaned forward - tense, and intense. His eyes stared into nothingness, looking for answers, watching.

"Hey, Chuck, man, why didn't you sleep?"

His voice geared up from a crackly, growling whisper: "somethin' ain't right. Didn't you feel it? There's eyes on us."

There was something strange going on. There still wasn't any noise. There still weren't any animals. And I had felt - no, heard - something when I woke up. Something quiet and whispery. And, worse yet, I think I must've come down with something: I felt a little wobbly, and more than a little weak.

But, that was no reason to stay up all night, or for his expression. "Chuck," I said, "there's fog all around. How can you even tell if something's watching us? You need some rest, and the sun's not up quite yet - how bout you get some rest?"

"No." He stared at me. At times I thought his stubbornness was entertaining: he was just another grumpy old man. But now, it was disquieting. What was wrong with him?
I felt a bead of sweat run down my forehead. I was suddenly shivering. And then I noticed my heart was pumping faster. I chalked it up to my sudden illness.

"Be reasonable. You aren't going to make your shots if you don't have any rest. The deer won't be coming out quite yet. Just sleep for a little bit, I'll wake you up. Don't worry." My eyes hurt now, too.

He looked at me. His expression was unreadable. "We have to leave. Now. Look at yourself. You're shaking." I noticed he was, too. "If you're sick, we -"

And then I heard it. A fern swished. The air seemed close. Then my heart jerked and skipped, and everything went black.


I woke again, this time in significantly more pain. I was heaped in my truck, and Chuck was trying to start the engine. He was panicking, and fumbling with the keys. He kept muttering "just a kid just a kid just a kid just a kid" over and over. I tried speaking, but my mouth was dry. Words wouldn't come. I was shaking pretty bad, and I noticed my legs were caked with dirt and leaves, as though I'd been dragged here. I didn't see Chuck's rifle.

The key fit suddenly, and the engine roared to life. He slammed the thing into gear, our tires spun - and I caught a glimpse of a young man, or a boy - something tall and thin, anyway, with long arms, and pale skin. Its face was stretched tight, bony, deathly looking. In the mirror it looked very much like a ghost - some apparition leaning out of the fog, leering at us. He stood in the mirror and shrunk as we tore over the ground, smiling obscenely, calmly, at our getaway.

The fog was billowing around the truck, and I watched the trees fade away behind us. A few minutes went by, and I was just starting to feel better - when the inevitable happened. Chuck swerved to avoid a stump. We hit a small boulder. The fog was only barely lighter colored, and had hidden the boulder well. There was a horrible crunching sound, I was tossed from my seat, and then my truck shut off. The pit of my stomach sank. This was going to be expensive.

Chuck hopped out, looked around, and then popped his head back in. He declared "It'll run. Just tripped the fuel shutoff thing." I knew it wasn't just that - I'd felt something scrape, hard, against the bottom. But I could hardly move to see for myself.

He flitted around for a few minutes, and then climbed in the cab. "Here we go," he said, and pushed in the key. And, it did start, just as he said.

We drove more slowly after that. Chuck had to pull the wheel hard to one side.
"I suppose we'd best go to town, and have this looked at," he said.
I nodded my assent. I didn't think we'd get all the way home like this.


I had just drifted back to sleep when Chuck spoke again. "That kid, back there. I wasn't scared for no reason. I saw something like that once. During the war."

Inexplicably, I was feeling much better now, and I asked, "what? What was that?"

"Well, let me tell it like this: We were pinned down. My squad, and one from another company. We'd been there a while. Things had gotten almost peaceful, when for some damn reason the fighting got hot again. I think the other guys got reinforcements. Anyway, we were shooting again, and after a minute the other squad was kind of quiet, so I looked, and here was this kid standing up. I was gonna yell at him, but then I saw he'd already been shot - He was leaking pretty bad - but he had this expression. I'll never forget it. I mean, I remember the faces of the guys I killed, and I see them in my dreams, sometimes, but this was different. His face was all contorted, all crazy looking. He was smiling this empty smile, like a demon. It scared the crap out of me. Just standing there, smiling, looking down with those wide-open eyes at his CO. He turned his rifle around, completely natural, and unloaded the whole magazine in the poor bastard's face. Before anyone could move, he dropped a grenade, then chucked another at us. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I blacked out then. I think it was fear." His knuckles were white, and I worried that he might pull the steering wheel off with that grip.

"So, what -"

"I ain't done. Now, clearly, I didn't die. Got lucky, I guess. But I can't say the same for most anyone else. When I woke up, there were only two other guys left, and we were honestly scared shitless that we were gonna get wiped out. They'd blacked out, too, so we were all looking around trying to figure things out. We didn't see that crazy bastard anywhere, even though he should've collapsed from his wounds, or got shot again, or something. But things were real quiet. Real quiet. I could see a couple guys sticking out of their hiding places, not moving, on the other side; these guys hadn't been dead a few minutes before. The other two guys were messed up a lot more than I was, so I crawled around to see what'd happened. It was like a morgue - those guys were all just laying there. None of 'em were moving. All of 'em dead, and I think it was all knife wounds. One had his head bashed in. It didn't look like they'd run away, or even fought back - it was like they'd just collapsed where they were, and been killed. I finally found that kid. He'd ripped the eyes out of this other guy, then collapsed on him. He was dead as shit, you know - all hard and pale, except for his new coating of blood. Blood loss caught up to him. But there wasn't anyone alive over there."

"So, what's this got to do..."

"I tell you what. What we saw back there, it reminded me of that time. That kid, he murdered probably 30 guys, by himself. It wasn't fighting: it was murder, and it was crazy as Hell. I still don't understand it. Now, it's not the same guy, 'cause I know he's dead. I made sure of that. But the way it felt - it felt the same. It's this tingly feeling, and your heart races, you know? And the way you blacked out - I think a couple guys did that, too, when that kid was standing there. I don't know what it is, but I'm old, and I don't really want to find out now. I'll just ask God what in all of Hell that thing was, whenever I do meet up with the big guy."

I wanted to ask something, to try to make sense of this, but what was there to say? Sure, the kid was creepy looking, and there's no denying that I blacked out - but...it couldn't have been anything like that. I decided the old guy's past must finally be catching up with him.

He didn't say anything more. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

I am thinking of ways not to work - for I shirk

"Didn't you hear nothing?" Chuck's eyes popped comically out from under his thick brows, which in turn were protruding from under his tired, worn, and ancient camouflage hat. I couldn't decide if the hat was meant to match with his surroundings, or with his own grubby, dingy self.
"No, Chuck, I didn't hear anything." He's an old friend, and right now he's my hunting buddy. He might be nearly as old as my grandparents, but I've never asked. I imagine he's been around these parts the entire duration of his considerable long life, and he doesn't strike me as one who'd get out much. I'm not sure he'd even be recognizably human in the city - people might mistake him for - well, hell, I don't know. Maybe a really pungent ad of some sort. It's not going to be long before marketers add overwhelming odors to attract attention. Kind of like the way flowers do for the critters that pollinate 'em. But I guess they wouldn't want to use Chuck. Who in their right mind would want a decaying, backwoods, self-described "Southern gentleman" for much of anything?
Well, I would. He's a damn fine hunter. He's a little gruff, and more than a little cranky, plus he smells like old chewing tobacco, but he really is a damn fine hunter.

"Damnit all, you ain't even paying attention. Just now, your eyes wandered up into the back of your head." His leathery jowls were shaking a little, and honestly it reminded me of a bulldog.

"Oh, I was paying attention. I was thinking, that's all."

"Concentrate, boy! Hunting demands it." He laughed a grumbly, leathery laugh - "Well, I do anyway. I want to eat tonight!"

I had to admit that was fair enough. "Alright, old man. There'll be food tonight, don't worry."

"Hah! Spoken like a city boy. You gonna go out and pick us something up? Maybe ask a plump deer to cook itself? Or are we gonna drive around in your truck 'till we see something? We'll drive up, shoot it, pull it through the window and leave our casings as change. We could even cook it up real fancy with the cigarette lighter. You like that?"

He is old, so I humor him. "Yes, sir, that sounds like a plan."

"And a damn fine one, boy. I have half a mind to do it, too, but it just ain't sportin' to play that way. You gotta respect your prey. It's gonna die for you, the least you can do is show some respect. God put it there - if you just up and shoot it, you're tellin' Him 'hey, this stuff on Earth is mighty fine, but I ain't gonna spend the time to appreciate it.' Gotta respect the Lord Almighty, that's for sure. All this mess is his art." He waved his arms around expansively.

"Yeah, that's true - so that's why you were getting after me for not listening. Did you figure out what that noise was during all your talking?"

"Boy, are you sayin' that I should be payin' attention myself?"

"Yes sir."

He laughed. "Fair enough. Now let's be quiet, and appreciate things a bit."


We went without speech the rest of the day, and through the early part of the night. The forest stayed silent. We didn't catch anything - we didn't see any animals. Not even birds. Chuck complained about it, but we ate the packaged food I'd brought. I had to endure a tirade of his on how the food scent would attract all the wrong kinds of animals, and maybe even scare off our deer. He wasn't one to talk much so I figured he'd enjoy the silence, but he seemed to be nervous - like he was talking to keep the quiet at bay. His leathery hands kept moving, too, endlessly grasping each other. It was making me nervous. But, there wasn't much else to do, and we needed to get up early if we were to have another chance at our hunt. I asked Chuck if he was going to sleep, but he stared at me from across the fire and said "you go ahead. Old men don't much need it." I looked at him, about to ask what he was going to do instead, but he ignored me and took out his rifle. Before drifting off to sleep, the last thing I saw was that rifle cradled in his arms, and him taking great pains in its cleaning.




- More later (of course it's not finished. Nothing has happened yet.)

The alpha blog

Is known to be dangerous - all blogs after it challenge its supremecy, and thus it must vie for position.
Unfortunately, it is locked in time, and thus unable to move. And since the writer gains experience with time, the first can only be poorer than the last. Ah, what a tragic life the first post posesses: to always be first, but to always be surpassed.

heh. Maybe I should start a nature show like "Wild Writing World". Heh. It'd even be WWW. Because I'm I-trendy like that.
Which reminds me. The name of my blog is...well, you know me. It's a pun. It's pretty clear to everyone that I do babble on, but the other may not be quite as obvious. As the tower of Babel rose, the event that unified all men in their efforts and glory; the end, the chaos, and the confusion drew ever nearer. And in time, Babel came to refer to the confusion of languages, and confusion in general. What better modern equivalent do we have than the Internet itself? It is the single greatest thing built in our time - and it is leading to an explosion in incoherence. Or so it seems.

So, to end, here is something I wrote the other day.


Through osmosis
the barren page
draws thoughts
through my pen.